Harry Potter and the Summer of Discovery

Chpt. 1. Numbers Seven and Eleven, Privet Drive

It was a simple desk, really. A block of wood held one meter above the floor by four square wooden legs. With its gouges around the edges, splinters on each corner, and overall shabby state, it still served its purpose quite well. Its owner looked equally shabby. Messy hair, too-large clothes, a bit undernourished, and dark bags under his eyes, Harry Potter wrote something small in the corner of his sheet of paper, simply for completion. It read:

Petunia Evans, married to Vernon Dursley, son Dudley

And this is what Harry spent the past two evenings doing; attempting to draw up a family tree. He didn't really wish for a constant reminder that Petunia and Vernon were his aunt and uncle, and he was quite sure the feeling was mutual. See, Harry was a wizard, like his father James and his mother Lily, who was Petunia's sister. The Dursleys feared magic and anything to do with magic, and were horrified the day Harry was told he was a wizard. Rubeus Hagrid, the gamekeeper of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, visited Harry on his eleventh birthday to deliver his acceptance letter. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon thought that they could "punish" the magic out of Harry, by keeping him as downtrodden as possible when it fell to them to care for Harry after the untimely deaths of his parents when Harry was one year old.

It was Hagrid whom Harry had asked for help in finding out about his family, a family he only knew by name. He knew that his mother was a first-generation witch (the only one in her family's history to have magical abilities), but he knew next to nothing about his father's family. All he knew was that James Potter was a wizard and his father, and that his parents met during their time at Hogwarts. He didn't even know how his parents came across the pile of gold in his Gringotts vault (the bank for the wizarding world, run by goblins), only that Hagrid had been trusted to keep custody of the key until Harry began his schooling. Hagrid had pulled Harry out of the wreckage of a house after his parents were murdered by the dark Lord Voldemort, an evil wizard who practiced the darkest of dark magic. Hagrid had given Harry a collection of pictures of his parents before their deaths. It was always Hagrid who told Harry how respected his father was, how brilliant his mother was, how good his parents were for the wizarding world, so Hagrid had seemed the most logical choice to go to for help. Only, a month after his request, Hagrid hadn't offered much.

Harry's other major source of information about his family was his godfather and his father's best friend, Sirius Black. Sirius had spent twelve years in Azkaban (the wizard prison) for a crime he did not commit. The wizarding world assumed he was going to attack Harry, as they were under the impression that Sirius was Voldemort's second-in-command and blamed Harry for his downfall.

Peter Pettigrew was the man who had framed Sirius. He had been a one-time friend of his parents, and Harry later found out that it was Pettigrew who had betrayed them to Voldemort. On that fateful night of Voldemort's fall, Pettigrew ran for fear of vengeance from Sirius. Sirius found Pettigrew, who in turn blew up a street full of Muggles (non-magic people) while cutting off his own finger in an attempt to convince the wizarding world that he too had perished in the blast, thus pinning the explsion on Sirius. Since Pettigrew was the only man left who knew of Sirius's innocence... well, a 'dead' man isn't the best witness.

Three years had passed since Sirius escaped from prison, and in this time Harry had a confrontation with Sirius, and found out that Sirius was his godfather. Seeing as how escaped convicts didn't make the best guardians, they needed to bring Peter Pettigrew to justice in order for Sirius to adopt Harry. Now Pettigrew was finally captured. They had the chance to clear Sirius's name. And with that on his plate, it was not right to pump Sirius for family history at this moment.

So sat Harry, with two lines drawn from his own name and one line drawn from his mothers' name, representing the extent of his knowledge about his family. Like every orphan, he had dreams about his ancestors doing great things such as being famous and great, although he had little doubt that anyone in his family history would turn out to be more famous than he himself. Harry was viewed as a hero in the wizarding world for being the only person to ever survive a Killing Curse, an evil curse thrown at him from possibly the most powerful wizard ever and resulted in Voldemort's fall from power. Harry escaped with only a lightning bolt-shaped scar on his forehead, just above his right eye. His fame was the source of much dismay for him, which separated him from every other sixteen year old in the world.

Harry thought it poetic justice: being viewed a hero for inadvertently killing another person. Not that Voldemort was killed in the natural sense, though. Voldemort had taken the precautions to survive a killing curse, and what resulted was that his spirit survived, having been ripped out of his body when his own ill-cast spell rebounded off Harry and back onto Voldemort. How Harry survived, nobody knew. There were theories, sure, each as likely or as unlikely as the next, depending on how you viewed the situation. Harry never knew he was famous until he began Hogwarts, and his fame smacked him hard in the face. Jealousy was mixed with admiration, knowledge was mixed with speculation, fact was mixed with fiction.

Harry didn't want to be famous. He would give everything he owned to be a normal kid with a normal family. After all, he had literally done nothing more than get in the way of a curse. Fate, however, had a different idea. He continually found himself in dangerous situations and had to endure the snide comments made by those who felt Harry didn't deserve the attention he got, yet had to suffer through the attention he did get. To meet someone new without them nearly falling over with excitement, for people not to stare at his scar, to finally know more about himself rather than learning about his past from nearly every stranger...ahhh, what bliss. But as was already stated, fate had different plans.

So he sat, now re-reading yesterday's Daily Prophet (the newspaper of the wizarding world), still wincing whenever he saw his name. These days, his name was connected with nearly everything in the news; The capture of Pettigrew, the upcoming trial, the campaign to clear Sirius's name, the last battle against Voldemort that took place about a month ago, more stories about the death of Cedric Diggory, and the one item that never failed to bring a smile to his face- the advertisement for the new international-standard broomstick, the Carerra Precision. Having been the first wizard to test-fly one along with his best friend Ron Weasley, they were quoted as describing the Carerra as "Addicting!".

Sure, his friends were now involved in some of the news. Occasionally, Ron, Hermione Granger, or Cho Chang would be mentioned in connection with Voldemort's last attack for their part in stopping him. His newest friend, Alexander Majere, was on the front page. A photo of him receiving an Order of Merlin, First Class (the highest award for bravery given by wizards) graced the cover. A long article followed, detailing that he was the youngest person to receive such an award, about him becoming the youngest auror (dark wizard catcher) in history, about him spearheading the single largest capture of Death Eaters (Voldemort's followers) ever, etcetera etcetera and etcetera. Xander, as he preferred to be called, had been brought to England from America by Albus Dumbledore, Hogwarts Headmaster and universally accepted as the greatest wizard of the age, to aid in the fight against Voldemort. Xander was a mage, an ancient line of wandless magic users long thought extinct. Harry knew that Xander was in serious trouble with the rest of the magi society for exposing their world, but Xander had played his cards to near perfection. He had kept his identity a secret for as long as possible, saved hundreds of lives through his actions, removed a couple dozen dangerous people from society, and had even accepted a temporary position in the Ministry of Magic. Surely, his Order couldn't do much to harm him.

Harry giggled again as he gazed at Xander's picture. Pictures in the wizarding world moved, so when Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, turned his back, Xander made faces in Fudge's direction. Xander was only nineteen, so just like any other teenager he hated taking orders and was known for his dislike of Fudge. Not open hostility, just enough comments to avoid insubordination. Fudge believed in purity of blood (a wizard being born to a wizard family, as opposed to having Muggle parentage), while Xander thought this disdain was better placed toward fighting Death Eaters, and Harry readily agreed with his friend. It just seemed a waste of time and effort to dislike someone because of something they had no control over.

Loud, blaring music from the next room over made Harry jump from his seat. Dudley performed his new morning ritual (turning on an Oasis CD full volume) and Harry's owl Hedwig hated the noise, screeching her disapproval. It's not that Harry didn't like Oasis. In fact, he rather liked their music, but the same song, over and over and over...

"Turn that bloody music down!" screamed Harry, but for all the good it did, he may as well have told the Earth to stop rotating. Dudley had free reign over the house and he knew it. Peering out his window, he made sure nobody was watching before letting Hedwig fly away. Stomping down the hall and a hard kick on Dudley's door later, he found his way outside.

Weird, really, he hadn't known that two neighbors across the street had moved out in the first place. Numbers seven and eleven Privet Drive had moving vans parked in each driveway. Not that he would miss the old neighbors; the Dursleys had seen to it that all neighbors hated Harry. He simply wished to get to meet these new neighbors first, and possibly be on friendly terms with someone in the Muggle world. Seven and eleven, those numbers seemed lucky enough.

Harry continued down the street, allowing his thoughts to wander as he walked to work. He had taken to doing several odd jobs this summer in an attempt to have some sort of independence from the Dursleys. His aunt and uncle never failed to tell Harry that they deemed themselves saints for clothing and feeding Harry for years, even though Harry got nothing more than second hand clothes from fat Dudley and little more than table scraps to eat. A bit of spare cash couldn't hurt in Sirius's defense either, little he had earned this summer. Well, little in terms of defense expenses. He had managed to save three hundred pounds in a month, spending a little here and there on food and a few articles of clothing that actually fit him. Most of his earnings were made more through manners than anything else. Being polite while doing a favor for someone tended to open the wallet wider.

Having stopped at a family grocery for a breakfast bagel and a drink, he took his customary shortcut through the town park. Today he was helping a small private contractor to shingle a roof, a skill he learned three weeks ago by sheer luck. The contractor had dropped a box of roofing nails nearly on Harry's head, and in a fit of guilt, offered Harry a part-time job if he was willing to learn. Harry readily accepted. Construction had begun to do wonders for his self-esteem as well as his physique; his shoulders a bit wider, his arms more round and firm, his back looking like a "V" from behind rather than an "I".

A girl sitting on a swing at 6:30 am was a little unusual. The only reason Harry noticed was because she buried her face in her hands when she noticed someone coming. A shudder of the shoulders and a few sniffles revealed the true reason behind her attempted stealth; she was crying.

Doing the only thing he could think of, Harry walked up to her. "Is something wrong?" he asked, and immediately felt stupid for asking. Of course something was wrong, people don't cry unless they had a reason. Well, maybe girls do, he didn't know.

"No," answered the crying girl stiffly.

An older and wiser man would have taken the hint that she didn't wish to talk about it, but Harry was neither older nor wiser to women. Nor had he mastered the appropriate use of sarcasm. "I'm sorry. That 'Is something wrong' comment was way out of line. Forgive me."

For whatever reason, the girl removed her hands from her face, and Harry immediately wanted to take his rude comment back. She couldn't have been a day older than Harry, with cat-like golden eyes shimmering from her tears. Her dark brown hair framed her now rosy face, drawing one's attention to it at once. Even in a bad state, she was beautiful.

Harry blushed. He could just hear Ron now, muttering "asshole" out of the corner of his mouth. "I-er... I'm sorry..." he stammered.

"You said that already," she snipped. "Shall I finish the rest of the comment for you?"

"No, erm, I just wanted to apologize for being rude," Harry tried to explain. He couldn't figure out for the life of him why he had trouble forming an intelligent sentence.

"So, apologize then. I'm waiting," she said in a slightly mimicking voice. At the very least, she stopped crying now.

"I'm-" he began, then cut himself short. He realizing she was playing with him, trying to get him to once again repeat himself. Scolding himself, he tried again. "It's early, and you look like you could use a pick-me-up. Will you allow me to buy you a cup of coffee?"

"That's better," said the girl. "Yes, you may buy me a cup, but I like cappuccino better."

Of course, thought Harry. Girls loved the flavored coffee stuff. 'Coffee' had become such a generic term with the rising popularity of flavored coffee, that specifying cappuccino was hardly necessary- dammit, she made a fool of him again.

"Of course," said Harry, trying to regain his dignity. "But I prefer knowing the name of those I buy a drink for."

This girl gave him an appraising sort of look, as if he were a car she was thinking about test-driving. "Katherine, but my friends call me Kat."

"I'm Harry."

"You look quite un-gorilla-like to me. Maybe Untidy Harry," said Kat, messing up his already unruly hair.

"If you feel you're talented enough with a comb, try and tidy it. Be my guest," said Harry with a smirk. He knew he had scored with this comment, as Kat could only raise her eyebrows. Using this advantage, he continued. "Where would you like to go for your cappuccino?" he asked, putting the slightest emphasis on the word 'cappuccino'.

"That's up to you," said Kat as they walked through the park. "I just moved here, so I don't know the neighborhood all that well."

"Well, there's 'Christina's' just down the way, and 'The Queen's Tea Room' is nice and private, and older lady runs that shop. Of course, what town would be complete without a 'Starbucks' somewhere in it. Here, let me," said Harry, pulling out a handkerchief as Kat tried to wipe her face.

"Thank you," she said meekly, leading Harry to believe that this young lady wasn't accustomed to displaying manners. "The Queen's place sounds good to me. You lead the way."

It was a somewhat quiet walk, only idle chitchat along the short distance to the Tea Room to pass the time. Harry learned that Kat moved from London, that her parents ran their own Internet Company, or "dot com" as Kat called it. Harry, always wary of talking around Muggles, merely told her that he was on his way to work.

"I didn't mean to keep you," she said. Was that irritation or disappointment that Harry detected?

"Keep me? No, not at all," said Harry, waving his hand dismissively. "I don't have to report until 8:00. I only planned on walking around for a bit. Dudley was blaring his music again and I had to get out of the house," he explained as they reached the Tea Room and entered.

"Dudley?" asked Kat. "Is he your brother or something?"

Harry almost laughed out loud. "My cousin. I live with my aunt and uncle."

"Parents not like you or something?" said Kat as she sat down.

"My parents died when I was one," snapped Harry, "so I wouldn't know." A discussion about his parents with a complete stranger was the last thing he had in mind this morning.

"Oh my- shit. I'm sorry, that was so rude. Please, I didn't mean anything by it," said Kat, burying her face in her hands once again, only this time out of embarrassment.

"Forget it," said Harry as the hostess arrived to take their orders. On a hunch, he ordered a plate of crumpets to accompany the cappuccino and coffee. Kat didn't object, so he took this as a good sign.

After some moments of awkward silence, Kat tried again. "So you live with your aunt and uncle?"

"Yes."

"And they have a son."

"Yes."

"And you don't get along with him."

"Yes."

"And am I correct in assuming that you're not happy about your living arrangements?"

"Yes."

"And by your one word answers, I'm guessing that's why you have a job at your age? To get out of the house, I mean?"

"You should take up divination," said Harry before he could think, then cursed himself harshly. A slip of the tongue, and he had almost broken the Decree of Wizarding Secrecy, a crime big enough to get himself booted right out of Hogwarts.

"What's divination?" asked Kat, her eyebrows raised.

"Fortune telling. You know, tarot cards and tea leaves and things. Psychic stuff," said Harry, praying that this was good enough to cover his tracks.

"No, I'm not psychic, just have a really good sense of intuition," laughed Kat. Whoever's listening, Thank You, thought Harry. "So, where do you go to school?"

Dammit, cursed Harry. "Erm, St. Brutus's," he mumbled with distaste.

"Bad boy," said Kat in a teasing voice, waving her finger at him. At least she was smiling. "So, my bad boy with the untidy hair, what did you do wrong?"

"My aunt and uncle seem to think I'm a threat to Dudley's life," said Harry into his coffee mug.

"And why's that?" pressed Kat, taking a crumpet and removing a large section of it with a vigorous bite.

"We went to the zoo once just before my eleventh birthday," began Harry, searching for the right words. "A boa got out of it's cage and scared the holy shit out of Dudley. Uncle Vernon saw me smiling and thought I had set it on Dudley. That's the year the St. Brutus tale started." Harry congratulated himself again. Not one lie in the recount, yet no indication of the truth. I should be Sirius's lawyer.

"You paint quite a picture, Untidy Harry," smiled Kat.

"Listen, I don't mean to cut this short, but I have to get to work," said Harry, checking the clock that read 7:30. Acting on another hunch, he said, "I'll see you again real soon."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Call it a really good sense of intuition," smiled Harry, and stood up to leave.

"Meow," said Kat.

"Mother-effing-wanker!" cried Harry. He had just hit his thumb with a hammer for the third time that day. Shoving his thumb in his mouth, he threw the hammer down in frustration. Had he been thinking about roofing instead of Kat, maybe his thumb would still be healthy.

"Okay, Harry, what do you say we call it a day? It is rather dark out," said Mr. Tompkins, his boss. "Another day out here ought to finish the job, eh?"

"Yes, sir," said Harry, and he began his cleanup chores. Why did he keep thinking about Kat? Wasn't he supposed to be something like involved with Cho? He thought so at first, as he had written Cho three times already, the last letter almost pleading for a response and nearly removing Harry of all dignity. But he had yet to hear from Cho in nearly five weeks and had no idea why. And why hadn't he mentioned Cho to Kat? Come to think of it, he didn't really need to. It was a cup of coffee, nothing more. Besides, could he even call Cho a girlfriend?

"I think you could serve steak off that spot, Harry," said Mr. Tompkins.

"Huh?" said Harry stupidly. It took a moment before he realized that he had been sweeping the same spot for a good two minutes without moving.

"Who is she?" asked Mr. Tompkins with a grin.

"Who is who?" said Harry, but blushed despite himself.

"I thought so," said Mr. Tompkins. "Tell you what. After we finish here tomorrow, take a few days off. Isn't the day after tomorrow your birthday, anyway?"

"Yes sir," said Harry.

"Good, then, spend it with whomever is on your mind. 'Night," said Mr. Tompkins, and began to pack up his truck. He normally would have given Harry a ride home, but since this job was only a few blocks away, Harry said he'd prefer a walk.

Mr. Tompkins' idea was well and all, but the problem was that Harry had more than one person on his mind. One was short, with a long black mane, a little on the shy side, but an ace on a broomstick. The other was nearly Harry's height, short brown hair, rather outspoken, and would have no clue what to do with a broomstick other than sweep the floor. So different, yet so similar... they both were able to occupy Harry's already overworked mind.

Harry was glad to work for Mr. Tompkins. He was one of the few people in this town who didn't shudder at Harry's presence. The Dursleys had seen to it that most everyone avoided Harry's presence, though not everyone fell to the weave of deception cast by his aunt and uncle. Not that Mr. Tompkins pampered Harry, quite the contrary. Harry had the new physique complete with callused hands to prove it. Mr. Tompkins treated Harry as an asset who made money for his boss, and Harry was just that, and was thankful for that. It made Harry feel good to know he now possessed a skill that no one else at Hogwarts had.

His last tasks, running to the grocery for old Mrs. Tinkleman and changing the oil in the Beckham's overpriced SUV (another learned skill Harry felt pride in knowing), were now complete and his Muggle bankroll was fifteen British pounds heavier (he had a huge payday coming tomorrow when he finished the roofing job). Mrs. Tinkleman was a widowed old woman who thought Harry was just a misguided young lad and needed encouragement rather than punishment. She made quite a display of making her thoughts known, and Harry never failed to redden in the face. The Beckhams, on the other hand, knew the Dursley version of Harry's schooling and always watched Harry like a hawk as though he might steal their prized vehicle rather than work on it for them. They also made Harry's face red, but for a different reason. He was no thief, but they paid well.

After a quick drink at a fast-food restaurant and a stop to watch the opening of the Happy Hour News on the television in the electroncs store, Harry set off for home. He preferred to wander around town for a bit, as all he had planned for the night was a shower and more musing over his incomplete family tree. Sooner than he cared to, he found himself on Privet Drive.

Harry squinted from down the road, to see his aunt, uncle and cousin speaking to the new neighbors in front of number seven. His hunch was right, however. Kat was in fact one of his new neighbors.

"We hear you also care for your nephew," Harry heard the woman mention to Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia.

"Oh, him," muttered Uncle Vernon, more like he had a slug on his tongue rather than parental affection. "We send him to St. Brutus's Center for Incurably Criminal Boys. Incorrigible, that one. Nearly killed our son by setting a boa constrictor on him."

Wonderful, he thought as he noticed the outline of Kat standing next to her parents. At least Kat was laughing.

Slowing down his pace in hopes of remaining unnoticed, Harry noticed a seventh person standing in front of number seven as well. Had Kat mentioned an older brother? This guy had long hair tied back into a ponytail, or would have been long, except that all the hair from the top of his ears down was shaved like a buzz-cut. He knew the Dursleys must be cringing inwardly at the audacity of this guy for wearing his hair in such a manner.

"And how do you earn a living?" Uncle Vernon asked rather harshly to this guy. Harry liked him already.

"Depends on what you mean by 'earn'," said this guy. There was something about that voice...

"Meaning?" said Uncle Vernon impatiently.

"I made my money by selling songs to recording artists," answered the target of Uncle Vernon's interrogation.

"I doubt anything I might know," snapped Uncle Vernon. "And who buys these songs?"

"Record labels, mostly," said the new neighbor. It was amazing that he hadn't clocked Uncle Vernon already. He looked more than able. "Some in America, some here in Britain. My last song made me enough money to buy this house," he said, pointing to number eleven.

"I see, and what's the name of this noise pollution?" said Uncle Vernon gruffly.

"It's called 'Champaign Supernova'," said the songwriter, and Dudley's head snapped up immediately.

"You wrote an Oasis song?" he asked in wonderment. "You really wrote that? I listen to that CD all the time!" Was it possible, Dudley warming up to someone Uncle Vernon clearly disliked?

"Then I must thank you, you helped pay for my home," said the incredibly patient neighbor.

"I wanna see inside your house," demanded Dudley, returning to normal, much to the delight of Uncle Vernon.

"Yes, we must see what you've done to the inside," piped up Aunt Petunia. Harry very much doubted that Aunt Petunia would like anything this guy would do with his home. She was just being nosy.

"In time," said the neighbor with nerves of steel. "I beg your patience for a few days. It's in no state to show right now, I've put nothing away."

"Mmm," Aunt Petunia pursed her lips. Harry knew that Aunt Petunia would die before admitting her house was in no condition to entertain guests. Harry had enough of eavesdropping and had to shake the hand of the person who could so politely annoy his aunt and uncle.

Kat noticed Harry walking up and winked at him knowingly. He got the unspoken message: You'll pay for not telling me where you lived. Harry smiled back, as if to say Bring it on. However, Harry froze when his new neighbor turned to greet him.

"Harry, I'm guessing?" said Alexander Majere.