Peaches and Cream

Chapter 2 - Memories or In Which Letters Are Sent and a Friendship is (Somewhat) Mended

The rest of the term passed in a brilliant happiness.

Professor Lupin was set on resigning, no matter what Harry, Dara, Ron, or Hermione said to try and talk him out of it, so Defense lessons were canceled for the remainder of the year.

It had taken awhile - and a couple body-bind spells - for Minister Fudge to accept the truth, but he had eventually seen reason. Sirius had been cleared of every single charge ever made against him, even a couple of AWI (Apperating While Intoxicated) citations from 1979. Peter would spend two months in Azkaban pending the administration of the Dementor's Kiss.

Sirius had agreed to hide the hippogriff at his house until Hagrid could ensure a fair trial for him. Which, in Harry's opinion, could take years, so Buckbeak was semi-permanently residing in Mrs. Black's old bedroom.

Sirius wrote to Harry nearly every day; he received nearly ten letters in those last two weeks of term. Once, Harry had casually mentioned in a reply letter that he doubted he'd gotten as many letters in his three years at Hogwarts as he had in the past weeks. In his next letter, Sirius enclosed twenty galleons and a postscript that instructed Harry to "sneak off to Honeydukes and buy the place out".

"I know this doesn't even begin to make up for not being there for you," Sirius continued, "but it's a start, don't you think?"

Harry had smiled as he'd pocketed the galleons. He'd made up his mind to buy Sirius something with that money the next time he went to Diagon Alley. A model of a Firebolt, maybe.

Yes, that would be appropriate, Harry decided. After all, Sirius had bought him the real thing, as he'd told him in his first letter.

"Remus is going to move in with us," Sirius said in another letter. "Only he doesn't know it yet. Says he doesn't want to be a burden. Don't worry, I'll crack him.

"There's no way this old place is going to be ready in time. Hasn't been cleaned in years. Hope you don't mind a little dirt and grime. Can't wait for you to get here."

Life with the Marauders was certainly going to be ... interesting.

* * *

Harry wasn't too giddy to notice his best friend's sour disposition in those last two weeks of term, though. He did feel a little guilty as he watched Dara sink deeper and deeper into a depression of sorts. It wasn't his fault. He'd tried to ask Sirius if Dara could move in with them - it wasn't his fault that she'd cut him off before he'd gotten the chance. It wasn't his fault that she was now facing a summer alone with the Dursleys.

But he still felt guilty. Dara had been his best friend - before Ron, before Hermione, even before Hogwarts.

He could still remember the first time he'd met Dara. The three of them - he, Dudley, and Dara - had been eight. A large, middle-aged woman called Mrs. Stamphard had brought her in. She'd sat the two boys down in the living room while Aunt Petunia had taken Dara into another room, muttering something about "sorting through these clothes of yours". Mrs. Stamphard had explained to them that they should be nice to Dara.

"Her mummy died in a car crash, and her daddy can't take care of her right now," she'd said. "Dara's feeling very upset and scared right now, the poor dear, so you'll have to make her feel very welcome. Can you do that for me?"

Both boys had nodded. Dudley had, needless to say, broken his promise.

Now, Harry wondered if the social worker had ever talked to Dara about how she was feeling. Because when he had spoken to Dara later that day, she'd sounded more excited than anything else.

At the time, Harry hadn't been able to understand why on earth Aunt Petunia was willing to take in someone else's kid when she complained about him all the time. He understood now, of course. The $5600 that came with her yearly was always useful around the house.

Harry shook himself out of the past. It was after dinner, and he, Dara, Ron, and Hermione were in Gryffindor Tower. Ron and Hermione were playing a game of chess - well, Ron was playing. Hermione had half her mind on a book in her lap - and he was watching Dara draw.

At least she's not too upset to draw, Harry told himself optimistically, although that was little consolation. Ever since that night in the Shrieking Shack, Dara'd only drawn small little figures lost in a world of darkness.

* * *

Harry was more cheerful the day before the end of term that year than he'd ever been before. He, Ron, Neville, Seamus, and Dean were scouring their dorm for anything they might have missed.

"Anyone seen my History of Magic?" called Seamus.

"There's three copies over there," supplied Ron helpfully from his position on the floor. He had an arm under his bed, apparently reaching for something. "Which one's yours?"

"The one with my name in it, dolt!" he said sarcastically. "How am I supposed to know, they all look the same!"

"I'd leave the bloody thing here if I was you," put in Dean. "Aren't gonna use it much over holiday, will you?"

"Nah, if I leave it here it'll probably end up in Lost and Found and I'd never see it again ..."

"Is that supposed to be a bad thing?" asked Harry with a smirk. Neville laughed.

Seamus grinned back. "Not that I care about the bloody book, mind," he said. "But I'd catch it from my dad, he'd have to buy me a new one. And, you know, he's a muggle, he's not comfortable around magic and things."

Harry dropped the subject and turned his attention back to emptying out his bedside cabinet. He tried to imagine what if would be like to have to ask Uncle Vernon for money to buy a new textbook.

Harry found he had to fight very hard not to snort out loud.

"Hey, Harry. Got everything?"

He straightened up at the sound of Dara's voice. At the end of their first year, she'd insisted on packing his trunk for him. Which, of course, made him the laughing-stock of the dorm. Dean and Seamus had even started calling her "Mum". The thought still brought a grin to his face, even two years later. Harry wouldn't let her pack his trunk, but she still liked to come in and check up on him every now and then.

And if that's what having a "Mum" is like, Harry thought, quite soberly, I could live with it.

"Yeah, Dair, I've got it all.

Dara looked around at the obvious state of disarray the room was in. "Hope so."

"If I forget anything, Sirius can buy a replacement," Harry said, hating himself. Ron shot him a painful Whaddidyadothatfor? glare.

Dara's eyes filled, but Harry knew she wouldn't cry. The only time he'd seen her cry was the first time Dudley had tried to punch her.

Note: tried.

He'd come right up to her, the old familiar glint in his eye. But she'd refused to be intimidated; she'd planted her feet firmly on the ground and said in a loud, carrying voice, "You can't hurt girls."

He'd left her alone.

Harry, of course, had had to try that trick on Dudley. He'd spent weeks screwing up the courage to look his cousin stoutly in the eye and say, "You can't hurt boys." Needless to say, it hadn't worked.

In any case, Dara'd burst into tears immediately after Dudley had run off that first time. Harry'd simply stood by, unsure of what to say to cheer her up - unsure of what was even wrong!

Afterwards, he'd sworn to himself that he'd comfort her the next time she started crying. But that opportunity had never shown itself.

Stay focused, Harry, he scolded himself, bringing his mind back to Gryffindor Tower. Dara was looking at him, obviously expecting him to apologize. Well, I'm not.

She finally gave up. "Can ... can I talk to you outside?"

"All right."

They left the dorm to a chorus of "Bye Mum!" from Dean and Seamus.

Dara started right away, shaking her short blonde hair out of her face. Look, I know you were going to ask Sirius if I could move in with you -"

"How do you know?" Harry shot back. "I could have been asking ... what animal my dad could turn into, or ... Not everything's always about you."

"But were you? Asking about me?"

"Yeah ..."

"I really appreciate the offer," she said, her brown eyes earnest and wide. "But - I don't want to - to ... to get between you two. You really don't want me there with you, getting in the way and everything."

"I don't want you to have to live with the Dursleys alone," Harry retorted.

"I won't be alone, I've got my darling Dinky Diddidums for moral support."

"That's not funny."

"Sorry. I won't be there long," she continued, trying to reassure him. "I got a letter from Mrs. Weasley this morning, inviting me to the Burrow ..."

"Why not go straight there?"

"Mrs. Stamphard's coming next week," she explained. "They don't know that I spend most of the year at Hogwarts. If I'm not there, the Dursleys don't get their money for this year."

"So? Their loss, not yours."

"If they don't get the money, they'll never let me back in the house. I'd rather not burn all my bridges at once, all right?"

"Fine," Harry snapped.

"I'll probably go to Ron's in a few weeks," Dara said. "Okay?"

"Yeah." Then, changing the subject, he said, "You'll take my room?

"If I can," she replied. Harry had moved from the cupboard under the stairs and now slept in Dudley's second bedroom, but Dara was still sleeping on the same folding cot in the laundry room she'd used since her first night in the Dursley household.

"I'd always wanted to turn Dudley's hair green," Harry said, putting his hand on the doorknob behind him. "Will you do it for me?"

"I'll try."

"Yeah." There was silence, neither wanting to leave, neither wanting to stay.

"Well ... I've still got some packing ..."

"Yeah," Harry said. "See you."

* * *

Dara started on a new drawing the moment she got back to her dorm. Hermione, Parvati, and Lavender chatted quietly as they packed, but Dara, who'd finished days ago, simply closed the curtains on her four-poster, leaned back on her pillow, and took out her sketchbook.

What she'd told Harry was the truth, just not the whole truth. She'd never dream of getting between Harry and his newly discovered godfather, that much was certain. But there was more too it, she realized, sketching a few tentative lines on the cream-colored paper with a soft pencil. There was also the fact that she was bitterly jealous of him. He finally had somebody real, somebody who wanted to look after him.

And who did she have? Her dad, a no-good drunk who still, even after six years of separation, refused to get help so he could regain custody of his daughter. And Mr. and Mrs. Dursley.

Snort.

She would always remember the day she'd moved in with the Dursleys. In the months since her mother had died, well ... she hadn't been very happy. Her father had seldom stayed at home before the car crash. When her mother died, he quit his job (well, okay, he never had a job, but he quit whatever he'd been doing) and stayed at home full-time. When she was younger, she'd used to wish that he would stay home more often. But in those few months she'd found herself wishing more and more that he would just go away.

Not die, just ... leave.

So when she'd entered Number Four, Privet Drive, she'd been delighted. The Dursleys were really rich, she could have new clothes (that's what Mrs. Stamphard had said, anyway), make new friends in a new school (ones who didn't know about her mother dying), and have a little vacation from her father.

A little vacation.

That's what Mrs. Stamphard had said.

Mrs. Stamphard had never understood. Harry had, though.

Harry ... Harry had seemed too similar to herself back then. His parents died in a car crash, or so she had believed, and he was all alone just like her. Things had changed so much when they'd gone to Hogwarts. Everyone knew Harry, or James and Lily. Everyone was somehow connected to them. Harry was important. And she was still a nobody.

But that didn't mean Harry had to feel guilty about anything, did it? Now she felt guilty, guilty because now Harry felt guilty that he had a proper family and she didn't.

All right, she scolded herself. Enough of that for today. Get on with the drawing, already.