A Movement In A Minor

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Author’s Response- Well! *blush* I’m glad you like the exposition! I’d like to warn you all now, my tendency as of late has been to write EXTREMELY LONG THINGS. My prized fic is 23 chapters long and only half done. Hopefully, this one won’t develop to that crazed extent, but I can’t promise anything.
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“I don’t think he’s breathing, Vernon.”

Voices were swimming in and out of the pain that wrapped its sticky tentacles around every fiber of his being. He could feel lukewarm water beneath his fingertips. The shower wasn’t pounding on his back anymore. Maybe they’d turned it off. He was naked, wasn’t he? He didn’t want them staring at him when he was naked.

“Is he dead?” That was Dudley’s voice. It was far too loud, far too close... oh, God, he could smell his breath. He was probably leaning right into the tub, right into his face. “Maybe he’s dead. Do you think he’s dead?”

“Well, now don’t you wish you’d put life insurance on me,” Harry muttered dryly into the puddle beneath his cheek.

Aunt Petunia screamed. Dudley fell down, and Harry sniggered weakly. He managed to open one eye, then winced as the light from the makeup mirror stabbed into his brain. The three of them were clustered around the bathtub, the curtain drawn back. With a flash of irritation and more than a little humiliation, he lifted a hand and pulled the curtain forward enough to cover him from waist down. He was already laying on his stomach, that was something.

“What do you think you’re doing in your aunt’s shower?” Uncle Vernon snapped, reassured in his continued life and obviously feeling comfortable enough to yell some more.

“I think I’m lying here half-concious. Which of course is a favored pastime of mine.” Harry struggled into a sitting position, then cast a hand about for a towel.

“Don’t you talk to your uncle like that, you ungrateful little weasel! After we’ve taken you in and fed you and clothed you!” Petunia’s voice was livid, but her thin fingers were clutching Vernon’s generous arm. Harry noticed that unconcious gesture with a flash of something that might have been anger, something that might have been bitter regret... then his fingers closed on fluffy fabric and he stood, swiftly lashing the yellow towel about his waist. Once he was reasonably decent, he arched his leg and stepped out of the shower onto the warm tile, squaring his shoulders.

“And what are you going to do about it?” he asked coolly, calmly, the tone that had once been delegated exclusively to Lucius Malfoy. Undiguised hatred. Barely concealed threat. It was becoming habit nowadays, to snipe and insult, to provoke and
frighten whoever looked at him crosseyed. Years ago, he never would have dared talk to his Muggle relatives this way. They controlled his life after all, and he was at their mercy.

That had been long ago. Now they were just Muggles, and astonishingly stupid and revolting Muggles at that. They had no magic to threaten him with, and the physical size and power they had held over the terrified child he had been was now no more than a joke. Once they had dared to lock him in a cupboard. Now, if they had any sense, they would get the Hell out of his way and let him get dressed.

Harry stood there for a few long moments, the three Muggles staring at him as water traced along his abdomen and spotted the towel. A puddle was swiftly forming about his feet.

He waited some more. Petunia was staring at him. Vernon was red in the face. Dudley was nearly pouting.

“Would you get out of here so I can get DRESSED?!”

Vernon was the first out, dragging Dudley along with him. Petunia continued to stare, the weight of her gaze rather disturbing, until Harry coughed and she scuttled out like her skirt was on fire.

Harry stared after them, then sighed and found the carefully folded robes he had placed in the bathroom earlier that morning. He left for Diagon Alley today, and by God he was leaving now. He’d pick up some breakfast at the Leaky Cauldron. It wasn’t as though he got any here anyway.

He began dressing, rubbing his forehead on his arm absently as he pulled on the pair of jeans he had bought a month ago. His old clothes were practically useless now, as they had barely fit last year and he had stretched out since then. Hopefully, he was
done growing now. He had been short for so long... he’d hit his growth spurt after Ron, and that had been just this shade of humiliating. So he’d been forced to shop during the summer so he wouldn’t be sitting around the Dursley residence stark naked. Of course, since his privacy in that matter had just been broken, it was beginning to feel more and more like a waste of his inheritance. At least he had been intelligent enough to change a bit of it to Muggle currency at Gringotts last year.

Oh, wait, that was a lie. Hermione had told him to do that.

He had spent as little of it as possible, so the jeans didn’t fit that well. They were rather tight, not so tight that it was uncomfortable to move, but tight enough that the surface rippled every time he tensed his calves. The shirt was just as bad, but it was sleeveless, and that was a blessing. No matter the time of year, robes were hot and stifling. Of course, the shirt itself was black, but the fabric was thin. So he would go for whatever he could get.

Harry clasped the robe around his shoulders and slammed the bathroom door behind him, thumping up the stairs above his old room to get his bags. He was never coming back here, after all. And every possession that had stayed here fit easily into his ratty duffel bag anyway.

Seventh year.

After this year, he would be on his own. No more school. No more Dursleys. Maybe he, Ron, and Hermione could get a little house somewhere. Or-

Harry grimaced, stalking into his room and catching up his bags, laying a hand on Hedwig’s cage, curling a finger around a curved bar. What a mess that would be. He loved Ron and Hermione dearly, but... it was becoming more and more obvious that they were loving each other in a far different way. And God knew he would gladly be the best man at their wedding, but it wouldn’t be much fun to live with the lovestruck couple with no hope of escape.

He took one last glance about the room he had lived in for the past few years... or rather, existed in. There was no need to tell the Dursleys he was leaving. They knew he would be gone today, and he reckoned they were looking forward to it as much as
he was. It’d be best to get it over with as fast as possible. And get on with the rest of his life.

However long or short that life might be.

With a tiny, bitter smile, Harry took up the journal he had enchanted as a Portkey, clinging to the few possessions of his pathetic life, letting the familiar tug behind his breastbone take him away.

Harry blinked owlishly and resettled his glasses on his nose, staring blanky through them until his eyes refocused. Diagon Alley... it seemed his spell had worked after all.

“Why, Harry!”

That delighted voice was one he welcomed, one that almost tugged a heartfelt smile onto his lips. Harry turned, still a tad disoriented, and looked down into the familiar face of Hermione Granger.

The early stages of adolescence had not been kind to Hermione, making the poor girl even more of a target for Pansy Parkinson and her gaggle of cronies. Fifth year and sixth year had brought her nothing but jibes from her enemies and sympathy from her friends. It was one of the few memories of those times that felt warm to him- Ron, who had been so adamant on physical perfection in fourth year, had fallen head over heels for her when she had been at the height of her... unfortunate hormonal changes.

And so it was with a little surprise that he regarded her now. Yes, things had begun to clear up for her at the end of last year, but...

Hermione was pretty.

Her complexion had cleared, and remained the silky white of too much time spent in the library. Her eyes had always been expressive, most often radiating pure annoyance, but with that beautiful smile on her face, she positively glowed. The hair that had resembled a poofball when she was younger now exhibited the body and volume that so many girls her age would kill for. The robes that floated about her in the slight breeze revealed the figure she had kept by a lack of overindulgence, but also
showed the... reshaping that her rocky puberty had rewarded her with.

Hermione was really pretty.

“Hi,” he offered a few minutes later than he should have. Hermione smiled at him with the familiar sisterly fondness, then lifted the bag she was carrying for his inspection.
“Have you gone for your books yet? Our Transfiguration reading is-”

“Abs’lutely DEADLY. Don’t listen t’ a word she says, Harry.”

Harry turned to meet Ron’s eyes with a weak grin, then blinked. Up.

“My God, you’re huge,” he observed faintly.

He could hear Hermione giggling behind him. Ron scratched at his neck, looking sheepish. “You have to be over six feet!” Harry protested, taking a staggering step back. Yeah, Ron had always towered over him. But he’d thought- he’d been so sure
that he would have at least matched him. He had grown to be tall himself! He was five-eleven-

“I’m six-three, yeah.” Ron grinned at him, then patted his shoulder condescendingly. “It’s okay, Harry. I guess you’re doomed t’ be a midget.”

“I’m not a midget!” Harry retorted, feeling better than he had in... months, really... It always had made him feel better to spend time with his dear friends, the ones he trusted, the ones he loved... Ron and Hermione followed him out into the busy street as he headed for Gringotts to get out the money he would need, Hermione doomed to listen to them squabble with evident affection, Ron obviously up to the challenge of-

“OW!”

Harry yelped as the air was knocked out of his lungs, something quite solid punching into his stomach as he tripped over
whatever or whoever had been in his path. They fell into a mess of tangled legs and robes, Harry’s glasses digging into his cheek, an arm elbowing him soundly in the thigh as they struggled on the ground. Once he got his balance again, Harry attempted to stand, but the collar of his robe caught against the other’s clasp, and it nearly strangled him. The battle his assailant was putting up wasn’t helping too much, and with a growl of irritation, Harry wrenched a leg free and used it to pin the other to the ground.

“Hold still, damn you, and I’ll get us out of this!” Harry snapped, fingers working at the two clasps as nimbly as they could. A knee rammed up between his thighs, but Harry caught it with his other leg, knocking the attack back and pinning that knee to the ground as well. The clasps were refusing to come undone, and he scooted up further to perch on the thin waist and narrow hips, tearing angrily at the hooked metal. The teenager he had pinned was still struggling violently, and Harry glanced up to warn his next subjation wouldn’t be so passive, when he finally caught sight of the face and identity of the boy thrashing on the dusty ground beneath him.

“Malfoy!?”

“Would you get off me you -”

Their eyes met, startled emerald to incredulous grey, and they stared for a few minutes. It was, indeed, Draco Malfoy- his sleek blond hair tousled and dusty, his pale skin rosy and livid with exertion and anger.

“P-Potter?” One pale eyebrow furrowed as Malfoy contemplated him in seeming disbelief. It was as though it took a moment to recognize him, to recognize that the boy tangled with him in the middle of Diagon Alley was really the Harry Potter he knew
and loathed.

“Malfoy...?” Harry repeated dumbly.

There was silence between them, the din of the street about them seeming to die down to a dull roar. Harry’s fingers paused on the met clasps, something churning in the pit of his stomach. His forehead ached. His heart was beating too fast.

“Um... Potter?”

His voice broke the sudden spell, and Harry jumped. “I-I’ll get that, gimme a second,” he said hastily, fiddling at the clasps. His fingers were shaking far too much to get it done in the amount of time he would have liked...

That, and his mind refused to quit informing him that he was indeed straddling Draco Malfoy in the middle of a crowded street, and that Malfoy was still struggling a little, and Malfoy felt nice and supple beneath him, and if he didn’t get off him soon there were going to be problems. And that wasn’t helping his mindset. At all.

Stupid Malfoy.

“Mr. Potter, I would like to assume you have a rather good excuse for accosting my son in public.”

The icy voice prickled along his spine, and Harry jumped, staring up from the bungled clasps.

Into the eyes of Lucius Malfoy.