Harry Potter and the Heir of Gryffindor

Chapter One - Summertime Blues

Aunt Petunia was staring out of the kitchen window again. Of course, she usually spent the better part of the morning spying on whatever activity there was on Privet Drive (which wasn't much at all) but this morning she was positively glued to the windowpane. A moving van had been parked next door all morning, and the moment she'd been waiting for had finally arrived.

"Vernon!" she cried, waving her pink dishcloth in the air, "Come look, quick! They've just pulled up!"

Harry Potter had always thought that his Aunt's busy-bodying was perhaps her worst flaw, aside from her raging temper. But as he stood at the sink, drying the last of the dishes, even he had to raise his eyes out of curiosity, pressing his glasses at the bridge firmly to get a good look.

A deep maroon Renault had pulled into the next door driveway and out stepped--

"Oh, but they're young aren't they? I do hope they won't be bringing any bad habits into this neighborhood! Look at the state of their car--filthy!"

"Perhaps they've had a long drive. They can't be all that young, Petunia--that daughter of theirs must be at least Dudley's age."

"What is that woman wearing? Such loud colors--foreign, I expect."

Harry was trying to get a better look, but his Aunt and Uncle's backsides seemed quite opposed to his attempts. Uncle Vernon whipped around, his red face in a fury at seeing Harry standing so close to him. Indeed, Uncle Vernon's distaste for the boy had reached the point where even being within the immediate vicinity of Harry made him cringe.

"The dishes, boy!"

"I'm finished..."

"Then what are you standing about for? Didn't your Aunt tell you that she needed the weeds pulled in the flowerbed?"

"Right this minute?"

"As good a time as any, I'd say!"

Harry wrinkled his nose in annoyance, but knew better than to protest. He turned and trudged out of the kitchen, mentally flipping through a list of charms he would have simply loved to cast on his Uncle at that moment.

If the Underage Wizarding Law hadn't been so strictly enforced, he would have done so in a heart beat. But since it would have meant his expulsion from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he decided against it.

After all, it was Hogwarts that really felt like home, and never seeing it again sounded like a fate worse than death. If he would have been allowed to stay at Hogwarts for the summer holidays the world would have been a much rosier place-the Dursleys would have loved it as well-but Hogwarts Headmaster Albus Dumbledore was adamant that Harry return home for the summer with the Dursleys. Especially after everything that had just happened the year before.

Everything that happened. . .

There wasn't a moment that went by that Harry wasn't plagued by the vivid memories of it all. Even as he crouched over his Aunt's pansies and wildflowers, struggling with the stubborn weeds overrunning the flowerbed, the images ran wildly through his head-a flush of color and cries and screams and horror. . . complete, absolute horror.

It had been three months since that horrible day. The prestigious Triwizard Tournament had ended in unfathomable tragedy.

Harry had seen his friend Cedric fall dead at his very feet, and he had watched, a helpless captive, as the evil Lord Voldemort, who had murdered Harry's parents when Harry was only one year old, regained power after years of near nonexistence."

But Harry had escaped with his life, which is what he reminded himself as the sweat streamed down his brow, and his hands ached from the thorns and bristles on the weeds. He was alive.

The Dursleys, of course, knew nothing of the tragedy, nor did they know that at night time whilst they snored in satisfied sleep, Harry often lay wide awake, tormented by the memory of it all. They didn't know of the nightmares that woke him from what rest he could get, seeing Cedric's face still as clear as though it were right before him. How easily that face could have been Harry's. When Voldemort's wand pointed at Harry's chest, he should have died. . . any other wizard would have. . . and yet he was still here.

The Dursleys had never been close to their nephew, but even they had taken notice in a striking change in Harry's demeanor since his return home. He rarely smiled, kept to himself without having to be told, and was often given to long bouts of staring out the window with a dreamy look in his eyes. Harry even thought that once his cousin Dudley had come very close indeed to asking him what he was thinking about all the time-but thought the better of it.

The less the Dursleys knew about Harry, the more normal they felt things would be.

Harry was thrown out of his trance by voices carrying over the fence. He blinked, wondering who it could possibly be, and then remembered exactly what was going on. The new neighbors were in the backyard, surveying the lot.

"Still, Roger, it might be good for entertaining. With a little. . . well, with a lot of work, I think it should turn out quite smashingly. . ."

"Possibly. But I still wish we'd taken the home in Essex."

"You know that we had to move here because of my job. We've been through this already."

"I know Imelda, dear. I know."

Harry was still crouched over, not making a sound, straining to hear the conversation.

"I'm sure you'll love it here too, Cherub. Did you see your new school as we drove in?"

Harry heard a young girls voice speak up with the same solemnity as her fathers'.

"Yes . . . a bit dodgy, if you ask me."

"Nonsense! It's one of the best in Surrey! And you'll be able to walk to it, you're so close. Oh, but we've left the movers inside! Come on you two, let's help."

Harry could hear the mother walk away briskly, the other two trailing her slowly.

"She doesn't like it here either, does she Dad."

"Not in the slightest."

Harry stood up when they'd gone, stretching his side which was cramping and wiped his forehead with his shirt. He removed his glasses and wiped them clean and turned to take his bag of weeds to the rubbish bin, when he was nearly knocked down by a particularly smug-looking Dudley.

"And what are you so happy about," Harry snapped as he walked past Dudley, whose arms were crossed as he followed Harry's steps.

"See the new neighbors?"

"No."

"You will. They've got a daughter, you know."

"And?"

"Well, I guess with your kind you don't notice normal things like girls."

Harry was suddenly visited with a flash of memories: Parvati Patil's smile, Cho Chang's. . . everything, Fleur Delacour's flowing hair. Harry ended up repeating what he'd told his best friend Ron Weasley earlier that year.

"Oh, they make them okay at Hogwarts."

Dudley flinched and those last two syllables. When he found his voice, it was venomous,

"Yeah! Warts on their noses, pointed hats and broomsticks-- real knockouts, I bet."

Harry subconsciously clenched his fist as Dudley's sinister laugh filled the yard.

"Well, maybe you'll see what you're missing at that freak school of yours once you get a look at the new girl."

Harry slammed the lid to the rubbish bin closed and scowled at Dudley as he waddled away. If there was one thing that bothered Harry more than anything about the Dursleys, it when they called his school a 'freak place.' Anything that Harry liked the Dursleys made a specific point of stepping all over: Hogwarts, his friends-his parents, even.

In years past, Dudley would have been a bit more vicious in his taunting of Harry, but things had changed recently: one, because Harry's godfather Sirius Black was known in both muggle and wizarding worlds alike as a vicious serial killer, so Dudley was more than careful not to really tick Harry off. And the second reason was because within the past few months, Harry had grown a good four inches at least. So even though Dudley outweighed Harry by a great margin, Harry was now a good deal taller than Dudley. Dudley, of course, would never admit it openly, but the fact that he now had to look up at his cousin was most unnerving.

Harry, meanwhile, was more than annoyed that all of his clothes no longer fit him: quite frankly, he looked silly with his trousers up to his shins and shirt sleeves nearly at his elbow. Aunt Petunia, however, was in no such disposition to buy him more clothes and since all of Dudley's old clothes were too large and too short for him, he simply had to make do.

At dinner, he was vaguely aware of the conversation between his Aunt and Uncle ("Not sure I like the look of them, if you know what I mean. Haven't even popped by to introduce themselves. . ."). He was occupied with staring at the unappetizing cold plate of left-over spaghetti Aunt Petunia had pulled out from the refrigerator-- the rest of them dined on chicken and mashed potatoes-- and letting his mind fall on the only things that kept his spirits from dying out completely: Ron and Hermione.

His two best friends in the world. And the only two things that he missed so much that his heart literally ached in their absence. Well . . . them and Quidditch. His sleek, trusty Firebolt was hidden beneath a slat in his bedroom at that very moment and he would have loved nothing more than to jump on and go for a fly-- it was the only time that he felt completely safe. Completely happy.

But both the Dursley's and the Ministry of Magic wouldn't have liked that all too much.

After another wordless meal -- he might as well not have even existed while he was at 4 Privet Drive -- he cleared the plates, washed them in silence, wiped down the kitchen and then trudged back upstairs for his room. He was half hoping to see Dobby the house-elf on his bed, waiting for him as he had three years ago. Or maybe his beautiful Hedwig would have a package waiting for him from Ron or Hermione. But his bed was empty, and Hedwig was sleeping peacefully, her white feathers glowing beneath the bright moonlight.

The quiet was consuming and depressing. It was rather like a Dementor being nearby, the coldness of the moment.

'The Dementors will join us, they are our natural allies. We will recall the banished giants, I shall have all my devoted servants returned to me. . .'

He shook Voldemort's cackling, high pitched wail out of his head, hoping perhaps tonight he might get a good night's rest. And maybe, just maybe, he would wake up in the morning in his dormitory, walk with Ron down to breakfast, laugh with Hermione and Seamus, catch a glimpse of Cho on the way down to potions, and say a brief hello to a smiling Cedric-- because maybe what happened three months ago was really another nightmare and he was just having a hard time waking up . . .

The next two mornings brought more window peering on all three of the Dursley's behalves-- Dudley was suddenly just as intrigued as his parents at the new arrivals. Harry let them make meddling fools out of themselves and concerned himself with the newspaper. Harry had learned from Dumbledore that it was surprising how much information one could gain about the going-ons in the wizarding world from Muggle newspapers. Harry cracked a smile when he read Mysterious Fireworks Display in Twickenham-- Attempted Arson Suspected. That was most certainly good old Dedalus Diggle up to his old tricks again. He was almost positive that Diggle would be getting a strongly worded letter from the Ministry of Magic very soon. And then he nearly jumped out of his seat when he turned the page and found a picture of his very own godfather! A sinister, terribly unbecoming photo of him with the heading :

Sirius Black Still at Large:

LONDON. Police authorities say that the reported sighting of feared serial killer Sirius Black has been confirmed. Black was spotted near Vauxhall Road, London late Friday evening. By the time authorities arrived, Black had disappeared and although his whereabouts at this time are still unknown, police stress that all children should remain indoors and within immediate sight of a guardian. . .

Well that meant there was going to be one large dog running about London for a while!

But what was Sirius doing in London anyway? It wasn't too far from Surrey-- perhaps he was on his way to pay him a visit! The thought of seeing him again lifted Harry's spirits, but then he realized that with every man woman and child on the lookout for him (including the Dursleys) there wasn't much chance of it.

The newspaper was ripped out of his hands and he looked up to see Aunt Petunia's rigid, gaunt face glaring at him.

"How dare you ignore your Uncle Vernon when he's talking to you! Of all the disrespectful, spiteful, vicious things to do to someone--"

"I'm sorry Aunt Petunia, I didn't hear--"

"Don't interrupt your Aunt," Uncle Vernon bellowed from where he sat in the living room. And Harry remembered that he was dealing with the Dursleys. There were no such things as apologies in that household.

Harry blinked for a moment and then turned around to give his Uncle complete eye contact, his mouth shut tightly.

Uncle Vernon resumed rocking his recliner and spoke in gruff, pointed sentences. "Your Aunt Petunia, cousin and I are going on Holiday. . ."

I'm hallucinating. He can't have just said that they're going on a holiday . . .

". . . to Majorca. We're leaving on Friday and won't be back for one week . . ."

Impossible! The Dursley's! On a holiday! For a week!

". . .we planned for Aunt Marge to house mind while we're away . . ."

No! Please! No, it can't be true. . .

". . . but she'll be away in Scotland until September, so that leaves you. . ."

Amazing! Fantastic! Unbelievable!

Harry was trying his hardest not to grin brilliantly, for it was quite possibly the best news he'd ever been given in his life! One week without the Dursleys! One week alone! One week to finally be able to be whom he wanted and say what he wanted and do what he wanted!

Uncle Vernon was still talking. ". . . and if you think that you can just be who you want and say what you want and do what you want while we're away, then you're sorely mistaken, boy. Sorely mistaken. I've arranged it with the Mr. Banbury-- told him all about you and St. Brutus'. Oh, he knows all about you and he'll be watching. Like a hawk he'll be watching."

Harry wasn't threatened by this at all, merely intrigued. "Who's Mr. Banbury?"

Uncle Vernon was visibly annoyed with having to answer a question. "Mr. Banbury is our new neighbor, Harry. Met him just yesterday-- a logical, practical, sensible fellow who happens to work for the police, I might add." He smiled malevolently. "Like I said: he'll be watching."

Poor Mr. Dursley didn't understand that just three months ago Harry had

dueled with the most feared dark Wizard in history: a policeman peering at him through lace windows wasn't going to scare him one bit.

But he kept his face solemn and nodded understandingly as Uncle Vernon's threats kept flying, even though he wasn't listening. How could he, when in less than one week he wouldn't have to see the Dursleys anymore?

"And wipe that disgusting smile off your face," Vernon added.

Harry tried. But the beauty of it all was just too much for him to bear!