Summer in the City

A Not Too Exciting Prologue

Peter Pettigrew's betrayal was discovered by Snape a few minutes before the attack against Godric's Hollow. Naturally, Dumbledore rushed to the Potters' rescue, and faced down Voldemort. Snape arrived there a bit later, to find four dead bodies and a baby who miraculously survived the fight.

The arriving Aurors and Cornelius Fudge saw Severus Snape and Harry Potter vanish into thin air. That was the last time anybody saw them. Their Ministry files are empty, except for the red label LOCATION CURRENTLY UNKNOWN stamped on the first page.

After Dumbledore's death, Hogwarts collapsed and has remained that way, because no has had enough courage to approach the place. People are still afraid of the ghosts who prowl the ruins.

In the political vacuum where there was no Dumbledore and no Voldemort, Lucius Malfoy could finally seize power. It's said that Minister Fudge is only a puppet in his hands. The new Pureblood regime has been persecuting Part-humans, Muggleborn, order sympathizers and even Squibs ever since. Some of them were able to escape from the wizarding world and hide themselves among the Muggle masses; the less fortunate were sent to Azkaban.

For 13-year-old Draco Malfoy, the Order and Harry Potter used to be nothing but a legend - until the 29^th July, 1993.

Chapter 1

Draco Malfoy was immensely bored. He wished he had his wand back. His father had left him behind to wait for him in the Atrium while he went to talk to Cornelius Fudge, which meant Draco was going to wait for hours. With a sigh, he settled himself on the edge of the Fountain of Magical Brethren, and watched the statues as they spurted water in graceful streams.

Dobby the house elf sat beside him, cradling his recently ironed left hand. Draco couldn't suppress a giggle whenever he looked at Dobby's left hand - it looked really funny, flat and thin as a pancake. To tell the truth, Draco was, to some extent, responsible for the hand's current state. After all, he did ask Dobby to put a bucket of water above Draco's door so that anyone daring to intrude - possibly with the intention of tidying the room - would die a painful, messy and wet death. As it had always been Dobby's task to tidy Draco's room, he expected the house elf to be the victim. It was just brilliant that Dobby had set the trap for himself.

The problem was, Narcissa Malfoy chose that day to realise that Draco never allowed Dobby to clean up in his room. So instead of sending Dobby, she went do do the tidying on her own. Draco would never forget the sight of his mother with the upended bucket on her head, her hair and clothes dripping wet.

And when she asked Draco who'd put the bucket over the door, he had told her truthfully that it had been Dobby. And Dobby could do nothing but agree, and iron his hands.

Draco stood up.

"Stay," he told Dobby. "I'll be right back."

"Where is Master Draco going, sir?" Dobby asked anxiously.

"To the loo," Draco said, rolling his eyes. "I would gladly ask you to be so kind and sod off, but my father already told me that was out of the question. However, I can still tell you to stay here and not move your ugly little arse an inch."

With that, Draco walked away, as fast as his feet could carry him, not waiting for an answer. He hated Dobby; the creature was always tagging along behind him, as if he couldn't take care of himself.

That was revolting. Draco was thirteen. He could take care of himself just fine.

He spent several minutes searching in vain for the loo. It seemed the loo must have been charmed to remain invisible whenever someone was in a desperate need to use it. Or maybe such mundane things as a full bladder were considered not befitting the sacred halls of wizarding bureaucracy and boot-licking, so they never got to building a loo in the first place. Just to make sure clients wetted themselves, if not with fear or awe, then with sheer physical need.

Well, maybe it would have been wise to stay with Dobby and pee into the Fountain of Magical Brethren, after all.

But Draco thought a Malfoy couldn't possibly sink so low. So he walked to the information desk, and asked the clerk politely, "Sir, I need to use the loo. Could you be so kind and tell me where it is, please?"

"There aren't any toilets on this level," the clerk said, producing a small badge and giving it to Draco. "Please go to Level Seven. The guards will let you use the employees' toilets if you show them this badge."

Draco looked down at the badge. It said, VISITOR -- TOILET USAGE PERMITTED.

"Sir, I'm terribly sorry, but I find this badge ridiculous," he said, and gave it back to the clerk. "I do not feel inclined to let a bunch of security guards laugh at me."

The clerk looked offended, but Draco ignored him, and ran to the nearest fireplace, pushing away the officials queuing in front of it.

"Wait a minute!" a wizard with a bushy moustache said. "Where the hell do you think you are going, young man?"

"Home, Sir, where I can piss in peace, but I am afraid it's none of your business," Draco replied politely, and tossed a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace. As he stepped among the green flames, he saw a small figure with bulbous ears and one flat hand Apparating right beside the fireplace.

"Master Draco, no!" Dobby squeaked, with a frantic expression on his face. "Master Malfoy said we should not go anywhere, sir!"

"Stand back, you pillock!" Draco yelled, stamping his foot. Or would have yelled, but his foot stirred the soot up, so it got into his mouth and made him cough.

He knew instantly that having mispronounced his destination meant big trouble. Not that he could do anything about it, now. He was overwhelmed by the familiar sensation of being sucked down - or up - a chimney. Which was reasonable, the Floo system consisting of fireplaces and chimneys, but a tad uncomfortable nevertheless.

When he landed on something very small but very hot in an otherwise cold and obviously closed, iron stove, he realized the trouble was bigger than he had thought.

"Ow!" Draco yelped, as he felt the small but hot thing burning a hole in his trousers. He reached under his butt, feeling for the hot little object. When he found it, it was still hot, but it didn't burn Draco again. Draco prodded the latch on the stove's hatch, and opened it. He couldn't climb out, of course, the hatch was too small, but he could at least look at the thing that had burned him.

It was a - well, if it had been wrapped in tobacco leaves, not paper, Draco would have said it was the end of a cigar. Minister Fudge loved cigars. Draco saw him smoke a lot. Father hated cigars. He said smoking cigars was a Muggle eccentricity.

Draco couldn't care less about cigars. Right now, he simply wanted out. He looked around, trying to stifle the growing feeling of panic in his stomach.

He was in a room which looked very much like a Potions laboratory. Massive shelves full of potion ingredients stood by the walls. In the middle of the room, there was a desk with sheets of parchment scattered on top. There was a sturdy bookcase next to the stove. The bookcase, it seemed, also served as a workbench. On top of it, there were several cauldrons of different size, along with uniform little bottles in neat rows. There were small labels listing the ingredients on each bottle. Sneezewort, scurvy-grass, lovage. Asphodel, wormwood, hellebore, cannabis, belladonna. Chopped daisy roots, skinned shrivelfig, sliced caterpillar, rat spleen, leech juice -

Shrinking Solution. Draco didn't study Potions in his spare time for nothing. One of the bottles contained Shrinking Solution. And the bottle was almost within Draco's reach, on the corner of the workbench.

Draco stuck his hand out of the hatch, reaching out as far as he could. He'd left his wand in the Ministry, so his options at getting out of the stove were limited to either snatching the Shrinking Solution from the desk, or screaming until someone came to his rescue. As screaming was undignified, it was out of the question. But if he could grab the Shrinking Solution, he would be able to get out of the stove.

He strained and stretched his arm until he felt it had become as thin as a shoelace, but a few inches were still missing. The angle was wrong. Draco ignored the knot in his stomach, pulled his arm back and wondered what to do.

He had an idea, but it required making a fool of himself. Not that the current situation wasn't embarrassing enough.

Draco finally decided he had nothig to lose, and carefully started rocking inside the stove. The stove started teetering and vibrating with a low sound that gave Draco the impression of being trapped in a church bell. But he was moving at last. So when he estimated the stove was unstable enough, he plastered both his palms on the side of the stove, and twisted his lower body violently.

The stove's feet whined on the stone floor as it turned. There was a moment when it leaned to one side like the Tower of Pisa, but in the end, it dropped back to a vertical position with a thud. Draco peered out of the hatch. Now the angle seemed fine. Draco stuck his shaking arm out again -- and his strainig fingers scratched the neck of the bottle. Draco jammed his shoulder against the hatch, even though he supposed there would be bruises later, and when he pulled his hand back, he was holding the bottle of Shrinking Solution in his hand.

He gulped it down immediatly. He started to feel the effects the moment it hit his stomach: suddenly he felt so full as if he'd eaten two birthday cakes for breakfast. Which meant his stomach had shrunk to the eighth of its size. The next moment, Draco felt his suddenly too big clothes slip from his shrunken form and pool around his feet. He shoved them through the hatch and climbed after them.

He landed on his clothes, which were sitting on the stone floor in a nice soft bundle. Now all he had to do was to climb under the bundle, hide, and wait until the potion wore off.

It was going to be the worst hour of Draco's life. He was the size of a cat, naked and cold. His goolies were the size of a pea. His virility only an inch long. In short, it was hell. And what if someone walked in on him?

Judging by the sound of footsteps outside the lab, he'd know the answer soon.

Draco scrambled to his feet and hid behind the workbench, dragging his clothes with him.

A young boy about Draco's age entered the room, followed by a sour-faced man.

Draco had heard rumours that Muggle clothes were strange, but were boys supposed to wear skirts here? Because this boy wore a screaming red skirt with a blue and white striped top that had an obviously feminine cut. The top was billowing on the boy's skinny upper body as if on a wire hanger. Although Draco was terrified that they might discover him (not that there was too much to discover), he couldn't suppress a smirk at the sight of the boy.

In order to suppress his laughter, Draco focused his attention on the man. Now, there was nothing funny about him. He was dressed in a white - robe; Draco couldn't find a more appropriate term for it - stained with Potion ingredients. He inclined his head towards the boy, letting his greasy black hair fall into his face, and said, "How many times did I tell you to take your potion in time?"

"I forgot, okay?" the boy said, glaring at the man.

The man's sallow skin flushed as he leaned down to the boy until the tip of his hooked nose was almost touching the boy's. His beetle-black eyes were fixed on the boy's face - more precisely, on the boy's forehead, which Draco found strange.

"What would you have done if that stupid best friend of yours walked in on you while you were in this shape?" the man asked. "I have told you to stay home on potion days."

His voice was a mere whisper, but it made Draco shudder. It was the creepiest voice he'd ever heard, his father's not included.

"Oh, leave Hermione alone!" the boy said, rolling his green eyes. "You're mad at her because her mum and dad have offered to fix your teeth."

The man bared his uneven, yellow teeth and spat in the boy's face, "My. Teeth. Do. Not. Need. Fixing."

The boy grinned at him. "Sure. Whatever you say, Uncle."

The man glared at him. "It is the girl who has buck teeth, not me. Why do they not fix her teeth first?"

"She has braces," the boy said. "You can't expect them to shrink her teeth."

"You are right; I cannot." The man let out an exasperated moan, and straightened up while his spine cracked unpleasantly. He started towards the workbench. Draco managed to slip under the bench just in time, before the man stepped round it and started rummaging among the bottles.

"Here. Drink this. It is going to hurt, as you know very well," Draco heard him say, followed by a pop as the bottle was uncorked. But Draco wasn't really paying attention to that. His own body was slowly beginning to change back. The space under the bench felt snug now. Draco tried to flatten himself against the floor as much as he was able, but if the man and the boy didn't leave soon, he would surely be discovered.

Something hit the ground in front of the workbench with a thud. It was the boy - or would have been, but for the tits. Draco stared with his mouth open. The boy/girl's face was contorted with pain. His - no, definitely her - glasses clattered to the floor. The hook-nosed man stooped down, picked them up, then offered a hand to the girl.

"Stand up, Harry. If you hadn't forgotten to take the potion in time, it would not hurt now."

"Yeah, I know," Harry the girl said, letting the man pull her to her feet. "How did you find me, anyway? Aren't you supposed to be working in the British Museum right now?"

"I had to return for some old notes about reptiles. And when I saw you were not here, I decided to telephone the Grangers."

While Draco wondered what the phrase tellerfoaming the Grangers meant, the man went to the desk and made a show of stuffing several thick folders into a shiny black briefcase. "I think you had better come along with me now. You are going to help me clean the fossils. It is better than helping Mrs. Fletcher sell those Muggle medicines. By the way, where is Mrs. Fletcher?"

"Out to lunch." The girl's face lit up. "I always wanted to see those fossils. They're so cool. Can I bring Hermione, too? She'd be fascinated -"

"Fascinated!" the man hissed. The girl called Harry shut up very quickly. Her uncle gave her a deadly glare. "Over my dead body. Or hers. Well, to tell you the truth, it would be pleasant to kill her, but unfortunately, altruistic acts like that are punishable by law. So no, you are not allowed to bring Miss Granger along. She would start talking about girlish things, and I would feel inclined to vomit all over the fossils as I listen to her."

"No, she never talks about girlish things. Or do you think quantum physics is girlish. Really, I don't see why you hate her so much," the girl called Harry said. "She's my best friend!"

"Do you think so?" the man asked. Draco shivered again, even though the man's voice wasn't malicious. Just frightening. "She is not one of our kind. Not one of us. She thinks she knows everything better than other people."

"Yeah? Well, there's one thing she definitely knows better than you," the girl called Harry shouted. "She knows what I'm like!"

The man's eyes narrowed.

"Does she now?" he asked, very quietly. "I thought she only knew what Julia was like. Or does she know Harry as well?"

The girl called Harry - or Julia - stared at her uncle for a moment, then turned and stormed out of the room. The man followed her.

When the door closed behind them, Draco could finally wiggle out from under the bed. He changed back to his normal size almost immediately. He dressed up as fast as he could, and went to the door, hoping wherever 'Julia' and her uncle went, they'd left it unlocked.

It seemed they did. Draco wrenched it open and stepped through. To his surprise, he found himself in the front area of a Muggle shop. It was pure white, squeaky clean and smelled like the toilet at St Mungo's. The shelves were full of small, colourful cardboard boxes Draco was unable to identify.

The shop was empty, the man and the girl nowhere in sight, so Draco went to the entrance and probed the door carefully. It was open. Draco stepped outside. It was high time he went home. He had to find the Leaky Cauldron on Charing Cross Road. The problem was, he hadn't the foggiest idea as to where Caring Cross Road could be. So he decided he would just start wandering about Muggle London and ask people.

Draco looked at the shop one more time. The sign above the shopwindow said, ARABELLA FLETCHER, APOTHECARY. Well, that wasn't too informative. Draco glanced at the street sign. It said Standard Place. It was useful to memorize the name, in case he got lost - which was more likely to happen than he was willing to admit.