Summer Rain

By the time Harry went down for breakfast, the Dursleys had already situated themselves inside the kitchen. Aunt Petunia was at the stove, no doubt cooking Dudley his fourth helping of eggs, while Uncle Vernon sat at the table already dressed in his usual Grunnings suit, grouchily reading his paper. Harry walked over and sat down like he always did, and like always, the Dursleys ignored his presence. He glanced over at his Uncle and cousin, suddenly realizing he hadn't heard either one of them come down from bed that morning. He'd been so preoccupied with Malfoy that apparently everything else had fallen on deft ears. He wasn't even sure if he had remembered to keep his voice down half the time. Had they heard him and Draco talking?

Harry pushed the thought aside as he quietly helped himself to what was left of breakfast: just some toast and a sausage. Evidently, in his case, breakfast at the Dursley's was based strictly on a first come, first serve policy. At any rate, he wasn't that hungry, so he just nibbled some toast in silence while occasionally casting his eyes to the ceiling, wondering what Draco was doing up there in his room right now.

Eventually, his attention was drawn to Dudley's television, whose program had just been interrupted by a special weather report bulletin.

"This is Wayland Harris of the BBC weather channel, interrupting your currently scheduled program for this special weather report," said the lanky reporter. "The southern coast is still being plagued by the remnants of deep depressions left behind by hurricane Ingrid, now slowly heading west over the Atlantic. Forecasts continue to call for highs winds and heavy rain over the next couple of days in and around the southwestern regions, including Plymouth, Southampton, and Surrey. Experts advise citizens of those specified areas to use caution when traveling, and to keep flashlights, bottled water, and a first aid kit on hand in case of a power outage."

"Oh dear, I hope it's nothing serious," Aunt Petunia said apprehensively, pouring another helping of eggs and sausage onto Dudley's plate. "Maybe you should call in sick today," she suggested to her husband.

"Nonsense, Petunia!" Uncle Vernon loudly dismissed, his mustache bristling. "This is nothing compared to the gale we had back in '87. Now that was a storm! Besides, you know I'm on the verge of closing a big deal this week. This time we might actually get that vacation home in Majorca." He shot Harry a nasty look, no doubt as a reminder of the incident with the Masons three years ago. "I see you're finally up," he barked at Harry, at last acknowledging his presence. "Sleep well, did you? It's a shame we all couldn't have, no thanks to a certain someone who can't even get a glass of water without making a bleeding ruckus."

"Or a mess," Aunt Petunia added snippily.

"He wasn't sleeping," Dudley suddenly mumbled through the chunks of egg and sausage in his mouth. "I heard him talking--"

"In my sleep," Harry interjected quickly, fixing his bloated cousin with an admonishing glare. So - apparently someone had heard him. "I must've been talking in my sleep."

"Were you, now?" Uncle Vernon said with a wary sneer. "Then I suppose you were sleepwalking too, because only someone half asleep would be daft enough to spill that much water all over the floor!"

"It's a possibility." Harry shrugged naively, trying to appear natural.

"And a smashing job you did cleaning it up as well," his Aunt chimed in, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Lucky for you I didn't slip and break my neck."

Yeah - lucky me, Harry thought to himself. He had expected this; as usual, whenever his relatives took the time to actually acknowledge his existence, the lectures and criticisms would soon ensue - and sure enough...

"Now you listen here, boy," Uncle Vernon snarled threateningly, pointing his fat finger at Harry. "Every bloody summer it's been something or another. First, it was that ruddy tail; then it was the window; then Marge; and then the fireplace - well, no more!" He banged his purple fist on the table, making the plastic plates atop it rattle. "I'm keeping my eye on you, and if I see anymore nonsense this summer, mark my words you'll be out on your backside for good. There'll be no coming back this time! Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal," Harry answered robotically, having been through this same conversation about a million times since coming back to Privet Drive. From the moment he retuned from Hogwarts, his relatives had been on constant edge - more so than ever before - no doubt in fearful anticipation of this year's summer disaster, which had practically become a staple occurrence in the Dursley household over the past four years. Thus, these days, whenever Harry happened to draw even the slightest bit of attention to himself - like coughing, for example - Uncle Vernon would launch into one of his patented diatribes. It had been awhile since the last one; so Harry, out of sheer routine, was actually beginning to wonder when the next one was due.

He was hardly surprised it had come today, especially after what happened earlier this morning. It had been the first time this summer that anything "out of the ordinary" had occurred, so naturally he expected nothing less than a full-on chastisement. Not that Uncle Vernon's threats ever mattered, really; but this summer, in particular, they seemed especially trivial to Harry, given what he had been through. Threats of banishment no longer concerned or troubled him, for he would have gladly left forever if only Dumbledore had agreed to it. Every summer he dreaded coming back to this place - a place that, after last term, now seemed so small, so limited, so...ordinary. It was as if he was finally seeing Privet Drive for what it truly was now: a place that no longer held any significance in his life - only bad memories. Having realized this, Harry honestly wasn't sure if he could tolerate coming back again next summer, even if Dumbledore asked him to.

Uncle Vernon gave Harry one last glare and grunt before returning to his paper; Aunt Petunia started washing the dishes, while Dudley returned to his television program - and just like that, they all reverted back to ignoring him again. Harry looked around once more, and when he was confident no one was looking, he wrapped a piece of toast and sausage in his napkin and discreetly slipped it into his pajama bottom pocket. So much for Belgian waffles, Harry thought.

Suddenly, Uncle Vernon's watch sounded. "Well, I best be off," he grumbled thickly as he lifted his heavy body from the table.

Harry took this as an opportunity to inconspicuously make his way back up to his room; he still wasn't comfortable with the idea of Malfoy roaming around in it by himself. He followed his Aunt and Uncle into the entryway and then quickly made a break for the stairs.

"Have a nice day, love," said Aunt Petunia, kissing her husband on the cheek and walking him to the door. "Don't forget your umbrella. It still looks pretty bad out there."

"Just a light sprinkle, Petunia," Uncle Vernon reassured. "Hey Dudders," he called to Dudley from the entryway, "care to see your old man off to work?"

"Bye," they heard him mutter from the kitchen, no doubt with his eyes still glued to the television screen.

"Teenagers," Uncle Vernon chuckled good-naturedly to his wife as he opened the front door. "And you," he turned on Harry, his expression immediately going sour. Harry cringed internally, having almost made it up the stairs. "I mean it," Uncle Vernon snarled, "any more nonsense, and you and that ruddy owl of yours can find some other family to burden and inconvenience!"

"Her name is Hed - "

SLAM

Harry rolled his eyes, and then continued up the stairs. "Git," he muttered under his breath.

Despite the early morning reprimand, though, Harry was surprised at how relatively easy and quick the whole altercation had gone, all things considered. Normally, he'd be in the kitchen for hours while Uncle Vernon hemmed and hawed about how much of a burden he was. Harry suspected even his Uncle was growing a bit tired of the monotony of it all. That wasn't to say everything at Privet Drive had remained the same though. Although the Dursleys still reminded Harry on a fairly regular basis of how ungrateful and unwelcome he was, they no longer treated him like a slave. Harry had made it abundantly clear upon his return that he wasn't going to be pushed around any longer. You don't kill a giant basilisk, outsmart a Hungarian Horntail, or escape the clutches of a power-hungry psychopath without learning how to stick up for yourself in the process. He really couldn't care less anymore about the incessant tirades, for he had become well accustomed to tuning them out over the years - but he refused to be bullied into manual labor anymore. He was more than willing to stay out of the way as long as he was left alone, and overall, it was an unspoken understanding that seemed to suit the Dursleys just fine.

Harry approached his bedroom door and opened it tentatively, peeking inside. His room was empty, and for a brief moment he thought maybe Draco had left.

"Malfoy?" he whispered, sliding inside the room and quickly shutting the door behind him. "Psst, Malfoy?"

"What took you so long?" came Draco's voice from behind him.

Startled, Harry jumped and whirled around with his fists raised in the air; Draco recoiled in reaction, his hands immediately going up to shield himself.

"Jesus, Malfoy!" Harry gasped angrily, lowering his fists and taking in deep breaths. "Don't sneak up on me like that!"

"What is your problem, Potter?" Draco snapped, also breathing hard and lowering his hands. "Who's sneaking up on whom here? You know it might help next time to check behind the door when you come in!"

"Shh!" Harry shushed him, suddenly becoming aware of how loud they were being. "Keep your voice down," he now said in low tone, keeping in mind what Dudley had said at breakfast.

"Why?" Draco asked confusedly, looking around the room as if expecting to see Rita Skeeter with her acid-green quill in hand. "This is your room, is it not?" Harry nodded grudgingly. "So why do we have to be so quiet?"

Harry chose to ignore Draco's questions; he really wasn't in the mood right now to explain his sorted past with the Dursleys. Instead, he reached into his pocket and took out the wrapped napkin. "Here," he said dully, handing it to Draco.

Draco looked it over in his hand uncertainly. "What's this?"

"You're breakfast," Harry replied shortly.

He unfolded the napkin. "Is this all?" Draco asked incredulously, looking disgruntled. "But where are the waffles...and the jam...and the orange juice?"

Harry sighed. "What do you think this is - some posh hotel?"

"Alright, Potter, enough with the charade," Draco said shrewdly, giving Harry a knowing look as if he were holding something out on him. "You can't fool me; I know you're loaded. So where are you keeping all the servants and valets, eh? You must have tons of them. What's more," he gestured around the small room, "this can't possibly be your actual room. I have closets bigger than this at home."

"Sorry to disappoint you, Malfoy, but you aren't going to find any house elves or butlers here to do your bidding," said Harry coolly. "And if you want to stay here, you might want to learn to keep your voice down from now on. The Dursleys don't pay kindly to strangers."

"This is absurd," Draco pouted indignantly, throwing the napkin to the floor. "I refuse to eat something that's been stuffed down your trousers!"

"Fine," Harry shrugged, picking up the food and tossing it into his wastebasket. "Starve then."

"I bet you'd like that wouldn't you, Potter?" Draco sneered silkily. "Don't think I can't see what you're doing. You're probably having a hearty laugh right about now, aren't you - hiding me in this tiny room, giving me table scraps to eat, and making me wear this...this--" Draco rolled up Dudley's elongated sleeves, which kept falling down past his hands "--this thing!" he finished with a frustrated groan.

"Don't be so melodramatic," Harry said carelessly. "Believe me, having to put up with your pampered and inflated ego is not my idea of a hearty laugh." Walking over to his desk, Harry picked up one of Mrs. Weasley's mince pies, which was already nicely cut into equal slices. "Here." He shoved it at Draco. "You can have the rest of this then."

Draco took it hesitantly. "What is it?"

"A Quaffle," Harry shot sardonically. "It's a pie, moron, what does it look like?"

Draco leered back as he rotated the pie in his hands, examining it. "Seems edible enough," he said reluctantly. He looked expectantly at Harry for a moment, before giving him a prompting, "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Well, where's the silverware?"

"Where's what?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "You know," he explained in a slow, patronizing voice, as if Harry were a small child, "those shiny little tools we use to eat our food, also sometimes referred to as forks and knifes."

"Stop being a smartarse, Malfoy, and just use your hands."

"My what?"

Now it was Harry's turn to roll his eyes. "For heaven's sake - watch," he demonstrated, gently easing a slice out of the tin pan with his hand and holding it out for Draco. "See, nothing to it."

Draco stood slightly open-mouthed, eyeing Harry with a look of shock and repulsion, as if he were a savage who had just killed his prey in front of him. "That's disgusting."

"You've got to be kidding, right? Haven't you ever eaten something with your bare hands before?"

"Oh course not," Draco automatically replied, looking affronted. "What do you take me for, some kind of animal?"

The dry question inadvertently triggered Harry's memory, and suddenly he felt a small grin playing on the edge of his lips as the endearing image of - as Ron coined it - "Malfoy: the amazing bouncing ferret" graced his mind's eye.

"Think something's funny?" Draco demanded angrily, and when Harry began to chuckle quietly, he spat, "Answer me, you!"

Harry dropped his grin at the familiar bite of Draco's tone. "As a matter of fact, I do," he said frankly, now quite serious. "I think you're funny, Malfoy - you're so spoiled you can't even eat a piece of pie with your hands. Hell, I bet you even get your mum to cut up your food, don't you?"

Draco smirked. "At least I have a mum," he drawled nastily.

In an instant, a hot rush of anger swept over Harry at the mention of his mother, and before he knew what he was doing, he threw an impulsive punch at Malfoy, making direct contact with Draco's right eye. Draco, caught off guard, fell hard to floor, the pie in his hands making a clanking noise as its tin pan hit the ground.

There was a long, stilled silence as both boys stared bewilderedly at one another, each apparently too stunned to respond right away. Harry finally took in a shaky breath and exhaled slowly, not exactly sure how to react. Over the years, although he and Draco had both cast their fair share of hexes on each other, this was the first time Harry could remember ever physically hitting Draco - though it certainly wasn't the first time he had ever wanted to. Despite that, however, he still couldn't help feeling somewhat unnerved at his sudden impetuosity.

"You hit me," Draco said in a staggering voice. He touched his eye delicately, which was already beginning to swell. "You hit me," he repeated in disbelief. "I can't believe you just did that."

"I..." Harry tried to speak, but words utterly failed him in that moment as he tried to reconcile the mixed emotions of shock, satisfaction, and what seemed to be - remorse? -coursing through him.

"You bloody hit me!"

"And...and I'll do it again the next time you mention my parents," Harry now said firmly, finally managing to wrap his tongue around some words as his initial shock began to ebb away.

Draco scrambled to his feet now, the broken pie lay forgotten on the floor. "Why you little bastard," he gasped, and before Harry had time to react, Draco lunged at him, tackling him to the ground, the remaining slice of mince pie flying out of Harry's hand.

Both boys noisily rolled and tumbled across the floor in a tangle of limbs and fists, any lingering remorse on Harry's part having totally dissipated by now. They each swung freely, neither caring about anything except inflicting pain on the other. It was as if all those years of hatred and resentment for each other had finally reached its breaking point. This time there were no wands, no magic, and no oversized bodyguards - just an outpouring of raw aggression. Draco managed to get in a decent punch of his own, hitting Harry square in his stomach and knocking the wind out of him. "I'll teach you to hit me!" They continued to wrestle fiercely in an exchange of blows, all sense of propriety having gone completely out the window. And then, they heard it...

"What in bloody hell is going on up there?" Aunt Petunia's high-pitched voice came from downstairs.

They both immediately froze and listened intently, only the sound of their heavy respiring cutting into the silence. Then, all of a sudden, they heard the sounds of heavy stomping along the stairs, each one producing a loud tremor throughout the house as it drew nearer.

"Now you've done it!" Harry wheezed at Draco, recognizing the tremor inducing steps immediately. "Gerroff - it's my cousin." He hastily untangled himself from Draco as both boys scrambled to their feet. "Quick, the closet!"

"Dream on, Potter!" Draco spat defiantly. "You must be off your rocker if you think I'm going back in there. Besides," he added, folding his arms in front of his chest and shooting Harry a glare of suspicion, "why are you so set on keeping me hidden from your muggle relatives?"

"There's no time to explain, Malfoy!"

And indeed there wasn't, because just then Harry saw, as though in slow motion, his doorknob begin to turn. Without thinking, Harry threw out his arm, grabbing Draco by his collar and forcing him under the bed - the only other place in the room closest enough to hide.

"What are you doing?"

"Just stay down and keep quiet!" Harry hissed.

At that moment the door flew open, and in waddled his portly cousin, Dudley. Having taken one glance at his cousin upon returning to Privet Drive, Harry immediately discerned that last summer's diet regimen must've had absolutely no affect on Dudley's weight whatsoever. It wasn't long before he learned that, instead of exercising some actual discipline, his Aunt and Uncle had eventually - and characteristically - caved in under Dudley's tumultuous tantrums and went back to feeding him his usual assortments of fatty meats and junk food - the results of which had become painfully obvious since last year. As a result, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were then forced to hire Dudley his own private tailor to custom make his Smeltings knickerbockers, as the school no longer supplied ones big enough to fit their overweight son.

In fact, Dudley was becoming so morbidly obese that teasing him about his weight was no longer as appealing to Harry as it once was. Normally, it had been an unwavering source of cheap amusement for him over the years, as it was the only retaliation he could exploit against his bullying cousin - however, after seeing Dudley's now gargantuan proportions, Harry just couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for him. There were hardly any curves or angles left on his body, which, consequently, was looking more and more like a giant beach ball every day. Any semblance of wrists, ankles, or a neck was now completely concealed beneath Dudley's many chins of fat. That, coupled with a raw case of pubertal acne, and it was almost impossible not to feel sorry for him.

"This better be good," Dudley said in between rasping wheezes, apparently winded from his climb. "I'm in the middle of watching The Great Humberto."

"So good of you to knock," Harry greeted his cousin acidly, pretending to stretch his back as he straightened up off the floor.

"Why should I?" Dudley asked with a mean scowl. "Don't forget this is still my room," he snidely reminded.

Harry sighed impatiently. "What do you want?"

"Mum seems to think you're up to no good, so she sent me to check on you," explained Dudley in a self-important sort of way. "So whatever freakish stuff you've got going on up here, knock it off so I can get back to the telly." He shook his pudgy fist threateningly.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Dudley snorted with laughter, sounding a little bit too much like a pig for comfort. "Come off it - you might be able to fool mum and dad, but I know I heard you talking to someone this morning. You've been acting really weird all summer - even weirder than usual. What are you up to this time, anyway? Calling upon ghosts now, are you?"

Harry shook his head. "You're losing it," he deadpanned. "I think the radiation from the telly has finally succeeded in dissolving what's left of your brain."

"Oh yeah?" Dudley challenged skeptically, his beady blue eyes quickly darting to the broken pie on the floor. "Hey, what's that?" he jerked his round head at it.

"It's a pie," Harry sighed gallingly, starting to wonder whether he was the only one on the planet who knew a mince pie when he saw one. "You of all people should know that," he added with an inner chuckle.

"I know what it is, stupid! Where'd you get it?"

"That's none of your business."

"I'm sure Mum and Dad would like to know," Dudley sang in a conniving manner. "You know you're not supposed to let that bird out of its cage. You're in for it if they find out you've been letting it outside to deliver things."

"Does it look like I care?"

Dudley blinked dumbly. "W-well, you should," he stammered, slightly thrown off by Harry's indifferent response. Just like with Uncle Vernon, Harry no longer took Dudley's petty threats seriously, though unfortunately it did nothing to stop him from making them whenever he had the chance. His eyes quickly searched the room for a more damaging piece of incriminating evidence. They settled on the bed. "Whose are those?"

Harry felt his muscles clench as his eyes fell on the wet clothes Draco had previously discarded on his bed, internally cursing himself for having forgotten about them. "They're mine," he lied.

"I've never seen you wear that before," Dudley disputed, waddling over to the other side of the bed and picking them up. "Pretty fancy material too for someone like you, isn't it?"

Harry shrugged nonchalantly. "It's from school," he said. "I only wear it at school."

"Then how come it's all wet and wrinkled?"

"Because...because I just washed it, that's why."

"Suuure?" Dudley said slowly, narrowing his eyes at Harry. Clearly unconvinced, and without warning, he heaved his massive bottom on top of the bed, causing the middle section to sink heavily under his weight, while he searched the pockets of the robes.

At once, Harry felt Draco's hand shoot out from under the bed, grasping wildly at his trouser leg in an obvious plea for help. Harry's heart raced. He shook his leg free and, after making sure Dudley hadn't seen anything, racked his brain for a way to get him off his bed. If he didn't find one fast, he would likely end up having to peel Draco off his floor.

"Get off the bed!" Harry blurted out, but Dudley wasn't listening as he continued inspecting the robes. "Hey, tubby!" he said louder, resorting to name-calling as the best solution. "I said get off the bed!"

"Why do you have teeth in your clothes?" asked Dudley, as if he was hearing Harry now for the first time.

"What?"

Dudley held out his pudgy hand, in his palm lay what looked to be a pair of human teeth. The conniving expression on Dudley's face had been wiped clean, and he was now staring at Harry with that familiar look of fear and terror, the one he normally wore whenever the "M" word came up.

"W-what are you learning at that f-freak p-place?" he said shakily, now looking as if he deeply regretted ever stepping foot into Harry's room.

Harry decided to take advantage of this common scenario. He hadn't exploited Dudley's intense fear of magic in quite sometime, but he knew if there was ever a time to do so, this was it.

He sighed exaggeratingly. "Alright, alright - you got me," he conceded, shaking his head in mock-defeat. "Caught me red handed."

Dudley slowly slid off the bed, causing Harry to breathe an inward sigh of relief. His cousin's eyes were now fixated on the door, the desire to tear out of the room etched all over his chubby face.

"You're too smart for me, Dudley," Harry began, a slight gleam of mischief in his eyes. He inched closer to his cousin.

"I-I am?" Dudley whimpered, backing away from Harry with tiny steps.

"Oh yes," he whispered for dramatic effect. He then dropped his voice barely above that whisper and said, "You were right; I have been calling upon ghosts."

Dudley's beady eyes grew the size of saucers. "MUUUUUUU--"

"Shhhh!" Harry clamped his hand over Dudley's mouth. "They don't like it when you scream for help," he said in undertone.

Dudley's bottom lip was now trembling with utter terror. "T-t-they?"

Harry nodded gravely. "Those teeth and clothes belong to a particular ghost I've been trying to call all summer," he explained. "It's an important project for school, and I had just made contact with him when you came barging in."

Harry was happy to hear a distinct gulp emanate from his cousin.

"He wasn't pleased," he continued, making his voice sound grim for good measure. "Because of you he didn't get his teeth back."

Dudley looked down at his hand and squeaked with horror, realizing he was still holding onto them. "H-here!" he blubbered, shoving them back at Harry like they were a ticking time bomb. "Take them, take them!"

"It's too late." Harry shrugged hopelessly. "You've already upset him - made him throw things, you did," he pointed to the floor, "like that pie, for instance." Dudley squeaked again as his eyes followed, causing Harry to stifle a chuckle; he had forgotten how much fun this could be. "And once you upset a ghost," he went on, "they haunt you...forever."

"Y-you're lying," said Dudley, though he didn't look at all confident in his assertion. "There's no such thing as ghosts. I'm going to tell dad you're just trying to scare me and then he'll kick you out for good."

"Oh, I wouldn't do that," warned Harry, leaning in closer as if someone else were listening in on their conversation. "Ghosts don't like it when you reveal their presence - makes them very angry. And believe me you don't want to make this one any angrier than he already is at you. He might even invade your body if you do." Hearing his own words, Harry tried desperately not to crack a smile at the absurdity of what he was saying. The mere thought of Moaning Myrtle invading people's bodies was almost too comical to bear. "Still, if you want to risk it," he whispered, "go right ahead and tell your father - I'm sure he'll miss you very much."

Dudley sniveled, completely beside himself.

Then, inspired with a sudden idea, he added, "However, there is one thing you could do to protect yourself."

"What? What is it?" Dudley pleaded.

"Vegetables."

"Vegetables?"

"Yep - vegetables," said Harry, who figured he might as well derive some good from this silly fabrication. "Ghosts hate vegetables - it's their ultimate weakness, like garlic is to vampires. They won't go anywhere near them. So, I'm sure if you eat plenty of vegetables, the ghost won't invade your body." Surely he wasn't going to buy this hogwash, was he?

"What kind of vegetables?" Dudley asked hesitantly.

"All kinds: Broccoli, celery, cauliflower--"

"But I hate those!" he whined.

Harry shrugged. "Suit yourself. Just telling you what I know. I can only lead you to the water, Dudley; I can't make you drink it."

"Water?" Dudley furrowed his hefty brow in confusion. "But...I'm not thirsty."

"Nevermind," sighed Harry. "Point is - it's your choice. Just don't come crying to me when your arms and legs start to take on a life of their own."

There was a moment of silence as Harry watched Dudley mull this dilemma over in his head. He couldn't believe that, even with the threat of being possessed, his cousin still had to stop and think about eating his vegetables, as if it were a life-altering decision. Thankfully, their silence didn't last very long. The faint ring of the telephone sounded from downstairs, and after a brief minute, they heard Aunt Petunia's voice.

"Oh, Duddikins," she called from below. "Telephone, dear - it's Piers."

Dudley's face immediately flooded with relief. "Coming!" he hollered back, looking immensely grateful for the distraction and wanting nothing more than to get out of the room as fast as his legs could carry him.

"Oh, Dudley," Harry beckoned just as Dudley opened the door to leave. "Think about it," he mouthed wordlessly, tapping his right temple lightly.

Again, Dudley's eyes grew wide with fear, and with a final squeak, he turned on his heel and shut the door behind him. Harry let out a genuine sigh of relief this time, then quickly dashed over to his bed.

"Are you dead?" he asked, kneeling down beside it.

There was a slight pause. "No," eventually came Draco's hoarse reply from underneath. "But I think I've been rendered unconscious."

Harry chuckled. "Just be happy he didn't crush you completely," he said.

"I'd be happy if you'd stop jabbering on like a git and help me up?" barked Draco.

Harry shrugged. He grabbed a hold of Draco's forearms and pulled him forward out from under his bed.

"That's the last time I ever let you hide me again, Potter," Draco complained, standing up and brushing himself off. "I saw my whole life flash before my eyes under there."

"It was a close call, but I don't think we'll have to worry about him prying anymore."

"Yeah, I heard. Ghosts, Potter? What were you thinking? Even Crabbe could have done better than that story."

"Hey," Harry protested. "It's thanks to that story that you're not currently out on your arse right now."

"That, and the fact that your cousin has the combined IQ of a raisin," Draco readily injected. "What gives anyway, Potter? I keep getting this odd impression that your family doesn't like you very much."

"Gee, you're pretty swift, aren't you?" Harry commented dryly. "Anyway, what do you care?"

"I don't, since you ask," Draco responded without missing a beat. "Although I suppose it does make sense." He cupped his chin thoughtfully. "What other reason could you have for wanting to spend Christmas at the castle every year?"

"Can we forget about my relatives, Malfoy?" Harry cut in as he held out his hand. "What I want to know is whose teeth these are?"

Draco grinned naively. "Would you believe me if I said they were mine?"

"Try again," Harry said flatly. "I thought you said you didn't have to pull any teeth to find out where I live."

"I didn't, you idiot. If you must know, I needed the teeth to make the Polyjuice potion."

"What do you mean? Couldn't you have just used hair?"

"Not when the person you want to change into is as bald as a melon," said Draco. "Our head gardener, Morton, is the only person at Malfoy manor whose body size is relatively the same as mine."

"So?"

"So," Draco drawled, "that means we wear the same sized clothing. Are you following me here, Potter?" Harry shot him a glare. "Good. Anyway, the old geezer's toothless as well, but lucky for me he saved each and every one of them inside a small tin cup atop his dresser. Don't ask me why," he quickly added in response to the appalled look Harry gave him. "Maybe he wants them as a keepsake, but whatever the reason, they proved most useful."

"You can use teeth for the potion?" Harry asked, almost shuddering at the mere thought of it.

"The book does say a 'bit' of whoever you want to change into. It doesn't specify hair."

"But...it's teeth, Malfoy - old teeth!"

Draco frowned. "Thank you for that much needed insight." All of a sudden, he grimaced and touched his bruised eye, looking like he had apparently forgotten about it, only to be reminded again by the abrupt pang his facial movement must have caused.

Harry shifted a bit uncomfortably. "You might want to put some ice on that," he offered timidly.

"You've done quite enough already," Draco snapped.

"Hey, don't forget you deserved it!" Harry shot back, though he still couldn't shake the guilt off completely, much to his chagrin.

"You're just lucky that ogre walked in when he did," Draco muttered, still massaging his eye.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, you knocked the wind out of me pretty good," Harry admitted, rubbing his sore abdomen.

He knew he had wounded Draco's pride more than the eye itself, simply by the way Draco wasn't looking at him. Though why he was able to make such an astute observation was completely beyond him, and, deciding he didn't want to examine it too closely, Harry opted to change the subject.

"Do you like cake?"

Draco slowly lifted his eyes. "Excuse me?"

"I have some left-over Birthday cake if you want some."

"Why - so you can have another crack at me when my defenses are down?" Draco rejoined bitterly.

"Not unless you piss me off," Harry bluntly retorted, steadily losing his patience. "Now you want some or not?"

Draco considered him for a brief moment before giving a succinct, "What kind?"

"Er...Chocolate."

Draco pulled a face. "I suppose it'll do," he sighed listlessly.

Harry pointed to his desk. "It's over there," he stated, choosing to ignore Draco's sigh as he started to clean up the bits and pieces of Mrs. Weasley's mince pie off his floor. Luckily most of it remained in the pan when it hit. Tossing the pie into the wastebasket, Harry dubiously shook his head, realizing that Draco had been here for only a few hours and already they had resorted to blows - he thought it would've taken only a few minutes for that to happen.

"Dear Harry," Harry suddenly heard Draco recite from behind him, "Happy 15^th, mate!" he unflatteringly affected Ron's voice. "Yeah, I know, where did the time g--"

Harry whirled around. "The cake is over there," he pointed irritably, snatching Ron's card away. "What part of 'don't touch anything' didn't you understand?"

Draco smirked, evidently satisfied for getting a rise out of him. "Someone should tell Weasley his handwriting's a joke," he cracked offhandedly. "How that dummy ever managed to make it past the fourth year I'll never know."

Harry gave a snort of incredulous laughter. "This coming from someone who considers Crabbe and Goyle his friends," he said pointedly. "Talk about dummies."

"Touché, Potter," Draco conceded without rancor. Harry lifted a questioning eyebrow to this, to which Draco responded matter-of-factly, "Hey, no point in pretending otherwise with those two."

"Well then, shut up about Ron already," Harry said hotly, the slight against his best friend irritating him to no end. "You don't know the first thing about him or any of my other friends - and for your information, Malfoy, not only is Ron incredibly smart and a brilliant chess player, but he's also the best mate anyone could ever ask for. You only wish you knew what it was like to have friends as cool as him." He sucked in a breath, having wheeled all this off in a rush of anger. Harry calmed slightly, annoyed with himself for letting Malfoy's petty insults get to him. He wasn't worth it. "But I suppose I can't expect someone like you to ever understand something like that," he finished calmly.

"Like what?" Draco scowled.

"Like friendship," Harry said shortly. "I bet you've never had a friend in your life that you weren't using in some way to suit your own gains. Everyone knows you only use Crabbe and Goyle to hide behind whenever you can't back up your big mouth."

Draco let out a chuckle, though it was a hallow one. "Well - that just goes to show that you don't know the first thing about me or my friends."

"Oh well," Harry intoned exaggeratingly, "please enlighten me then."

"What's the point?" Draco shrugged impassivel. "You and the rest of that bloody school have already made up your minds about me and my house. You all think that we're just a bunch of scheming little bastards who have nothing better to do than to rain on your parade." He held up an unsympathetic hand. "Save me the lecture, Potter; you're no different from me."

"That's not true," Harry said at once.

"Oh, isn't it?" Draco challenged, starting to become heated. "Name me one Slytherin you've actually taken the time to get to know - just one."

Deafened silence followed the dare and, knowing that he couldn't name one, Harry grudgingly broke eye contact and looked to his right.

"I figured as much," Draco concluded loftily, his tone icy. "You think you're so noble, but you're just like the rest of us - you see only what you want to see."

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but no words seemed to want to come out. He was fuming. He wanted to tell Malfoy that he was a scheming little bastard who constantly tried to rain on his parade, and that they couldn't be more different from each other. He wanted to list every single example of how they differed and how Draco purposely went out of his way just to make his life miserable: the endless taunting of him and his friends, the cheating tactics he used in Quidditch, trying to get Hagrid fired and Buckbeak executed in their third year, not to mention his disrespect for Cedric's memory that day on the Hogwarts Express, just to name a few. Revisiting these memories, Harry clenched his fists, feeling an unmistakable urge to slung Malfoy once again for having the nerve to stand there and say he was no different from him. He was nothing like him.

"Let's get one thing straight, Malfoy," Harry said evenly, stepping closer until he was only mere inches from Draco's face. "I'm not like you in any way, shape, or form. I don't look like you, I don't act like you, and I certainly don't think like you - got it?"

Both boys stared menacingly at each other for what seemed like awhile; then, shrugging unceremoniously, Draco said breezily, "Believe -," he paused and smirked, "--or see - what you want, Potter." He let out a halfhearted sigh, and just like that, returned to his impassive demeanor. "I think I'm ready for that cake now," he declared almost cheerfully.

He rolled up a dangling sleeve and stretched out his arm toward the cake, gingerly inching out a slice with his bare hand, all the while never breaking his eye contact with Harry. "You were right," he concurred, his smirk elongating as he took a large bite, "nothing to it."

Harry watched Draco chew smugly while he, in turn, swallowed hard in an attempt to push down the upsurge of disdain he felt climbing at the bottom of his gut. It's only one week. Just one measly week, Harry chanted over and over in his head. Remember the plan. Bide your time. Get the information necessary and then you'll be done with him. Feeling himself calm, Harry turned his head without a word and looked out his dripping windowpane, staring absently at the gray abyss on the other side.

The downpour of rain had eased up slightly as Harry could see ruffling waves of drizzle now descending from the sky, though the clouds showed no signs of parting anytime soon.

"This is some decent birthday cake you've got here, Potter," Draco spoke up as he finished it off with an aggressive bite. "My compliments to the chef."

Harry glanced sideways. He couldn't resist. "Thanks, I'll be sure to pass it on to Mrs. Weasley," he articulated her name with a grin.

Draco stopped in mid-chew, giving the piece of cake in his hand a lot more attention than he had only moments before. He scowled. "Pity it's chocolate," he backpedaled.

Harry shook his head. "You're a wanker, you know that, Malfoy?"

"Takes one to know one, Potter," Draco sneered. "But now that we understand each other," he continued unfazed, "I'd like to know what room I'll be sleeping in during my stay."

"What are you talking about?" Harry turned and gestured to his room. "Here - where else?"

Draco groaned abhorrently. "I was afraid you'd say that. Very well," he sighed in a deflated tone, "but where are you going to sleep?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well," Draco drawled patronizingly. "I see there are two of us and only one bed. You do the math genius."

"I'll be sleeping on my bed, thank you very much," Harry elucidated in annoyance. "There's a sleeping bag in the closet." He nodded absently in its direction. "Never been used - you can sleep on the floor with that."

Fortunately for Harry, his closet was littered with Dudley's old, but never-before-used camping gear. Just like the racing bike his cousin received when he was eleven, it was still a mystery to Harry why his aunt and uncle wasted money on items that involved or required physical activity. The only physical exertion Dudley had ever exhibited was lifting up his fort to shovel food into his mouth. Nonetheless, it was a good thing they'd forgotten to clean it out when Harry moved in. The flashlight came in pretty handy during those secretive, late-night homework sessions in his room.

"I'm not sleeping on the floor," Draco flatly refused.

Harry took off his glasses and sighed edgily, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He felt like he was dealing with a three-year-old. "You don't have much of a choice, Malfoy," he said through gritted teeth. "You're in no position to be making demands here."

Draco opened his mouth to protest, but seemed to think better of it when he caught the daggers Harry was shooting him. "You - you better not snore, Potter," he huffed instead, "because I need at least eight hours of sleep."

Sleep. Harry couldn't remember the last time he had had a decent night's sleep. The mere notion of such a thing seemed so foreign to him now, it almost made him laugh. And the fact that Draco was demanding it only fueled his resentment toward him. Maybe it was due to the lack of sleep, but Harry hadn't realized until then that he was still in his pajamas and that it was nearly approaching noon. He walked passed Draco silently as if he didn't exist and to his dresser, taking from it a T-shirt and a pair of khaki trousers - one of the few muggle outfits he owned that actually fit him. Setting the clothes on the bed, he tugged at the collar of his top and began to lift it up over his head.

Draco quickly turned away. "What are you doing?" he blurted out.

Harry finished the lifting motion and was now standing in front of Draco bare-chested. "Changing," he answered curtly, not giving it a second thought. "What does it look like?"

His back to him, Harry heard Draco distinctively clear his throat. "Do you have to do that right now?"

Harry looked down at himself and then stared confoundedly at the back of Draco's blond head. "Why the hell not?" he wondered aloud, remembering the many times he had changed in front of Ron or in the Quidditch locker rooms and not thought twice about it. "You got a problem with people changing clothes or something?"

"Of course not," Draco snorted derisively, though Harry could have sworn he detected a hint of unsteadiness in it. "Just hurry up and finish your business, will you - I wouldn't want to go blind seeing your disgusting body on display."

"Shut up, Malfoy," Harry said reflexively, now pulling the T-shirt down over his head, feeling his hair stick up in all directions. He then kicked off his pajamas bottoms and stepped easily into his trousers, all the while with Draco's back to him. "You can turn around now," he said, pulling up his zipper and rolling his eyes. "Your eyesight is safe."

Draco turned around and looked him up and down. "How come you get to wear fitting clothes while I'm stuck wearing this abomination?" he groused, flapping his dangling sleeves. Harry fought hard not to laugh. He definitely had to get a picture of this before the week was up. Ron would never forgive him if he didn't.

"Because," he coughed through a mild guffaw, "I'd be forced to burn them afterward, you being evil and everything." His hatred for Malfoy aside, though, Harry knew he'd be lying to if he said he wasn't finding any of this slightly amusing. There was no doubt he had the upper hand here, and truthfully, he couldn't deny reveling in it somewhat. Serves him right after all he's done, Harry said to himself.

"By the way," something suddenly occurred to him, "why didn't you bring any spare clothing of your own? I mean what kind of idiot runs away from home without at least packing some extra clothes." Harry had imagined running away from the Dursleys enough times to know that much.

"I didn't exactly have the time to put together a wardrobe," Draco told him defensively. He gave a bitter laugh. "You tend to forget those things after..." he stopped himself, and for a split second his gray eyes flashed darkly, in a way Harry had never seen before.

"What?" Harry asked hopefully, sensing an opportunity, but trying hard to keep his voice even. "After what?"

"Nothing," Draco said tightly. "Forget it."

"No, what?" Harry pressed, not willing to let the opportunity get away from him quite yet. "What happened?"

"I said forget it!" Draco's voice was hard and flat, and Harry knew it was useless to try and pry any further. "Anyway," Draco spoke after awhile, his smirk returned, "what do you care?"

Harry groaned internally, suddenly feeling incredibly frustrated and angry, not to mention strangely manipulated. He was convinced Draco was hiding something - something important. His story was vague at best, and Harry didn't believe for a second that Draco had run away simply because of personal problems. What possible reason could he have for wanting to flee his life of lap and luxury? It just didn't make any sense. And even though Harry knew he still had the whole week to pump Draco for information, it still did very little to ease his anxiety, knowing that Draco possessed what could potentially be invaluable information about Voldemort's upcoming plans. But most of all, Harry couldn't help but feel that the longer he waited out Draco's silence, the more time he gave Voldemort to devise a plan of attack. The longer he waited, the more danger he was in; the longer he waited, the more danger his friends were in. Harry shut his eyes and mentally pushed the thought away, not wanting to think of Ron and Hermione that way. It made his chest ache. Just be patient, he told himself. Just. Be. Patient.

"So what did you wish for your Birthday, Potter?" Draco's question snapped Harry from his reverie. "A proper family, perhaps?"

Harry changed his mind. He was no longer worried about having to wait out Draco's silence - no, he was pretty sure he'd end up strangling the dirty little bugger to death before he got the chance.