Harry Potter and the Apocryphal Innocent

Sadistic Shadow

Rating: PG13
Genres: Romance, Action & Adventure
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 11/09/2004
Last Updated: 22/09/2004
Status: paused

A summer job made Harry's time at the Dursley's strangely enjoyable. Back at Hogwarts, he must learn to deal with a six-year-long ignorance and fight off a hoarde of female admirers, one of whom could prove deadly to both his life and his reputation.

Chapters

1. The Tea-Time Society

2. The Otter and the Ocelot

1. The Tea-Time Society

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all related characters are the exclusive property of J.K. Rowling.

Chapter One

“The Tea-Time Society”

“Through the darkest night,

See the light shine bright.

When heroes fall, in love or war,

They live forever.”

-- A Song for the Lonely, Cher

He supposed he should feel thankful -- what with the extensive amount of time he’d be spending away from the Dursley household -- but as he soon found out, it was rather difficult to feel any extraordinary amount of gratitude towards the bunch of cackling hens that visited number four, Privet Drive, at promptly twelve on the hour, every Tuesday afternoon. If only because they were a bit too nice. The only one he’d ever really cared for was Mrs. Bernard, most probably because she was the most sincere.

On these days, his Aunt could almost always be found fussing away in the parlor and lurking around near the front door as early as an hour before the scheduled time of meeting. His Uncle Vernon, on the other hand, chose to spend the last moments of his free time adjusting his hideous, egg-plant colored tie and subjugating him to lectures of the most boring nature, all of which detailed rather gruesome punishments, should he, Harry, dare disrupt one of these gatherings. He was, as always, instructed to remain in his room and pretend he didn’t exist.

Every summer since initially acquiring Dudley’s spare room, Harry had taken to sleeping in as late as the Dursley’s would possibly allow, effectively hastening the completely long and utterly boring days that stood between Hogwarts and himself. As his Aunt and Uncle both preferred to pretend he was little more than a figment of their imagination, this plan usually worked exceedingly well.

While Dudley still abused Harry every chance he got, finding such a thing immensely pleasurable, he too enjoyed lounging around in bed as long as he could. By the time his fat-faced cousin felt ready to wake up and face the day, one of his horrid little school friends would have already dropped in. Whenever Dudley and the other boy had finished stuffing their faces with whatever it was that Aunt Petunia had cooked up for breakfast that morning, they left the house in what could only be described as a wild stampede, undoubtedly eager to find some fresh faces to pummel.

The first day of June rolled around soon enough, and Harry was startled from his remarkably pleasant slumber by the tilting of his lumpy old mattress. Much to his dismay, he found himself on the hard wood floor. Outwardly grimacing at the sharp, stabbing pain stemming from his elbow and shooting up the entirety of his arm, he quite awkwardly groped around on the shabby nightstand for his battered spectacles, depositing them on his face before he dared to look up and confront the intruder. “Dudley!”

The boy in question momentarily sneered, exchanging glances with someone whom Harry had never seen before. He could barely suppress a smirk at that: looks like Dudley had himself a new flavor of the week. Or was that day? Dudley ran through friends so quickly that it was hard to be sure.

Harry shook his head to clear his muddled thoughts, briefly surprised that Dudley had given him so long to freely think. “Well,” the bloated boy barked, sounding startlingly like his father. “I don’t know why, but mother has apparently found some use for you. Get downstairs.” When Harry gave no sign that he had even heard his cousin, let alone that he was willing to obey, Dudley’s fists instinctively clenched. “Now.” He hissed, sounding unnaturally cruel. “She gave me permission to hit you, you know. I’ll do it, too.”

Realizing that if he dawdled any longer Dudley would do more than just hit him once or twice, Harry picked himself up off the ground and scrambled for his tattered bathrobe, frowning all the while at the supreme injustice of it all.

If only he could make a grab for his wand before they noticed what he was up to…But no. No matter how fed up he was with his cousin, Harry realized that the threat of being expelled from Hogwarts for the use of under-age magic was as real as ever. If he could barely stand twelve weeks with the Dursley’s, he didn’t see how he could possibly stand two years. It had been bad enough when he was younger.

Stepping into a pair of comfortable -- if slightly small -- slippers, Harry swiftly exited his room and leapt down the stairs two at a time, trying his best to ditch Dudley and his new friend. However, this didn’t do much good when all was said and done, for they knew exactly where he was being forced to head and quite smugly followed him there, making a mockery of him by taking their sweet, precious time. Resisting the uncharacteristic urge to whirl around and flip them the bird, he attempted to calm himself by taking a deep breath before pushing his way into the kitchen, where his Aunt was busy putting the finishing touches on her ‘oh-so-famous’ scones.

Catching sight of the clock, he couldn’t help but be surprised. It was decidedly late that Tuesday morning, and he was quite curious as to why he hadn’t been forced to wake up earlier than this so they would have time to grill the weekly mantra into him. Not that he minded, of course. It was just a bit strange.

Shrinking back against the wall, Harry folded his arms and watched his Aunt bustle about the room, thoroughly ignoring him. He was about to quietly creep away when she abruptly turned in his direction and began advancing upon him so quickly that he felt his head would spin. She stopped just inches before him and turned her beady-eyed glare on him, expression so spiteful that he felt sure even Snape would be impressed.

“You,” She spat, as if the very idea of him was just too loathsome to stomach. “You will eat some breakfast and then you will go upstairs and take quick shower before getting dressed in the nicest things you own. You will stay in your room until I call you down stairs and then you will present yourself to my group, stick around for the necessary introductions and pleasantries and then you will go right back upstairs and stay there. I don’t know how they found out about you, but they’ve been dying to meet you and it’d look awfully suspicious if I refused to introduce you. Any funny business at all,” Here she paused to smile nastily, “And I guarantee the remainder of your…stay here…will be unpleasant.”

“Got that?” For a moment he thought it was Dudley again, but in fact, it was Uncle Vernon himself.

Harry nodded dumbly, still staring at Aunt Petunia. Not only was that the fastest he had ever heard her speak, he suspected that was the most she had ever said to him at one time. His Uncle only grunted, clearly not buying Harry’s answer and appearing as if he were going to round on him any minute, but no sooner had the pudgy man took a step forward when Dudley burst into the kitchen, screeching at the top of his lungs.

It took a moment before anyone could actually understand what he was blathering on about, but when Harry finally realized what was going on, he saw red. Feeling so filled with anger that he feared he would do something he would later come to deeply regret, he made a desperate attempt to reign in his rage. This, however, proved a difficult task. One that he could not completely accomplish, from the looks of it, as he stormed upstairs behind the Dursley’s. How dare they…How dare they.

It seemed that Dudley and his friend -- Louis, from what he’d been able to discern from Dudley’s incoherent ramblings -- hadn’t found Harry’s instructions very interesting or useful, for they had crept back upstairs and into his room. He had been forced to put Hedwig in her cage the night before, and the two boys had apparently found it quite amusing to take the tips of their Smeltings sticks and force them through the bars so they could make sport of the owl, fiercely jabbing away at it.

From the looks of it, Hedwig had gotten so riled up that she had managed to knock her cage off the desk on which it sat, effectively freeing her. By the state of things -- namely Louis -- everyone present could easily deduce the owl had wasted no time in extracting her revenge. Dudley himself had quite a few battle scars.

Harry’s lips curled at the sight of it all, unknowingly mimicking his cousin’s earlier sneer. Feeling immensely pleased with Hedwig, he settled back against the doorframe to watch the aftermath of all the chaos. He found it very lucky indeed that he’d opened his window the night before, leaving his beloved owl the perfect opportunity to escape. He didn’t know what he would have done if Uncle Vernon had made a grab for Hedwig upon his arrival.

He knew that later he would, undoubtedly, be blamed for the whole fiasco, but right now he was enjoying himself, despite his lingering anger. There was no way he’d be punished just yet. It’d been more-or-less hinted at that his prescence was going to be expected at the meeting, and his Aunt couldn’t dare risk rousing any sort of suspicion.

Smirking a self-satisfied sort of smirk, Harry coolly brushed by everyone on his way out the door. His Uncle made a grab at him as he walked past, demanding sharply, “Just where do you think you’re going?”

Harry, feeling particularly vindictive, smiled a smile so sickly sweet he rather felt the need to brush his teeth. “Why, to go take a shower, of course. After all, it is eleven-thirty…” He trailed off, nearly snorting at the horrified expression that crossed his Aunt’s face.

“Oh no!” She shrieked, nearly bowling everyone over in her haste to get back downstairs. Shaking his head, Harry couldn’t help but chuckle all the way to the bathroom.

He had showered before he’d gone to bed the night before, so all he really needed to do in the bathroom was to wash his face and brush his teeth, which he did with relish. After these two mundane morning tasks had been completed, he wandered down the now abandoned hallway and into his equally empty bedroom.

Sighing at the colossal mess he would later have to deal with, Harry flung open his closet door and scanned the row of pants, each neatly draped over a sturdy wooden hanger.

Selecting one of the plain gray pairs often worn while he was away at Hogwarts, Harry pulled off his pyjama bottoms and slipped into them. Turning to the dresser in the corner, he opened several of the drawers and extracted in turn, a pair of socks, a casual white button-up shirt, and a marroon cardigan.

Wrestling into these, he stepped into an ordinary pair of black shoes and set to work lacing them up. Lastly, he snatched his comb up and ran it through his unruly hair with a certain sort of desperation, doing his best to hide his signature scar. When at last he was sure it could not be coaxed to lay any flatter than it already was, he abandoned the mirror above his dresser and waltzed over to the window, peering down intently into the garden below, trying to organize his mind into a more manageable state of being.

It wasn’t long before he heard the screeching of tires and the slamming of doors. His Aunt’s friends were considerably older than she and were prone to driving more ‘classic-style’ cars. He was sure that the street below him was filled with purple Packards, beige Cadillacs, and gray Oldsmobeiles.

He heard both the clicking of heels and the squelching of loafers making their way up the winding path to the front porch. The doorbell ran quite often over the course of the next ten minutes or so. The clock soon struck twelve, and he heard his Aunt’s voice call out for order, meaning the meeting had begun at long last.

He couldn’t help sniggering, picturing both Dudley and his Uncle in their uncomfortable suits, having to remain close, moreorless on ‘stand-by’. Vernon would play the doting husband, delivering food and drinks on silver serving trays, as was requested, and his cousin would escort the ladies to and from various places in the house, such as the restroom, to ensure that they did not get lost along the way. Though how anyone could possibly get lost, with the downstairs area being as small was it was, escaped him. The fact that someone would need an escort both ways to a place they had probably memorized on their first visit also mystified Harry.

Boredom soon washed over him like a gigantic wave, but he was content to remain in his room as long as necessary. He was not at all eager to trudge down the stairs and surround himself with tea-drinking, handbag-toting, rug-knitting old ladies. Their husbands may have all belonged to the home-owners’ committee of the neighborhood, but unlike his Aunt, this did not make them any more interesting in his eyes.

But it was inevitable that he would be called down to meet them at one point in time, and when he was, he did so with a neutral face. His Uncle all but accosted him at the entrance of the living room, shaking a meaty fist at him in final warning, but Harry ignored him and stepped on in.

Many of the old ladies jumped up from their chairs and met him at the door before he had done so much as set his foot down, murmuring pleasantries and cooing endearments. The rest remained where they sat, looking on with polite but curious interest.

Aunt Petunia waded through the crowd and placed a heavy hand on Harry’s shoulder, all but yanking him into the middle of the room. “Yes, yes,” She nearly snapped at her friends, looking quite impatient. “You’ll get a chance to introduce yourselves in a moment. Come now, let the boy breathe.”

Harry nearly grinned at the patronizing tone she used when speaking with them, almost as if she were talking to some witless house pet, but as none of the women seemed to notice, he kept his amusement to himself.

When everything had settled back down, things ran so smoothly that Harry was afraid he was going to snap awake any minute and find out that the room was really in chaos. However, when he squinted his eyes closed and opened them again, everything was still carrying on in perfect harmony.

“So,” A Mrs. Midgen -- who, to Harry’s immense suspicion, had mentioned her granddaughter Eloise several times -- began, casting a cheery look in his direction. “What do you do around here for fun during the summer? Harry, was it? I’m sure you and Dudley do lots of exciting things together! My, how convenient it must be, a live-in friend…”

“Err,” Harry would have busted out laughing had it not been for the scathing glare he caught Aunt Petunia sending him from the corner of her eye. While he was not sure what to say to this, he knew he must say something. Finding it prudent to just ignore the Dudley comment all-together, as she had thankfully not asked him anything directly dealing with that, he answered truthfully, “I do a lot of reading.”

Mrs. Midgen beamed. “My! Isn’t that something? I do wish my Eloise would read more…But, if you don’t mind me saying, you are a little frail, Harry dear.”

“I don’t have much reason to go outside,” He mumbled.

“Is that so? Hmm…How’d you like to earn a few pounds, Harry?” Another woman, by name of Mrs. Bernard, spoke up. “I’ve been looking into hiring someone to take care of my pool for me -- the last one up and quit you know, imagine that! I’m afraid old age has taken its toll and me and I no longer have strength for such a task myself. The pay wouldn’t be much, I’m a bit under the table to tell you the truth, but you could take a swim anytime you’d like!”

Harry blinked, surprised by the sudden offer. It was an interesting one, to say the least, but…“I’m afraid I’m not very experienced in those sorts of things,” He admitted. “I wouldn’t be very good at it.”

“Nonsense!” Mrs. Bernard protested. “Like I said before, if these bones weren’t so old, I’d be out there doing it myself!”

“Well,” Harry managed a weak smile, “When you put it that way…”

“Great!” Mrs. Bernard looked thrilled.

She looked like she wanted to say more, but the clock interrupted with its chime, signaling that the hour was already half over. His Aunt absolutely pounced on the chance to bring the meeting back to order. He was invited to stick around by several of the other ladies and would have actually stayed just to pass the time, but thought better of it upon seeing Aunt Petunia’s sour expression. So, after issuing several goodbyes, he left the room as quickly as he could manage without looking all-together rude.

He received his first call the very next day. Curious as to what the job would entail, he hurriedly ate the breakfast Aunt Petunia had grudgingly laid out for him. He arrived at her doorstep in a pair of old swim trunks and a loose cotton t-shirt, and if Mrs. Bernard minded, which was doubtful, she did not say.

She led him around to her backyard, where she immediately began schooling him on what to do with each piece of equipment and how to test the alkalinity level, among other things. To his immense relief, none of what he was being told was all that hard to comprehend, and when he actually got to the physical aspect of the job, he didn’t find that very difficult either. It took a little muscle and pacing on his part, but it got much easier with time.

He found himself waking up earlier and earlier, and every morsel of food he consumed tasted all the more fulfilling. The days seemed to melt away. Though he often thought of Sirius and all that had happened at the Department of Mysteries, he no longer had reoccurring dreams of that horrifying experience. While haunted by his godfather’s death, he felt the desire to be strong burn within him. He would be strong. For Sirius. He would show Voldemort that he had not been reduced to the state of a sniveling child. He would not let Sirius’ death be in vain.

The first time he chose to wade in after finishing up, he felt slightly nervous. He couldn’t really remember having ever gone swimming for the sake of swimming before. He was remotely amused that he even knew how to swim. In fact, the last time he had gone swimming at all had been two years ago at Hogwarts, when he’d been forced to do so as a part of the Second Task. That had been an unpleasant experience though, one that he’d rather prefer to forget. So it was to his great surprise that, moments later, he actually found himself enjoying the experience.

He moved slowly at first, with lazy, deliberate strokes. His legs kicked about cautiously behind him, as if afraid something would rise from the depths and grab them should he move them around too much. In time, he began to glide about at a much quicker speed, delighting in the way the water lapped about his bare chest when he came up for air.

Weeks rolled by without him even having noticed, and he would visit Mrs. Bernard’s place every day, even when he did not have to do work, just to get the chance to get in her pool and swim about. He found the sport to be second only to Quidditch, which he was prone to be pine after more and more lately, though even then, the similar feelings of elation were enough to keep him content.

Much to his surprise, Harry found himself sharing these feelings with Ron and Hermione through the letters they volleyed back and forth between themselves. Ron marveled how anyone could compare flopping around in some cement pond with zooming across the Quidditch pitch, but Hermione applauded his newfound passion, very glad that he had finally found something worthwhile during his time at the Dursley’s.

On his birthday, he received both a pair of swim goggles and black swim trunks from Mrs. Bernard, who chuckled at Harry’s embarrassment over the latter half of his gift and explained, “I thought you could use a new pair, dear.”

Ron had decided to send him some dragon hide Quidditch gloves -- after the way Harry had been complaining he needed to buy a new pair in one of his latest letters -- along with Mrs. Weasley’s customary birthday cake. Hermione gave him a thick Muggle book which detailed the inspirational life stories of many great Olympic-qualified swimmers as well a similarly-styled book on famous Quidditch players.

Lupin sent him a gold pocket watch that had belonged to James and Sirius in turn, which had similar properties to the clock in Mrs. Weasley’s kitchen. Neville sent him a custom inkwell and Luna, a year’s subscription to The Quibbler, which Harry could not help but smile at. Most everyone he had met last summer at Grimmauld Place had sent him some kind of chocolates, and as usual, the Dursley’s gave him nothing.

He knew that Hagrid’s present -- a gift certificate to Flourish and Blotts -- was going to be arriving late, because his giant friend was supposed to be taking him to Diagon Alley the next day anyway, and he had preferred to give it in person. Glad that Mrs. Bernard was not expecting him that day, he tumbled down the stairs in his most comfortable set of clothing and eagerly barreled out the door to greet Hagrid, who’s shadow he had spied looming on the front lawn.

The trip to and through London was fairly uneventful, though Harry would have worried had it been anything but. They rode the train like the last time he had gone with Hagrid, four years ago, and were content to chatter amongst themselves the whole way.

“Goin’ta be needin’ some new school robes, ‘ay, ‘Arry?” Hagrid grunted after awhile.

“No,” Harry shook his head, looking confused. “Why would I be?”

Hagrid raised his bushy brows in surprise and gave a shrug of his great big shoulders. “Yer’ lookin’ a bit diff’rent, that’s all. Thought mebbe yeh’ outgrew yer’ old ones or som’et.”

“No,” Harry repeated. “Not yet, anyway.”

Hagrid leaned further back against his seat and glanced out the window. “Mebbe’ if I’d had me wits about me I would’ve thought’ta bring Ron n’ Hermione along fer’ a bit o’a get-together, eh?”

“Oh, I don’t mind!” Harry said quickly. It would have been nice to see his two friends, yes, but Hagrid needn’t feel bad about it. He was already doing him a huge favor as it was.

He was just about to give in to curiosity and ask if Hagrid had heard anything about the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, but the train ground to a stop and he was almost swept away in a sea of people. By the time they had made it out of the terminal, Harry had forgotten about his question, intent on peering ahead for any sight of the Leaky Cauldron, though Hagrid was the one who first spotted it as they rounded a street corner.

They were greeted by Tom, the ever-present bartender, as they passed on through, surprisingly unmolested. Perhaps this was because Harry had taken special care to brush his hair in a way that it mostly covered his scar.

Once out back, Hagrid whipped out his tiny pink umbrella and tentatively tapped at the bricks in a certain order, causing the whole lot of them to crumble away, revealing a stretching cobblestone road crowded with stores and shops of all kinds.

Hagrid seemed kind of distracted at this point, and Harry had to tug on his sleeve to catch his attention. “I need some money!” He half-shouted, so the large man could hear him over the throng of witches and wizards. “Can we stop at Gringotts first?”

Glancing down, Hagrid nodded his bushy head. “Sure thing, ‘Arry. Jus’ that af’ta that, ye’ll be on yer’ own fer’ awhile. I need’ta pick up sum’more Flesh Eatin’ Slug Repell’nt, ‘en ye’ know where I get that frem’.” In other words, Hagrid needed to make a little stop in Knockturn Alley and he didn’t want Harry to come along with him. That was alright with him; he’d been there once before, and didn’t quite care to return.

As usual, Hagrid complained about the speed of the carts that took investors to their vaults and, like every other time, was ignored. On the ride down, Harry had estimated about how much he’d need, so it only took a few moments for their goblin escort to gather his money for him. He had decided on a reasonable amount. Just enough to pay for his school supplies, with enough left over to buy something special, should anything catch his eye.

Outside of Gringotts once more, Hagrid placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder and looked the young wizard in the eye. “I’ll come’n fin’ yeh’ en’ an hour er’ so,” The giant of a man began, glancing warily about. “Any’en gives yeh’ en’ trouble en’ et’s back to the Leaky Cauldron with ye!”

Harry nodded in agreement and watched his friend lumber off out of sight. Cheerfully jingling his brimming money pouch, he wandered off towards Flourish and Blotts, the first and most important stop of the day. Scanning the list of required books for sixth year students, he didn’t spy any titles that denoted any of the nonsense schooling they’d received under Lockhart and Umbridge, and he let out a small breath of relief.

Wasting no time, he worked his way through what could only be described as a small army to the back of the store, where purchases were to be made. Surprisingly enough, hardly anyone was actually buying anything. Most were just thumbing through countless tomes, or inspecting the newest line of quills. Then again, it apparently was not a very popular day for shopping for school supplies -- the only thing he had ever come to Diagon Alley for before -- so maybe that explained things.

Upon reaching the counter, an ancient-looking wizard slapped a thick stack of books in front of him, peering at him from behind tinted spectacles. “Mr. Potter,” He all but purred, and Harry felt a shiver run down his spine as he was rather reminded of Mr. Olivander. “Sixth year, are we?”

He tried to avert his gaze but found he couldn’t. Licking his lips, he nodded slowly, his eyes never once leaving the ones that stared back with such intensity. The man smiled in that decidedly eerie fashion that Harry had strangely enough, come to associate Mrs. Norris with. “That will be nine galleons, Mr. Potter.”

Harry all but threw the money at the man, grabbing the books atop the counter in a single sweep before racing out of the store as fast as he could, trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and those cloudy, silvery orbs. He had originally intended to purchase several yards of parchment as well, but there was no way he’d be returning there any time soon. He figured he could nilch whatever he needed off of Ron until he could send for some in the mail using that gift certificate Hagrid had gotten him.

He eventually wandered into Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor. Perusing through the menu, he quickly decided on something pumpkin-flavored. He would have ordered something a bit more fantastic, but when he’d seen a serving witch go by with a large malt glass of the creamy orange dessert, he knew he had to try some. From his window seat, he was able to appease his sweet tooth while observing the haggling going on at the carts set up across the street. After noting several witches leaving with triumphant smirks on their faces, he decided to hazard a visit over there once he was done eating.

In the end, he was very glad he had done so, for he was able to pick up the remaining items on his list -- all ingredients for Snape’s Advanced Potions class which he had somehow managed to scrape his way into, much to the greasy-haired teacher’s immense displeasure -- at a far cheaper price than had he gone to an actual store.

With at least a half an hour of free time on his hands and much more money than he’d expected to leave with, Harry decided to do a little pleasure shopping. He wandered into Quality Quidditch Supplies but left only moments later upon spying someone who looked suspiciously like Malfoy. Remembering what Neville had gotten for him, he purchased something similar in a modest glass crafter’s shop for Hermione, figuring he could put it away to use as a small part of her own birthday present. Regretfully, he was unable to find something suitable for Ron, though by the time Hagrid had sought him out, he had spent at least four more of his golden galleons, seven more of his silver sickles and a plethora of tiny bronze knuts.

The ride back to Little Whinging was a little depressing, as Harry knew he must wait another month before he could resume his place in the wizarding world for a more substantial amount of time. Knowing that he could continue on as he had been doing the past four weeks brightened his spirits considerably, though, and he and Hagrid shared another pleasant chat the entire way.

The gamekeeper deposited Harry on the Dursley’s doorstep and after the two of them exchanged goodbyes, Harry ran into the house and up the stairs and into his room as fast as he could possibly manage, so that none of the Dursley’s could abduct his packages. Tired from his excursion, he plopped down on his bed and lay there for awhile, eventually falling asleep.

The second half of his vacation passed by just as quickly as the first, Harry was pleased to note. In just hours he would be leaving for King’s Cross Station so he could ride the Hogwarts Express and begin a new year at his beloved school. But first, he had to clean Mrs. Bernard’s pool for the last time that summer. He had been working for about an hour already. Dudley had been accompanying him as of late, and today was no exception.

Never before had Harry been in such dire need of something to drink. There had been times during which he had been desperately thirsty, yes -- but never like this. No, never before had he ever known the true meaning of the word quite as well as he did now. He was beyond parched.

Wiping the sweat from his brow before it could trickle down into his eyes and cause them to burn, he sent his cousin the most withering of glares. While he had been toiling away removing all traces of calcium from the sides of Mrs. Bernard’s saltwater pool and nearly breaking his back in the process, Dudley had lathered himself up in what could only be the most putrid smelling suntan lotion ever and had proceeded to spy on Mr. Classe’s sunbathing daughter through the slats of the white picket fence.

Dropping to his knees to give himself better access to the underside of the overhanging decking, he scoured away, so lost in thought that he eventually acquired quite a lovely collection of scrapes across the top of his knuckles and the lower portion of his fingers on both hands. He didn’t particularly notice these until the breeze kicked up and swept past. By the searing, exquisite pain that rippled through him, it would seem as if the very granules of white minerals contained in the water were being ground into the pink, raw wounds.

Quite suddenly, he was drawn back into the real world by the sound of a woman’s high-pitched scream. Dudley abruptly stumbled from a set of nearby bushes and careened into Harry in his desperate attempt to get away.

As his feet flew out from under him and he was sent sailing backwards towards the water, Harry momentarily wished he hadn’t been so vehemently splashing about earlier in an attempt to hasten his chore, for the deck had become rather slippery in the process. Were it dry, he probably could have avoided such a predicament as this.

His eyes widened in what could only be dreadful anticipation of impact upon realizing that he had not been knocked back quite far enough, as one of his legs was about to come into contact with the very edges of the pool.

It was struck with such ferocity that he gasped, causing all the air to vanish from his lungs in an instant with a sort of whooshing sound. He continued to plunge towards the shadowy depths, and as he hit the surface and began to sink, his mind became hazy, though he could faintly make out the blob of red that must have been Dudley’s swimming trunks being jerked away at a very rapid pace and replaced almost at once by a much larger blob of brown.

Groaning, he became vaguely aware of the fact that he was lying flat on the ground with several persons hovering anxiously about him. He grinned wryly in spite of himself, noticing one of the figures belonged to Aunt Petunia, deciding that it would be best for both his safety and his sanity if he didn’t mention out loud that she looked genuinely concerned.

“Well,” She sniffed, glaring down her hawk-like nose at him, her thin lips set firmly in place. “It’s about time you woke up, boy.”

For the first time, he took note of the fact that she and Snape shared a remarkably similar facial structure, most specifically that of their nasal cavities, both of which were abnormally large. The giggle he couldn’t help but emit must have offended her in one way or another, for she snapped rather churlishly, “Maybe we should have called the doctor after all. You seem to have hit your head on the way down.”

Harry felt his face grow hot. He hadn’t meant to laugh like that…Come to think of it, his head was swimming a bit. Maybe he had somehow hit it during the accident. No, he decided. That couldn’t be. It must have just been an after effect of him having passed out, that’s all.

“I’m fine,” He croaked, even as he struggled to sit up.

“Like hell you are,” Never mind the uncharacteristic usage of foul language: what was Mrs. Figg doing here? Oh. He blinked, seeing that she was wearing a brown sundress. Of course. She had to have been watching after him at the time of the accident. As a Squib, she hadn’t been able to prevent his mishap, though he was probably only alive because of her constant vigilance.

Constant vigilance…What would Moody think about all this? Harry could already hear the beginnings of a lecture. “Potter!” He would roar. “We haven’t spent all these years protecting you from You-Know-Who only to have you trip over your own two feet and crack your skull open on the first piece of cement that properly presents itself to you!”

Okay, so maybe that was going a little over the top, even for Moody. His current train of thoughts, however, were interrupted by none other than his Aunt, who declared quite nastily, “Oh yes, something definitely wrong with his head. Which is all just as well, as you’re not going to that freak school of yours this year!”

Harry could hardly believe his ears. “What?” He demanded, looking nothing short of furious. “How -- What do you mean by that? You haven’t managed to stop me any other year! I don’t see how this one’s different!”

He couldn’t help the sinking feeling in his stomach, though, when he saw the way her shrewish eyes lit up at that. “Because,” A terrible sort of expression overtook her sallow cheeks as she grinned like he had never seen anyone grin before, except for maybe Voldemort, if he could even grin at all. “Unless you can get cleaned up, pack your things, and make it to the station all in the period of a half an hour, you’ll never make that train of yours. It’s ten-thirty,” She added, for extra measure.

Harry was having a hard time restraining the urge to hit her just to wipe that awful look off her face. “Y-You’re lying!” He sputtered, clearly startled. “You have to be!” While he was sure Mrs. Figg could contact Dumbledore somehow and have him arrange an alternate mode of transport for him, he couldn’t stand to bear the knowledge that the Dursley’s had even one small victory over him.

But there was no masking his Aunt’s glee. “Oh, it’s true alright. Things couldn’t have happened better, in fact. There’s just enough time left to enroll you in St. Brutus’. Why, one quick phone call will be all it takes…”

“No!” Harry found himself shouting at the very top of his lungs, and was astonished to find that his flailing arms were creeping even closer to that skinny neck of Aunt Petunia’s, who was beginning to appear mildly alarmed.

“Get away from me!” She shrieked, slapping his hands away and spinning around wildly, pointing at Mrs. Figg. “You! This is your fault somehow!” She accused.

Mrs. Figg looked beside herself, as if she, too, were ready to toss aside her remaining sanity and go absolutely nutters.

“That’s enough!” Someone boomed, drawing the attention of all three of them. “We’ll take it from here, Arabella.” Harry suddenly found both Tonks and Kingsley between he and his Aunt.

Mrs. Figg snapped out of whatever daze she had fallen into in time to lead Aunt Petunia -- shaking in frightened rage -- out into the front yard.

Kingsley watched them for a moment before whirling on Harry, angrier than he had ever seen a lot of people. “Just what,” Kingsley inquired through gritted teeth, “In Merlin’s name did you think you were doing, Potter?”

Harry flinched. Kingsley sounded more than merely angry. He sounded absolutely disgusted.

Looking to Tonks instinctively, as if the young Auror with the wildly-colored hair could help him out of such a predicament. “I don’t know,” Harry admitted. Even to him, it sounded lame. But it was the truth. “I really don’t.”

Kingsley, of course, was not satisfied with such a poor answer, but he did appear to calm down quite a bit, almost as if he had been fearing any real sort of answer, which Harry found exceedingly peculiar and was not sure he was quite comfortable with.

“Wotcher, Harry?” Tonks spoke up, looking a tad nervous. “What’s all this about getting cleaned up first? Just grab your stuff and go, why don’t you? I’m sure no one will mind too terribly if you’re a little dirty.”

Harry glanced sourly over at her. “In case you haven’t noticed,” He began, quite stiffly, “I’m more than ‘a little dirty’. My stuff’s been packed for days. I don’t see why I can’t take a quick shower.”

Tonks’ eyes narrowed slightly; she was clearly taken aback by his attitude. “You’re being awfully picky, considering…”

“Very well,” Kingsley interrupted. “Fifteen minutes should be enough time. In the meanwhile,” He glanced at Tonks, making sure she was listening and not just staring at Harry with growing suspicion. “We can make sure the fireplace is properly set up. Can you go see if Arabella has some spare powder for us to use? I’d rather not have to Apparate out to get some.”

“We’re traveling by Floo?” Harry looked genuinely surprised.

“How else? You’re too young to Apparate,” Kingsley reminded Harry quite coldly.

“Well, yes,” Harry murmured tiredly. “I just didn’t realize there would be a workable fireplace at the station.”

He received no response for several minutes, as Kingsley and Tonks struggled to lift him off of the ground the old-fashioned way, the latter explaining it would be better this way, as they did not yet know the full extent of his injuries, and that magic was sometimes quite unpredictable, it would be best not to risk accidentally jarring him beyond repair. Upon catching Harry’s horrified expression at that, Tonks laughed and admitted that though that was definitely a concern, there were simply too many Muggles in the area for them to be using a spell such as Wingardium Leviosa, as its effects were much too obvious.

When they had at last succeeded in righting Harry, he almost fell again. When he had been on the ground with no strain on his legs, there had been little to no discomfort. Now that he was being forced to support his own weight with them, he almost staggered forward and doubled over at the excruciating pain.

Tonks patted his back sympathetically, but explained that he had to do this anyway, to get the blood in them flowing properly once again.

Kingsley glanced over at Mrs. Figg and Aunt Petunia strangely. Telling Tonks that he’d get the Floo Powder instead, he marched over, his square jaw set in a look of determination.

Tonks offered Harry a few words of encouragement and, at a slower pace than he would have liked, she helped him hobble on over to the Dursley’s house. Once inside, they made it upstairs with a surprising lack of difficulty. After escorting him to his room and then to the bathroom, she popped away with both Hedwig and his luggage, winking as she warned him she’d be back in fifteen minutes exactly, so he’d better be dressed and ready to go by then.

Sighing wearily, he shut and locked the door before stripping himself of his clothes and turning the warm water on in the shower.

Generally, he’d prefer a less humid temperature, considering what season it was, but he wanted to make sure his wounds were properly cleansed and disinfected. Also, he was still a bit chilly after what had happened earlier. Just thinking about that cold plunge made him shiver, even as he stepped into the gentle caress of much warmer water.

He knew, of course, that he really should start off by rinsing out the deep gash on his left leg, but first things first.

Squirting a generous amount of tea tree shampoo into his hair, he began to work it into a lather between his sinewy palms, pausing on occasion to inhale the rich and wonderful scent before brushing back the tussled locks plastered to his broad forehead so they would mesh with the rest of his hair. Threading the aqua-colored product all throughout his sopping strands before rinsing thoroughly, he repeated the process with some conditioner, which smelled faintly of peaches.

Using the remainder of his time to scrub away at the grit and grime, Harry fingered his chin with light amusement, glad he had taken the time to shave the other day, as there would be no time for such things now. Which was a very good thing, considering the fact he was not particularly fond of the idea of him boarding the Hogwarts Express looking for all the world like -- bless his heart -- a mini-Hagrid. Moving on to the task of cleansing up his injuries, he estimated he had spent around ten minutes in the shower. Five minutes was more than enough time to get dressed, so he rather took his time getting out.

Making sure that the water was properly shut off, he grabbed blindly at the towel which had been hanging over the side of the shower stall, where he kept it while bathing in case an extraordinary amount of soap or water would ever get into his eyes.

Giving himself a quick rub down, taking extra pains to mop up most of the wetness from his hair, he hurriedly wrapped the towel around his waist and groped about for his glasses, which he had left on the counter before getting in.

Frowning slightly as he had to use the corner of the towel to wipe the steam from them, he tentatively placed them on his face and instinctively locked in the mirror, clearly struck by what he saw.

He wasn’t quite sure how he had overlooked so many of the drastic changes that had occurred to him physically over the course of the summer, but he supposed the only feasible excuse was that he had simply been much too occupied to take note or even care. It was strange that neither Kingsley nor Tonks, more especially, hadn’t appeared to acknowledge any of these changes either, but then they’d been fairly busy as well, neither of them having received the chance to just sit back undisturbed for a minute and observe Harry. The Dursley’s wouldn’t have said anything about it anyway, and he suspected Mrs. Figg was half-blind to begin with. Though when he really stopped to think about it, he recalled Hagrid mentioning the fact that he looked a bit different than usual.

Staring shamelessly at his reflection, he began a brief, mental run-down of the differences he spotted.

For starters, his skin was decidedly darker. It seemed that he was no longer the pasty, frail little boy Mrs. Bernard had declared him to be. His silky, raven tresses were noticeably longer, and though still wild, gave off a certain, natural wind-blown style. His eyes were the same vibrant shade of emerald they had always been, though they seemed to possess a certain sparkle -- a certain zest for life -- that he was positive had never been there before.

His arms bulked outwards with just the right amount of lean muscle, preventing him from giving off an air of false masculinity. Likewise, his legs were finely toned, though not in the way that would remind one unnecessarily of tree trunks. As his chest, too, gained more muscle mass, his shoulders had broadened. His neck stretched upwards a bit more than it used to, slender and serpentine.

His face seemed to carry a more definite shape about itself; gone were the round cheeks of childhood, replaced by very becoming angles. His chin took on a more prominent shape as well. His nose had lengthened and squared up at the end, retaining some of its roundness to keep it from looking too geometrical.

All-in-all, Harry was exceedingly pleased with his appearance. He felt he looked more like his father than ever, and that was cause enough for him to puff out his chest with pride.

Quickly stuffing himself into his clothes and shoes, which thankfully still fit him nicely despite his aforementioned ‘transformation’, he ran a comb through his hair, which was still slightly damp, and opened the door just as Tonks made it to the top of the stairs. “Right on time!” She called jovially over her shoulder, presumably at Kingsley. “Ready, Harry?”

“Just a second,” Harry politely requested, taking a few moments to limp over to his room and fetch both his school robes and his wand, the former of which lay draped over the back of a busted up chair, the latter stuffed under the right corner of his mattress.

Fastening his robes about him, he hastily stuffed his wand up his sleeve and allowed Tonks to help him down the stairs. None of the Dursley’s were around to protest the three of them huddling conspiratorially around the large brick fireplace in the middle of the living room, so all went quite smoothly, as far as he was concerned, anyway.

“You first,” Kingsley instructed Harry, his warm smile denoting his better mood.

Harry nodded numbly and his arm snaked out from his side to grab a handful of the magical powder from the elegant-looking bowl propped up in Kingsley’s outstretched hand.

“Anything particular you want me to say, or will just ‘King’s Cross Station’ do?”

“Just that will be fine,” Tonks answered, grabbing her own handful of Floo Powder.

Kingsley took what little there was left and nodded expectantly, first at Harry, then the fireplace. “Well, go on then.”

Doing as he had been instructed, a loud pop was heard and Harry disappeared. Two more pops followed, and soon enough, they were all gathered about in a small structure that, to Harry, greatly resembled a broom closet.

“Err…Is this the right place?” He asked, a bit nervously, even as Kingsley’s fingers curled around a brass doorknob.

“Sure is,” Kingsley grunted and opened the door, causing them to all tumble out in a sooty mess.

Tonks nudged him in the shoulder once they had all straightened themselves up. “I don’t know,” She said mildly, though a quick look around revealed that they were indeed at the Station, just a few meters away from the entrance to Platform 9 ¾, in fact. “I’d have to agree with Harry. That didn’t look like any fireplace I’ve ever seen.”

Kingsley looked vaguely surprised. “Haven’t you come here this way before?”

“Nope,” She shook her head, which Harry noticed actually contained hair of a normal looking color for once. She donned a sly look and elbowed him again. “I never almost missed the train before.”

Harry couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “I hardly doubt me falling victim to my perverted cousin is really my fault.”

Tonks chuckled. “Pervert, eh?”

Before Harry got a chance to further elaborate and perhaps share another laugh or two with her about his cousin’s disgusting antics, they were jostled forward by the crowd and Harry’s ears were met with a familiar voice calling out his name.

Glancing up sharply and scanning the multitude of heads, he grinned upon spying a feverishly waving Neville Longbottom. Neville and he had never been extraordinarily close, but he had always liked and held a special sort of sympathy for the other boy.

After the terrible experience they had shared at the end of last year in the Department of Mysteries -- Harry’s heart clenched at the mere thought of it all -- the two were now fairly close, though Harry was taken aback when Neville threw his arms about Harry for a manly sort of hug. Neville’s sudden cheer was infectious and Harry easily found himself returning the affectionate gesture.

“How are you holding up?” He asked gently, craning his neck for Kingsley and Tonks, because he had sort of left them behind in his excitement to reach Neville. Though they still had a good five minutes to board the Hogwarts Express, there was no need to push the envelope.

“Fine, all things considered,” Neville beamed. “The results of my O.W.L.’s were better than anyone in my family expected, especially Gran. She and Great Uncle Algae were both really proud. They said they were going to get me an owl, Harry! Isn’t that great? Say, where’s your luggage?”

“Hmm? Oh, it got sent ahead,” He jerked his head in the direction of Kingsley and Tonks, who had just about reached them. “Your own owl? Wow, that’s great, Neville!” And indeed it was, for Neville had always been plagued by an almost insufferable toad named Trevor all his years at Hogwarts.

It wasn’t that there was anything particularly wrong with Trevor, aside from the fact that toad’s had gone out of style years ago, but the bumpy green creature was always prone to getting lost, much like that dirty old rat of Ron’s -- Scabbers by name, secretly the traitorous Peter Pettigrew -- once had.

This actually set Harry off on a tangent, wondering if Trevor was really some kind of animagus in disguise, but he was soon interrupted by Kingsley’s hand clapping down on his shoulder. “Well, this is where we say goodbye, kid.”

“Goodbye!” Harry exclaimed fervently, grinning widely at the older man. “Goodbye to you too, Tonks! Thanks a lot!”

But Tonks wouldn’t let him go without a hug, much to Harry’s embarrassment. When she let him go, he and Neville exchanged excited glances and, waving enthusiastically before doing so, made a break for the arch-like wall between platforms nine and ten, though Harry kind of had to limp briskly. Neville led the way, for he was the one laden down with a cart full of trunks.

A/N: Welcome to the first chapter of one crazy ride, ladies and gents. Pairings will include: Harry/Hermione, Ron/Luna, Draco/Ginny, Fred/Katie, George/Angelina, Oliver/Alicia, Percy/Penelope, Bill/Fleur and Boy!Blaise/Hannah (with full permission from slytherin-nette, of course). Most won’t be profoundly expanded on -- merely mentioned -- but they’re there, so it’s worth mentioning.

Leave your honest comments, critique, praise, constructive criticism -- whatever floats your boat. Pumpkin pie for all who do! Just no flames, please. Particularly not about the pairings. After all, I most certainly did not tie your hands up and frog march you over here and force you to read this. Just maintain the link of common courtesy, that’s all I ask. But alternately, please don’t hold back if you feel I’m doing particularly bad at something, whether it be characterization or otherwise. I’m afraid I’ve gained the fear that my friends only say my writing is good because they feel obligated to say as much.

Many kudos go out to my two beta-readers, Rena Kazikal and Rummeh. Please be sure to let me know if you find any typos or grammar errors, most particularly the more glaring ones. I’d like to fix them! I’m only human, and sometimes I type so fast I don’t even realize my mistakes. Sorry if things got a little dry around the middle. For some reason, I struggled with the whole Diagon Alley scene.

In case you were wondering, ‘apocryphal’ is roughly defined as “fictitious; of questionable authenticity”. Therefore, the title of this piece roughly translates to “Harry Potter and the False Innocent”, which doesn’t sound nearly as engaging.

On a last note, the rating is likely to go up, though not necessarily due to citrus-flavored content, though I’m sure there will be some of that as well. I rated it low to begin with so I could get the most possible feedback on how I’m doing so far. The more I get, the quicker I’m liable to update, though that won’t always hold true, so don’t hold me to that. Updates may not come for months, but rest assured that they’ll be well-worth the wait.

A Note for Portkey Readers: This has been loaded on fanfiction.net for about two months, now. I like collecting reviews over there, for they are nestled amongst my other stories and that collective portfolio is easier for me to show off. While I deeply appreciate reviews on either site, if you have time, I’d love it if you could take the time to drop me a line there. To make such a thing more worth your while, I’ll be uploading there faster than here. In fact, I just put the second chapter up on there today. Pen name is the same, by the way.

And now, to end this monster note in my usual fashion…

Please Review!

2. The Otter and the Ocelot

Ocelot Picture: defenders.org/images/fws/ocelot.jpg

Chapter 2

“The Otter and the Ocelot”

“The summer days are gone,

Too soon…

You shoot the moon,

And miss completely.

And now you’re left to face the gloom,

The empty room, that once smelled sweetly.”

-- Shoot the Moon, Norah Jones

Imperfect hues of burnt sienna sat well against a complexion as fair as his. Such a slender-framed boy was Blaise Zabini, almost to the point of appearing malnourished. His eyes, a striking shade of azure, contained a gleam of subtle disinterest.

“You’re such a bore, Granger,” He all but sneered, stifling a yawn. “My parents aren’t paying you to put me to sleep, they’re paying you to teach me how to play the cello.”

And so they were. At a very handsome rate of six galleons per lesson. Hermione had been reluctant to take the job, given who her would-be-employers were, but as it turned out, she was very pleased with the position.

The steady income so graciously supported her habit of ordering books through Flourish and Blotts’ catalogue service and her tendency to devour their contents the moment they came.

At first, she had been both glad and surprised that her presence was only required two afternoons a week -- and at her convenience, no less. In time, however, she began to look forward to these visits. She had been stunned to discover how accepting and supporting the Zabini’s were towards ones such as herself. A stark contrast to the rest of the parents of their son’s house, she would later find out that they themselves were both from Ravenclaw. Even Blaise, a notoriously cruel Slytherin within the confines of Hogwarts, was strangely kind and, dare she say it, fun to be around.

He definitely had his quirks -- here she smiled wryly, thinking of what he’d said to her just moments ago -- though any taunts directed at her were always delivered in an almost playful manner. And regardless of how heated their squabbles grew, Blaise never, ever touched the subject of her heritage, for which she was immensely grateful, because it helped remind her that she had made the right decision by befriending him.

In fact, the only time he’d ever even mentioned her parents was the time that he’d curiously inquired about what they did for a living. And even then, the only thing he had done upon receiving an answer was smile that perfect smile of his and calmly remark, “Well, everyone needs to keep their teeth clean.” He would never know how much her respect for him grew that day.

“See,” Blaise’s soft, lilting voice interrupted her thoughts. “You even put yourself to sleep. And you call yourself a teacher? Honestly, Hermione.”

“I’m sorry,” She quipped sweetly, batting her lashes. “Maybe it wouldn’t be so boring if you’d listen the first time around instead of making me constantly repeat myself.”

Blaise smirked at her response, leaning over and throwing an arm around her. “Are you sure you’re a Gryffindor, ‘Mione?” His eyebrows wiggled suggestively when he used the pet name he’d coined for her just the other day. “Because that biting sarcasm screams Slytherin.”

“Yes, well,” She laughed, a dark expression momentarily casting a shadow across her lovely face. “You bring out the best in me, Zucchini.” In a way, that was true. Blaise always managed to get under her skin with the utmost ease and drag out the side of her rarely exhibited in either Harry or Ron’s presence. In a way, she resented him for it.

“Zucchini?” He repeated, arching a finely shaped brow in amusement. “Well, that’s a new one, ‘Mione. You been cooking that one up for awhile?”

“Of course not,” She absently snapped, clearly not catching the pun, her thoughts lingering on a certain emerald-eyed boy. “It just sort of came to me. I’m sure even your pea-sized brain can comprehend the connection.”

Blaise rolled his eyes, sitting back in his chair once more. “Enough with the vegetable references. It was a joke, Granger. What’s with you today?”

“I’m sorry,” She shook her head, breaking free from her stupor. “I just have a lot of things on my mind, that’s all.”

“It’s okay,” He assured her, despite his frown. Clearing his throat, he averted his gaze. “You, uh…Youwannatalkaboutit?”

She laughed, looking at him incredulously. “What, you’re offering?”

Tossing his head, he appeared mildly offended. “Fine,” He all but snarled, eyes flashing with the sting of betrayal. “Mock me. See if I ever try to help you again.”

“Oh, Blaise,” She murmured, instantly sobered. Reaching out, she engulfed his somewhat clammy hand in her far warmer one. “I didn’t mean to make fun of you, you know that. It’s just that, that’s the first time you’ve offered to help me like that. You really care, don’t you?”

“You idiot,” He muttered, shaking his head. “Of course I care. In a few short weeks, you’ve become one of the closest friends I’ve ever made.”

He looked more than a little embarrassed at this revelation, and she rather felt the same. By some unspoken agreement, the subject was dropped.

Looking up when he felt her squeeze his hand, he was met by her bright smile. “I’ll tell you if you let me stay for lunch,” She challenged with a sheepish grin. “I’m starved.”

“That’s Granger for you,” He drawled, pulling his hand away so he could stand. “Always taking advantage of my generosity. I swear, sometimes you’re worse than that bint, Parkinson.”

“Pansy?” Hermione nearly shrieked, clearly scandalized. “Don’t compare me to her!”

“You’re just bitter because you know it’s true,” He scoffed, a sparkle of mirth in his eyes. Laughing at the way she fumed, he linked his arm through hers and practically dragged her out of the room and into the kitchen, where Mrs. Zabini was already in the process of cooking up something delicious.

She took a moment from what she was doing to glance over and greet the two as they came in. “Hello, my dears,” She chirped pleasantly. “Staying for a spot of lunch today, Miss Granger?”

Hermione positively beamed at her when she seized a knife and began dicing all sorts of vegetables. She had been delighted to discover that though they could easily afford it, no house elves were employed at Obsidian Manor. But in her eyes, nothing was more satisfying than seeing first hand how the beautiful Mrs. Zabini was so unlike her snobby acquaintances and associates in that she wasn’t afraid of a bit of domestic work. Even the wonderfully kind Mrs. Weasley used her fair share of magic to assist with household chores. “I’d love to,” She murmured. “If it’s not too much trouble, that is?”

“Of course it isn’t,” Mrs. Zabini assured her, promptly whipping out the appropriate dinnerware to set an extra place at the table for Hermione, right across from Blaise’s seat. “I hope you don’t mind salad and potpie,” The older woman suddenly began to fret. “I know it’s nothing too special, but I was sort of tired and…”

“It’s just fine, mum,” Blaise cut in before she started babbling. Anymore than she already was, anyway. “Right?” He’d turned to face Hermione, looking quite anxious himself.

She couldn’t help but laugh her wonderfully throaty laugh upon catching sight of both their hopeful faces. She had seen Mr. Zabini several times before and felt it safe to assume Blaise got a majority of his looks from his mother. “It sounds great,” She smiled widely at the pair of them.

Mrs. Zabini flushed with pleasure and shooed them into their seats before disappearing into the pantry with the promise that the salad would be out in just a moment.

Hermione sank gratefully into her chair and tucked the linen napkin away on her lap. “Your family’s just too nice,” She remarked approvingly.

Blaise smiled slyly at her from across the table. “We’re a far cry from the Malfoy’s, eh Granger?” He teased. “Or do you still think I’m a great big prat of a Slytherin?”

“Oh, you’re still a prat,” Hermione shot back in response. “Just not a great big one.”

Blaise plastered what she supposed was an attempt at injury on his face, though the results were comical. “You wound me,” He pouted, thrusting out his lower lip as far as he could manage, sending her into a fit of giggles.

“Now, now,” Mrs. Zabini gently chided, placing a beautifully made salad between them, snapping the tongs in the direction of her son’s nose. “There’s some lemonade in the icebox, would either of you care for any? Oh! And Hermione, before I forget to ask you, do you have any dressing preference?”

“Ranch would be good,” She politely decided. “And I’ll have some of that lemonade, please.”

“What about you, Blaise?” His mother looked pointedly at him. “Still like Italian?”

“Yes,” He began with such solemnity that Hermione almost laughed. Recalling his reaction to her earlier slip, she killed the urge. “And I’ll take some of that lemonade too,” His lazy drawl added, almost as an afterthought.

Nodding, Mrs. Zabini bustled out to fetch their drinks and requested condiments. When she returned, the two had already dished out healthy portions of the leafy greens. “Here we are,” She declared, setting two tall glasses of the chilled pink liquid in front of them before producing two bottles containing their desired dressings. “Be sure to let me know when you’re ready for the other,” She reminded them -- referring of course, to the main dish -- before heading right back into the kitchen.

A short while later, the two of them were leaning against each other on the couch for support. “I’m so full,” Hermione breathed, a little drowsily. Though they’d both acknowledged that after finishing up the potpie they were positively stuffed, both had been too tempted by the chocolate cake Mrs. Zabini had just made and shared a slice.

“Me too,” Blaise groaned in agreement, licking the last of the whipped cream off the tip of his index finger, propping his feet up on the cocktail table. “I think I had one too many, as far as that cake is concerned.”

Hermione didn’t bother to respond, knowing her face said it all. “Hermione, dear!” Mrs. Zabini poked her head into the living room. “Your parents just called on the fellytone--”

“--Telephone, mum,” Blaise corrected her at once. “We’ve only had it for a year now,” He couldn’t help rolling his eyes. “You’d think you’d get it right by now.”

His mother’s ice cold glare shut him up at once and she turned back to Hermione. “The telephone,” She mimicked her son’s annoyance. “Anyway, dear, they said that they’re on their way and that they should be here any minute now.” That had been yet another amazing thing about the whole set up, and in her eyes, a very convenient one at that. Her own quaint little neighborhood was not all that far from Blaise’s large home. It was concealed from the general Muggle community, but the magical wards had been altered to include the Granger’s as allowed visitors.

“Okay. Thanks for the warning,” Hermione said, sitting up. As soon as Mrs. Zabini had left the room, she eyed Blaise critically. “You shouldn’t be so rude to your mother,” She jabbed him less-than-gently in the side. “She’s absolutely brilliant, you know.”

“She is, isn’t she?” He agreed, looking quite proud all of the sudden. “I don’t mean to be so short with her,” He confessed. “It’s just frustrating at times. Anyway, Hermione. Did you think I’d forgotten your promise so quickly?”

One quick look at her pink cheeks revealed she had. “Oh, I suppose there’s enough time to tell you before mum and dad get here,” She stood. “Help me bring out my cello.”

Blaise stared at her a moment before snorting with laughter. “You just take and take, don’t you?” But he stood as well and led her down the hall and back into the practice room. “Well?” He looked at her expectantly.

“Well, what?” She sounded quite brisk as she retrieved her instrument.

“You didn’t want to tell me out there, did you? Like you were afraid my mum would overhear, or something. But now that we’re in here, you’ve got no excuse. Spit it out already,” He demanded, appearing quite smug.

Hermione rolled her eyes at his impatience but grudgingly admitted that he did have that right, for she had indeed promised to tell him what was bothering her if she could stay for lunch. Even if she did have the distinct feeling he would have let her stay either way.

She rolled her bottom lip between her teeth. Blaise took note that it was already red and swollen, revealing that she had thought often about whatever it was that she was so reluctant to speak of. “Well?” He repeated, with a grunt. Folding his arms across his chest, he tried not to look too interested, though he’d crossed that line a long while back.

“Alright,” She frowned, agreeing to speak at last. Flopping down unceremoniously in an armchair, she buried her face in her hands. Sighing, her companion tentatively palmed her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. Just when he was about to issue a comment regarding the sniffle he heard escape her, she lifted her head to gaze mournfully at him. “It’s Harry,” She blurted out. “I’m so worried about him. I mean, he says he’s doing alright in his letters, yes, but given his track record…”

He couldn’t help but sigh. It wasn’t that he didn’t care to be supportive of Hermione, but despite his decent upbringing, serpent blood lurked within. Being a Slytherin -- even one as unconventional as he -- called for certain proprieties to be observed, and that included the condescending attitude adopted when dealing with Potter.

It had been hard enough tossing aside such preconceived malignity when it came to Hermione, considering how close she and that detestable boy were. Convincing his less savory side to do so had been the result of his tendency to value knowledge above all other virtues rather than any particular amount of urging on his parent’s part.

In the end, he couldn’t have been more pleased with his decision to befriend her. For while Slytherin’s were disturbingly friendly amongst themselves, he had yet to meet one who made him feel as welcome as Granger had managed to. So, for her sake, he would entertain her thoughts on the bespectacled boy. Even if he chose to do so in a manner which she would most definitely disapprove of. “Oh, right,” He chortled, tone laced with mock congeniality even as his nose wrinkled in scorn. “He goes off the hook every now and then, doesn’t he? Perhaps that loathsome woman Umbridge was correct in her dealings--”

But how that miserably inflated cow could have ever possibly been right about something, let alone anything about Harry, was never explained to her, for Hermione -- looking positively infuriated -- raised the flat of her palm high in the air and delivered a resounding slap across his face. Her eyes narrowed and burned with such contempt that he would later admit to having been relatively frightened. “You don’t mean that,” She murmured. And though she spoke softly, her words were scalding.

He hung his head, genuinely shamed. “You’re right, I didn’t.” Neither of his hands ventured to soothe his stinging cheeks, and he felt the full effect of the blow, almost grateful for his punishment. He had completely deserved that, and to brush aside the pain would be to brush aside the lesson that had come along with it. Potter was detestable, at best. Umbridge had been utterly abominable.

All was silent for several moments, the only audible sound being Hermione’s shallow breathing, which came in short, indignant puffs. He had yet to directly apologize for his brutish remark and she had yet to say anything at all.

In his own slightly skewered perspective, he had no reason to give further vindication of his actions. Which was all just as well, for his silence on the matter was precisely what she had expected. His acknowledgement had been more than she’d hoped for, and thus she was content. Not entirely appeased, merely satisfied. But that would have to do for the time being, as both the friendly call of Mrs. Zabini and the ringing bell informed Hermione of her parent’s arrival.

Her nimble fingers curled tightly around the handle of her instrument’s awkward case and she managed to heft the thing up without much difficulty. Leaving her momentarily estranged companion behind, she scurried out of the room and down the length of the hall with such speed that she felt quite certain a great number of her more athletically-inclined comrades would forever speak proudly of this moment, had they only been there to witness it.

She was met at the door by Mrs. Zabini, and once she’d set her cello aside, the two exchanged brief but affectionate words of parting. Hermione carefully threw her arms about the elder woman and whispered apologies for the mood she would soon find her son in.

Mrs. Zabini just cast a knowing smile up at the ceiling and tried her best to wave away her concerns, returning the hug all the while. The two disentangled themselves from each other and Hermione thanked her profusely for the kindness she’d been shown that afternoon, though that too was quickly dismissed. “You’re practically family, dear!” She dabbed at her eyes in a way that rather reminded Hermione of Mrs. Weasley. “Do take care, now!”

Upon assuring her that she would, Hermione took possession of her cello once more and, with one more beaming smile, promptly fled out the door and across the expansive courtyard to where her parents waited just outside the impressive grid-iron gate. Said obstacle was convenient in the fact that it swung open almost immediately upon approach.

Allowing her father to relieve her of her instrument, she climbed into the waiting car and sunk gratefully down in the backseat, buckling up immediately. Leaning heavily against the side of the door, she relished the feeling of chilled glass against her forehead. Her eyes fluttered closed after a moment and she heaved an inaudible sigh. Suddenly quite exhausted, she gave in to her body’s demands and willed herself to sleep.

Her sweet respite was interrupted entirely too soon. It was not long before they reached home; a few short minutes later and they were already pulling up into the driveway. Hermione’s mother carefully woke her daughter and the two of them climbed out of the car. Her father popped the trunk, and once he was sure that she’d gotten hold of her cello and shut said trunk, he urged the car forward and into the waiting garage.

Stumbling after her mother with the exquisite grace of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack, she leaned heavily against the side of the house until said parent finished fishing out her keys and unlocked the door. As soon as the path was cleared, Hermione darted inside and nearly mowed Crookshanks down on the way to her room. The orange feline shot her a reproachful look before seeking sanctuary under a well-placed chair, his already smashed-in face crinkling with disdain. Running over one’s own pet, indeed. The half-kneazle made himself comfortable and began nursing his now-flattened tail.

Over on the other side of the house, Hermione had barged into her room and flopped down on the bed without any sort of preamble. Sighing dreamily, she rolled over onto her side and stared blankly at the wall. A few minutes later, she shifted her gaze over to her massive bookcase, which her father had gotten custom-built for her sometime last year. Sadly, space was still a problem.

No sooner had her observations been made had she passed out in a deep sleep. A combination of staying up late studying, waking up early, and all the stress gradually piling up on her back was what drove her to that level of exhaustion. Somehow, she was under the impression that no one had cottoned on to her lack of sleep, but what she did not know was just how many times her parents had checked in on her. They had not even been home an hour, and already her father had poked his head into her room no less than three times.

It was her mother who woke her up in time for dinner, though. Throwing her hair up into a messy bun, Hermione made a stop by the bathroom to splash some water on her face before she headed down into the kitchen. Sliding into her place at the table, she kept her eyes trained on her plate. For some reason, the awkwardness of earlier carried over into her own home. She wasn’t very comfortable, and would have liked more than anything to gulp down her food in one bite and return to her room.

But, as this wasn’t quite possible, she was forced to make do by speed-shoveling. A mere ten minutes later, she was done. Without bothering to formally excuse herself, she pushed back her chair, carted her plate and utensils to the sink, and fled the room.

A/N: Because I was tired of being nagged on by Rena, here before you is the second chapter. It is not as complete as I would have liked it to be (I’m about five pages short of my goal for each chapter’s length- and I have been for some time- and would have posted this sooner, had I known it would come to this), but oh well. An update is an update, and what I was going to add wasn’t terribly important anyway. So here you are, a little bit of a peek into our resident bookworm’s life. What do you all think of my characterization of Blaise? A Slytherin is a Slytherin, but I couldn’t bear making him as smarmy-acting as Malfoy. So I tried to compromise.

Also, if you aren’t sure what an ocelot is, I have provided a link to a rather cute picture of one at the top of the chapter. As for the chapter title itself, if you can’t figure it out then you don’t really need to know, haha.

Please Review!