Kings Cross Station was a place Harry had never been before, and it scared him a little. It was like being back on the streets, and there were people pushing at him from every angle and it was like he was going to be swept away.

Hermione and Neville grabbed hold of his arms and steered him towards Platform 8.

“Are your relatives picking you up, Harry?” Hermione asked, frowning.

“Erm…they might not know it’s today,” Harry murmered, knowing that Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia wouldn’t pick him up unless it was to pick up his corpse.

Neville smiled at Harry. “My gran might be able to take you home. You, you don’t live more than an apparition stop away,” Neville joked, and Harry let out a small laugh before going quiet and fixing his gaze on something.

Hermione turned and saw a small, dirty looking woman. Her hair was long and knotted at the back of her neck, tangled beyond repair, and her face was smudged. On her lap she held a small toddler. With one hand she kept the toddler in place, with the other she held up a cup. Everyone was walking past her, ignoring her or dropping small coins, and Harry was staring as if he’d seen a ghost.

“Oh,” Hermione said softly.

“D’you have any Muggle money?” Harry asked suddenly, turning and digging in to his pocket for two linty Galleons. Hermione nodded and pulled two neatly folded five’s from her skirt pocket. Harry shoved the Galleons into her hand and made a beeline for the woman. Hermione and Neville followed, Neville digging through his own pockets for anything resembling money and only pulling out things like dandelions and packets of candy.

Harry walked right up to the woman, something Hermione herself might not have been brave enough to do, and instead of putting the money in her cup he pressed it into the hand holding the toddler.

“Here, I’m sorry I don’t have more,” Harry said softly. The woman looked at the money, then up at the children.

“Thank you, sir—“

“Don’t call me that, my name’s Harry,” Harry said, and the woman tried to free up a hand to shake his. The toddler shifted uncomfortably and started to cry.

“I’ll hold him,” Neville said, and he scooped the little boy into his arms. “Erm—hello,” he said to the little boy, and he held out a hand of Dragon Snaps. “W-would you like a sweet?”

The womans eyes filled with tears and she clasped Harry’s hand in her own. “You’re a good boy,” she said softly. “A real good boy.”

Harry shook his head, but the woman had turned to Neville and Hermione. “You too,” she said. “You’re all good people. Better people than some ten times your age.”

Hermione looked at the toddler, who was giggling as he ate the candy and the woman, who was shaking her hand, and she wondered what she had been so scared of.

“You’re good people,” the woman repeated. Then she took her son and sat back down, and Harry, with one last smile, turned and walked away.

Hermione went back as well. “Why didn’t we stay and talk to her?”

“It wouldn’t be good for her. People wouldn’t give her as much money,” Harry answered softly. Hermione was about to ask him more, but suddenly a large, meaty hand shot out and latched on to Harry’s shoulder.

A big man, bigger than any man she’d seen except for Hagrid, with a purple face and a terrifying moustache, was attatched to the hand, and Hermione barely stifled her shock when Harry was dragged away without the man saying a word.

“Bye, Neville, Hermione. I’ll, I’ll try to write—“ he yelled, but then he was gone and Hermione and Neville were standing there, staring at nothing as their respective guardians came and picked them up.

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Harry had sat quietly in the back of the car as Uncle Vernon fumed and drove home. Neither of them said a word the whole trip until Uncle Vernon pulled over in an abandoned car-park and turned around.

“You listen to me, boy, and you listen good. I will not tolerate anything that even resembles cheek, do you understand that? You will do your chores, you will stay in your cupboard, or you will regret it. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

“Yes, Uncle Vernon.”

“If you do—“ here Harry was given a nasty smile, “Well, it’d be a shame if you ran away again, wouldn’t it, Potter?”

“Yes, Uncle Vernon.”

“Good.”

When Harry got home, he was thankful he had left his trunk with Professor Snape. He would have had nowhere to put it in the cupboard. Aunt Petunia had filled it to the brim with cleaning supplies. Harry could barely move without knocking over a cleaning solution or a dust rag. He lay there, on his cot, and pretended he was looking at his parents picture. That his fingers were tracing their faces, the way he always did. And he pretended he was on his bed in the Gryffindor Tower, with the curtains pulled tight around him so it felt very small, though he wasn’t in a small space, really.

He pretended until late afternoon, when he was expected to make dinner. Aunt Petunia had him frying fish and chopping greens like he’d been doing it all year, and he was grateful that Snape’s class had at least kept him sharp on cutting things and following directions.

As he was frying the fish he had, absent-mindedly, asked Neville to sprinkle the tomatos in and had to stifle a yelp when he received a smack to the head with a wooden spoon.

“What did you call me?” his Aunt Petunia asked, glaring.

“Nothing, Aunt Petunia,” Harry muttered, and he rubbed the back of his head as he sprinkled in the tomatos.

He missed Hogwarts the most at dinner that night. Dudley was stuffing his face and filling his plate, as usual, and when Harry reached for a piece of fish, Uncle Vernon’s fist had all but crushed his hand.

“What’re you doing, boy?”

“I was—I’m sorry, Uncle Vernon, I was just going to get some food—“

Uncle Vernon put down his fork and glared at Harry. “Since when have you eaten with the rest of the family, hmm?”

Harry looked down at his plate. “Sorry, Uncle Vernon.”

“I told you I wasn’t going to put up with any cheek, boy.”

“Yeah, no cheek,” Dudley said, spraying bits of food all over the table.

“I’m sorry, Uncle Vernon, I didn’t mean to cheek you—“

Uncle Vernon grabbed Harry by the scruff of his neck and dragged him to the cupboard, knocking Harry’s chair off it’s legs as he did so.

“You need to remember your place in my house, boy!” Uncle Vernon yelled, and Harry found himself crashing into the wall of his cupboard, knocking over three bottles of cleaning fluid and a mop.

Harry sat on his cot, imagining his parents, and sighed.

It was going to be a long summer.

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Hermione Granger sighed.

Her family was at the beach in Cornwall, where they had been going since Hermione was small. They stayed in a quaint cottage and Hermione usual spent her time there reading on the beach, splashing in the waves with her father, working on her summer homework, or going for walks through the town at night with her mother. She had never had any friends before, so she had normally relished this opportunity, but this year was different.

Sure, she still loved reading on the beach and splashing in the waves and walking and, of course, doing homework, but it was harder to enjoy those things without Harry and Neville. Every night she would talk to her mother and father, talk about school and her classes and the wizarding world, and she could never get through one story without mentioning Harry or Neville.

When he parents asked her on her grade standing, she answered “I’m top in all my classes except for Herbology and Flying. I’m top in Herbology too, really, but Neville’s top as well and his instincts are a lot better than mine. Neville’s always reading books about plants, I promised him I would pick some of that pink nettle from outside our house and show it to him, he’s crazy about learning about Muggle plants since most of the ones near his house are magic---“

When her parents asked her about the food, she said “Well, I don’t care for it as much as I do home food, but it is very good and filling. My friend Harry, he never used to eat very much, but Neville kept mothering him—he’s very sweet, Neville, and so is Harry—so now Harry eats more than Neville, and Neville eats a lot! Harry’s friends with one of the people who work in the kitchens, I’ve never met her but he says she’s nice, she always gives him treats and we eat them while we study—“

So yes, she loved her mother and father and vacation. But every day, she missed Harry and Neville and thought, with more and more worry, about Harry’s mean uncle.

It was going to be a long summer.

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Neville, normally happy as a clam after a day gathering flowers in the sun, was mopey and quiet. Augusta humphed. It was the third time that week.

“Neville! Stop slouching and picking at your food.”

“Yes, gran,” the boy mumbled, and he corrected his position slightly and stopped twirling his fork around his plate.

“Neville, what’s wrong with you? Are you ill?” She held a hand to his forehead and Neville shook his head glumly.

“No, Gran. I just miss Hogwarts.” Trevor poked his head out of Neville’s pocket and croaked his aggreement.

Gussie Longbottom sighed. Her son had been a wonderful, popular boy, always with friends over in the summer. Neville was quiet and more introverted, in part to his mother and in part to the life he had lived, and she was often at a loss of what to do. What Frank would want wasn’t always what Neville would want, but she tried her best. As she would do in this case.

“Why don’t you write some of your little friends and invite them over for a few weeks at the end of summer? I can take you all to Diagon Alley for supplies and maybe you could camp out in the yard?” August suggested, with little hope it would have any effect. Neville had never had many friends—it was probably some incredibly rare and interesting plant the boy was missing. So she was surprised, pleasantly so, when Neville sat straight up in his seat and gaped at her.

“I could—I could really invite them? Truly?”

Gussie smiled warmly at her grandson. “Of course. We’ll write the letters tomorrow, all right?”

Neville didn’t answer, just leapt up and hugged his gran as hard as he could. As soon as he sat down, he started eating and chattering about his best friends and what they would do when they came and stayed for the summer.

The summer wasn’t going to be long at all.

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Harry was scrubbing out the breakfast pots in the kitchen when he heard Uncle Vernon bellow.

“POTTER!”

Harry dropped the pots immediately and scampered to him. The last time he had ‘cheeked’ Uncle Vernon by being late, he’d been thrown into the cupboard with such force he’d gotten detergent all over himself and had needed to sneak out of the cupboard later that night to rinse his hair out with the garden hose.

Harry had taken to spending parts of his nights out in the garden. With Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia asleep, it was very easy to sneak from his cupboard to the kitchen door to the yard. He would sit there pretending, and sometimes Hedwig would come and leave him a letter and he would pet the bird and hand off his letter to the Professor and then he would read his letter, slowly in the dark so as to make every word last longer. He had fashioned, on the back of one of Snape’s letters, a little calendar, by which he figured that it was only two and a half weeks until he left for Hogwarts. Sometimes it felt like two and a half years.

As Harry approached Uncle Vernon, he wondered if he’d found out about that. He hadn’t really been doing anything wrong, just sitting. Could he get in trouble for that? But then he saw what was clenched in his uncles meaty fist.

A letter.

“So,” his uncle said, breathing heavily. “So.” His uncle seemed too angry to even get the words out.

Harry gulped and started to back toward his cupboard.

He didn’t make it.

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Neville had been sitting on his porch all day, excited and ready for the beginning of two weeks of fun with his friends.

Hermione had written him back immediately, her little handwriting taking up the whole page with her excitement and all the things she had to tell him, and had he heard from Harry, because she hadn’t.

Harry hadn’t written back, but Gran had reassured Neville. “Eleven year old boys are bad letter-writers,” she said, giving him a bit of a look. “How many letters did I get from you this year, hmm?”

Neville blushed and nodded.

He couldn’t wait for Harry and Hermione to come. His Gran had promised to be very nice to them and not bother them when they were camping out in the tent. She had bought spaghetti and hot dogs and all of Neville’s favorite foods.

“I can’t believe they’re coming today!” Neville had said happily. “It’s the perfect birthday gift, isn’t it Gran?”

“Yes,” Augusta said. “For you and Harry.”

Neville stopped celebrating and turned to his gran, curiousity written on his face.

“It’s Harry’s birthday? But he never told me!”

Neville immediately ran into the house and came back with a crudely wrapped gift.

“I knew it was in the summer, of course,” Neville said when he returned. “But he never said the date! Oh, I’m glad I have his gift already! I wonder if Hermione does?”

As soon as he mentioned her name, she arrived.

“Hermione!” Neville cried out, and he ran to her talking a mile a minute. The Grangers, who had arrived in a silvery thing that Hermione called a ‘car’ were looking at the house in approval.

“Mrs. Longbottom? Hi, I’m Hermione’s dad, Dave. Beautiful place you have here.”

“The flowers are just amazing,” Hermione’s Mum said. “No wonder Hermione goes on about Neville’s skill with plants!”

Augusta smiled at them both. Hermione looked stricken and she had run to her mother.

“Mum! Mum! Did we pack Harry’s gift?”

“No, hon, it’s in the back seat, with Neville’s.”

The girl immediately present Neville with his, but he decided to wait for Harry.

It was very dark before he arrived.

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Harry rang the doorbell that night at eigth thirty. Neville had been sitting on the couch, chewing his lip, as Hermione patted him on the shoulder.

“Neville, it’s all right. I’m sure Harry didn’t mean to be so late.”

“Perhaps there was traffic,” Dave offered as he watched the two in concern. “Or his relatives got a late start.”

Jane nodded. “Oh, pumpkin, don’t worry. He’s probably at the door right—“

The doorbell rang and Neville bolted to the door, Hermione close behind him.

“Harry!” he yelled as he opened the door, but then he stopped and looked at the boy in worry.

“What happened to you?” Neville asked.

“I fell out of a tree,” Harry said, and he stepped inside. His arm was incased in a puffy white cast and one of his eyes was blacked. Neville was nervous, for a moment, and Hermione looked like she might cry, but then Harry smiled his same shy, Harry smile, and he extended his arm.

“You can go first, Neville, since it’s your birthday.” He handed Neville a marker and let Neville sign his cast.

“Well!” said Augusta, breaking the spell. “The spaghetti’s ready, why don’t we eat?” She didn’t mention the spaghetti had been ready since six. “Toss your bag down where ever, Harry, and lets eat, we’re all starving!”

Harry blushed and looked at the floor. “I’m sorry I was late, Mrs. Longbottom, but my Aunt and Uncle got lost.”

Dave smiled and clapped Harry on his shoulder. “Well, why don’t we all go eat, hmm? Gus, is it okay if Jane and I stay as well? I’ve been smelling that spaghetti cooking all afternoon, I’d love to have some.”

“Sure. Kids, why don’t you set the table. Neville, show everyone where the cutlery is.”

As Gus and Jane ushered the kids into the kitchen, Dave peeked out the window.

Down the very long road, he could see no car lights.