Harry Potter 1. Chapter 1

It was a morning like every other, that Harry Potter happened to be sitting nonchalantly at the Gryffindor table. His best friends, Ron and Hermione, were busy flirting (endless bickering), a feat The Golden Boy was growing tired of quite easily. For the past six years, he was the third wheel of the group, immune to any form of 'love'. Still, who was he to deny them their joy? And he'd made quite certainly the point the he was _not_ jealous. Who needs all that drama? He could depend on himself, quite content with being in the shadows, having nobody to ultimately confide in. Nope, not a bit envious. His thoughts were broken off by a familiar, shrill voice. He mentally braced himself for the short fight, then the extensively longer makeup/makeout session that would innevitably follow.

"Ron, you _know_ how important my studies are to me!"

"I know 'Mione, lighten up a little! All I asked was if you could come to the Quidditch match on Friday. Don't get your panties in a bunch!"

While Harry of course admired Ron, the two being best friends and all, he had to admit-he really screwed himself over when it came to girls. Especially fragile, sensitive ones like his brown-haired friend, now feverishly wiping her tears away while seeking the solitude and confinement of the Gryffindor common room. Well, at least his best mate was having more luck than himself. A shudder ran through his core as he remembered the brief affair that was Cho Chang. At least _that_ was all over. Where would he be now if he still had her to worry about? Probably the same situation, he reasoned. Ridiculous.

Mere moments later, he saw a flash of blonde out of the corner of his eye. Sure enough, when he looked up, he was met by the grey eyes of none other than Draco Malfoy. _Perfect. Merlin, this is just what I need...well, best to get this over with._

"What do you want, Malfoy?" Harry's eyes roamed the other boy's pale, pointed face, prying for a reason as to why he'd be over here. At least he was alone. Thank God for simple favours.

"Believe me Potter, I take no pride in sharing your putrid air, but if you must know, Headmaster Snape sent me down to fetch you, said it was important." He began studying his nails with great interest, taking the time to roll his eyes at Potter's dumbfounded expression.

A momentary flash of anger made way through the latter as he remembered how Snape had murdered the greatest wizard who ever lived, then took his place as Headmaster of Hogwarts. Slimy git. Who did he think he was, barging in here? Nearly everyone knew where his alliegences lie, yet he had the nerve to show his face around here_. _Like _hell_ Harry was going to be around that traitor anymore than he already had to, seeing as the greasy menace still taught Potions. Unfortunately, his least favorite teacher's opinions regarding The Boy Who Lived ceased to be swayed by a powerful position.

"Actually, I'm not feeling all that well, think I'll just stay down here, thanks."

"Course, Saint Potter. Wouldn't want to inconvenience widdel Hawwy,

would we?" A sneer crept its way on the Slytherin's delicately pointed face. "Speaking of inconveniences, where're your little groupies? Off having a ball without you, I reckon. Don't need you moping around, complaining about your 'horrible, tragic life.' See you on the pitch, Chosen One." With his trademark smirk, the taller boy turned on his heel and disappeared nearly as fast as he'd come.

Back in the Slytherin common room, none other than Blaise Zabini was giving his full and undivided attention to the lips of Theadore Nott. Both were previously in an argument regarding who was the better kisser, and by the looks of it, the situation remained a tie. Zabini had the upper hand, being the taller and more experienced one, but Nott had a tendency to make even the strongest of boys swoon. As far as Draco was concerned, however, this matter was bloody pointless. Just last night, they had a 'contest' to see who was better at shagging. Although rather gifted at silencing charms, Nott seemed to refrain from using his talents at 3 thirty in the morning when everyone was meant to be asleep. Well, spell-related talents.

Maybe he was just in one of 'those' moods again. Draco, normally not the jolliest of fellows in the first place, knew from the start of the day that it wasn't going to be altogether pleasant. Even insulting Potter held little if not zero entertainment. Well, he would leave that job to his former Head of House. Come to think of it, what _did_ Snape want with the bastard? He rarely summoned anyone to his office unless it truly was a matter of life or death. Hermph, maybe Potter was finally getting what he deserved for being a bleeding moral prick. Whatever the reason be, it was no business to Draco, so he decided to take a light nap, hoping that he would awake in a better mood. After all, Malfoys always have to be on their best behaviour, he reasoned.

It was nearly two in the morning when Draco heard a light -tap- -tap- -tap- in his window. _Dammit...looks like I slept longer than I'd anticipated...G_rumpily throwing back the covers with an audible sigh, he felt around in the dark for his wand, always kept underneath the mattress (honestly, did they think he would just leave the precious thing lying around?) He muttered a quick Lumos, casting a light glow around the room, noticing with great satisfaction that Blaise and Nott were sleeping in their own respectable beds for once. _Must be in a fight or something. Hm. _He nearly forgot about why he'd awoke in the first place, till he heard it again: the loud -tap- -tap- -tap- coming from just outside the window above his messy four-poster bed. An owl? They didn't usually travel this late around here. Curiously opening the window, Draco instantly recognised his father's ebony colored owl as it gracefully swooped in and landed silently on the perch on the corner of the room. Once the letter attatched to its leg was free, opened, and read, the blonde felt a sinking feeling in his chest. The letter from his father had said:

Dearest Son,

Narcissa and I have made the decision to go to Finland this Christmas. We trust you would be comfortable staying at Hogwarts.

-Lucius

_ Bastard!_ _They went to Rome last Christmas and I had to stay at this hellhole! Why don't they ever take __**me**__ with them? Am I not a grateful son?_ Now feeling inordinate amounts of rage, the Slytherin jammed his feet into a pair of slippers and began his journey to the lake, where he would be able to collect his thoughts (hopefully) without murdering someone.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry woke up much too early the following morning, a headache already forming from the glare of the sun through the window opposite him. He didn't have to look around the room to know that everyone else was still asleep- he counted a full chorus of snoring, the loudest of course being from Seamus, who always had that tendency, since Harry could remember. Deciding it wouldn't do him absolutely any good to stick around waiting for the throbbing in his temples to deepen, he hauled himself out of his four-poster and headed off in the direction he hoped was the common room.

Classes were slow that morning, double Potions bright and early with Snape-and all the Slytherins, damn them. A groan escaped the boy as he realized that Defense Against the Dark Arts was next. He'd always loved the subject with a passion, but lately...things were just different. Hermione was always on his case about getting homework in on time, and if he refused, well, let's just say Hermione wasn't exactly stunning when she got mad. Now what with her and Ron _finally_ getting together, he thought it best to stay out of their way. Yup, he was back to being his own company, much similar to his miserable experiences at the Dursleys'. He was automatically left out of everything, as if to suggest he'd taken on the nearly-invisible from of a ghost.

Wandering aimlessly into the darkened classroom brought Harry to the realization that there were no empty seats left by the Gryffindors. In fact, the only open seat in the entire room was right next to a dumpy-looking Hufflepuff girl who was particularly famous for her lack of personal hygiene. There had even been rumors that it was her smell that caused the unfortunate death of her cat, Boots. _Serves me bloody right, I suppose,_ he swore under his breath. The Chosen One hadn't done the work assigned in...well, quite a lengthy amount of time. Holding his breath, Harry made way towards the girl (who was now trying to pick the dirt out from underneath filthy nails), pretending to be oblivious to the snickers and giggles that trailed behind.

The forty minutes that had been spent doodling idly in his notebook were well wasted, as there were only a few left of the dreadfully dull period. _Just have to hang on a little longer...eh. Wonder how Ron n'Mione are going about now. Hopefully not getting in a fight,cuz wouldn't that be just spectacula- _

his thoughts were rudely interrupted by the rather tall figure that strode suddenly into the room, distinctive qualities being ever-greasy hair and a crooked nose. Snape. _How'd his nose get like that anyway? Surely he wasn't born like that. Heh, probably got off on the wrong foot with Voldemort. _As if the older man could sense Harry's thoughts, which he reminded himself that _of course he can_, the latter's head snapped in his direction, beady eyes glinting. Harry thought he heard his name being muttered by Professor Slughorn (who now taught the class), before a single bony hand was lifted, fingers beckoning the raven-haired boy forward. _Great, what is it I've done now? _The surrounding students fell quiet, and you could almost hear the nervous gulp coming from Harry's right. The Hufflepuff girl. A small smirk threatened its appearance, while Harry recalled the days when Snape had the same effect on him. Ah, those were excellent. Wandering about the castle at night, clad in his invisibility cloak that made him feel like a God. A God in silk.

Now, however, was quite different indeed. Snape no longer held any threat, and if he did, it was only in a minor way. Unless he was incredibly pissed off, which at the moment, seemed to be the case. Harry seconded the Hufflepuff's gulp as he slowly rose from the stiff chair he'd been sitting on, taking his sweet time making way to the front where the two Professors stood, tapping their feet. At last, he could prolong the inevitable no longer, and stood directly under Severus's looming figure, planting his feet firmly in what he hoped looked like a strong defense. The sneer he was awarded said otherwise, and indeed faster than Harry could say, "Quidditch", he was whisked out of class to face a right generous slice of doom.

...

Harry noted darkly how much the Headmaster's Study had changed. The stone walls, usually adorned with bright portraits of former leaders of the school, were now bare. The various noise-making trinkets Dumbledore regularly left strewn about where nowhere to be seen, even thrown away for all anyone knew.

"Potter, I would like to inquire as to why you refused to accompany me yesterday when I sent Draco to retrieve you."

Out of habit, Harry couldn't stop himself from firing the first insult that popped into his head. "Oh, would you like to _inquire_ then?"

"Students will not give their Headmaster any cheek! Twenty points from Gryffindor. You think being a saviour to the more uneducated fools out there means special privileges, eh Potter," he drawled.

"If you had done as you were told and _not_ gone strutting about ignoring teachers, you would know that what I have to say greatly affects you. I received word not three days ago that your cousin Dudley Dursley has died, and by your gaurdians' request, you are not to leave Hogwarts this break by any and all means."


	3. Chapter 3

Dudley Dursely was dead.

The knowledge left Harry with too many mixed feelings- _how did this happen? When? What would he do during those long, painful summers—and for that matter, did this mean they were over?_

Harry, despite the shock, was finding it difficult to feel remorseful. After all, this was the boy who took devilish pleasure in tormenting Harry since either of them could remember. How many pairs of glasses had Dudley snapped in half? How many bruises and cuts had him and his friends delightfully inflicted?

But the Gryffindor in him would not allow any pleasure from this information. A slow dread settled in as he realized that somehow, his Aunt and Uncle would find reason to blame Harry for their precious son's death. He was surprised they weren't waiting to whisk him away that very moment, in fact.

_How could this happen?_

Snape, whom Harry had forgotten was still in front of him, curled his lip in a sneer. "Your Uncle mentioned something about a bewitched pocketknife your cousin found as being responsible? Tsk tsk."

Harry fumed. The enchantment itself was harmless; when Dementors were near, it would emit a loud whistling noise. It had been a gift from Sirius after Harry's third year, when he faced a hundred of the hooded figures. He accidentally left it at the Dursley's for the year, but it was hidden underneath his tattered mattress. How Dudley of all people managed to find it in the first place was one thing, but killing himself? Right. He could be careless, but did anyone _actually_ believe this?

Snape's gaunt face twisted into a smile at Harry's demise. "Potter, you will have detention with me until the end of Christmas break. We can't have murderers prowling the corridors."

Harry glared at the greasy Headmaster and was about to protest, but he was feeling defeated. Ron and Hermione would both be absent until term resumed; Ron was joining his family to visit Charlie in Romania, Hermione had a trip to Italy planned with her parents. He couldn't decide which was worse: spending his Christmas locked up in the dungeons writing lines, or the fact that he would have nobody to console him.


End file.

Harry Potter, Angst, Romance