For the first time in his life, Harry Potter had peace. The Dursleys had not been their usual selves in the summer after Harry's third year, which is to say that they had not been awful. It was not, however, for want of trying.

As soon as Uncle Vernon met Harry at King's Cross Station, Vernon had begun to bluster and threaten Harry. It seemed that Vernon had an entire year's worth of pent up anger to release, and he had simply been waiting for his favorite target to appear. True, Harry had inflated Vernon's sister Marge the previous August, but she had been successfully deflated and obliviated, and nine months was quite a long time to hold a grudge for a relatively minor incident.

"Just wait until we get home," Vernon had said, already turning red in the face. "You think you know what work is? I'll teach you a new meaning for the word 'chores.' There will be no laying about this summer…"

"Did you know that I met my godfather this year?" Harry asked calmly.

"What do I care?" Vernon shouted.

"You'll know the name. Sirius Black?"

"The… wait… him!?"

"The mass murderer, yes. You know that my parents liked to hang about with a bad lot." Harry's parents had done nothing of the sort, but it would be impossible to convince Vernon otherwise. It was easier—and far more useful—to let him think Sirius was an escaped convict. "Well, Sirius dropped by school and I met him this year. Said he'd be looking in on me this summer. Not visiting, per se. Has to lay low, you understand. But he'd be checking on me, to make sure I was being treated right."

Vernon was shocked into silence, a silence that he maintained for the entire car ride home to Privet Drive. In fact, Vernon did not speak directly to Harry for almost a week after they arrived home. When Vernon finally addressed Harry, it was only to say, "Pass the salt."

Harry felt no great need to object to Vernon's silence, except that it made it difficult to raise the subject of Harry attending the World Cup of Quidditch. Every time Harry tried to speak with Vernon, the older man made some sort of excuse to slink away. Harry finally cornered his uncle when Vernon was doing dishes—the large man could not walk away from the sink with arms covered in soapy water.

"I'm going to the World Cup of Quidditch later this summer," Harry said.

"You most certainly will not!" Even though Vernon wasn't sure exactly what quidditch was, he knew that it involved flying broomsticks being ridden by those people. Thus, Vernon reverted to his typical stance on all things involving those people: forbid everything.

"Yes, I am," Harry said. "My godfather is a big quidditch fan, and I already told him how excited I was to go to the World Cup."

"I don't care what your godfather is," Vernon said. "I am not paying for you to go see any of that nonsense!"

Harry frowned. He had apparently played his hand with Sirius too strong. Harry could only threaten the Vernon for so long before his bluff was called, and it appeared that the time had arrived. While Harry was certain that Sirius would support him, he didn't yet feel close enough to Sirius to actually call upon the older wizard for help. Luckily, Harry had a backup plan.

"I wasn't asking permission. I just thought you should know I'd be going. I'm getting picked up in July by Mr. Malfoy. He and I scheduled it with Headmaster Dumbledore at the end of the year," Harry said. Not precisely true, but close enough. "You remember Mr. Malfoy, don't you Uncle Vernon? Tall? Blond hair?"

Vernon's eyes narrowed. He remembered, but he still wasn't inclined to turn over Harry.

Harry pressed harder. "Maybe you don't remember him. Mr. Malfoy really liked the chandelier. He said it was a shame that it broke last year."

Color was starting to rise on Vernon's face, moving upward from his neck to his cheeks. Harry was almost there. Just one more push…

"Maybe you'd remember him if you turned your head upside down?" Harry said quietly.

"FINE. Go to the sodding cup! Bunch of freaks flying around on brooms, anyway. Who'd want to see that?" Vernon stormed away, face purple with rage.

Harry smiled to himself. He had what he wanted. He would play nice with Vernon for the rest of the summer—no need to provoke his uncle any further. Harry thought of it as Vernon's reward for being so easily manipulated, although Vernon would never see it that way.

Petunia and Dudley were treading lightly around Harry, as well, but their fear could only control them for a limited amount of time. Any time Petunia or Dudley was forced to interact with Harry, the conversation quickly escalated toward a fight. Petunia and Dudley lacked Vernon's rudimentary measure of self-control. Gentle reminders of Sirius and Mr. Malfoy, however, were usually enough to bring any argument with Harry's aunt and cousin to a screeching halt.

Ultimately, the Dursleys decided that ignoring Harry was the best course of action, and that was perfectly fine by Harry. It gave him plenty of time to write to his classmates, which was an activity that was taking far more time out of his summer than it ever had before.

At the end of term, Pansy had ordered Harry to write her more frequently during the summer, suggesting that Hedwig needed the exercise. (Hedwig, for her part, seemed to agree with Pansy.) Neither Hedwig nor Pansy, however, had anticipated the volume of correspondence that Harry would receive and send during his summer. Harry had always owled Draco with letters, but this was the first summer that Harry and Pansy had exchanged any significant amount of mail. Harry also found himself writing to Tracey with reasonable frequency, even though she was spending part of the holiday abroad with Daphne's family.

Hermione Granger had also started writing to Harry with regularity, which was a pleasant surprise. Harry was pleased that she had decided to write; it was always good to have another friend… especially when the majority of that friend's Hogwarts house hated your guts. The tone of Hermione's letters suggested that she felt quite close to Harry, and when Harry composed his responses, he realized that he was writing with a similar tone. He was quite looking forward to seeing Hermione again in the fall. Harry was strongly considering asking Hermione to join him in a compartment on the Hogwarts Express, but that would certainly complicate things with Draco. And Pansy. And Tracey.

Too many friends, it seemed. A problem, but a good problem to have.

In addition to his friends, Harry had begun receiving tentative letters from Sirius. It was clear that the older man wanted desperately to be involved in Harry's life, but it was equally clear that Sirius vividly remembered his argument with Harry in the tunnel under the Whomping Willow. Harry found that Sirius had a good sense of humor and strong wit; owling Sirius was surprisingly similar to owling Draco.

Hedwig might have managed to keep up with the social letters if it were it not for Harry's two summer correspondence courses. Harry was spending most his evenings furiously studying Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, with an eye on taking exams in both subjects in late August. If he passed the exams, he would have those subjects on his schedule during the coming school year, in lieu of Care of Magical Creatures and Divination. As much as Harry hated to leave Hagrid, Dumbledore had told Harry that Arithmancy and Runes would help with spellcrafting.

What was frustrating Harry, however, was that he couldn't see how Arithmancy or Ancient Runes would actually help him write a spell. Arithmancy seemed to be mostly concerned with using numbers to predict the future; useful, but Harry couldn't figure out how to apply those principles to spell creation. Ancient Runes was just as perplexing—Harry could understand the use of knowing a rune that represented flight or water or fire, but modern spells were cast with an oral incantation, not by inscriptions. Moreover, Ancient Runes were ancient, but all the spells that Harry knew were quasi-Latin phrases that were clearly derived from more recent languages. Harry was dying to ask questions, but the correspondence course limited his ability to ask for clarification or practical applications of his lessons.

Even though Harry was mildly frustrated with his classes, the summer was actually going along rather swimmingly. True, he had some strange dreams involving Wormtail… most of which involved killing Pettigrew in an assortment of gruesome manners, except for one particularly vivid dream in which Wormtail murdered a muggle man… but nothing was bad enough to truly keep him awake at night. In fact, it hardly seemed like any time had passed before July, when Mr. Malfoy was scheduled to pick up Harry from Privet Drive. The night before Mr. Malfoy was scheduled to arrive, Harry gave Hedwig a rare night of rest from delivering mail; Harry hadn't wanted her to return to Privet Drive only to find him gone for the summer.

Hedwig was secured in her cage and Harry's trunk packed when Mr. Malfoy arrived the next afternoon. Harry had both the cage and his trunk sitting just inside the front door, and Harry himself was sitting atop the trunk. When Mr. Malfoy rapped the knocker, Harry had the door open before Mr. Malfoy could put his hand down.

"Are you ready to get away from these muggles?" asked Mr. Malfoy.

"I was born ready," Harry responded. Harry turned back to the house. "Mr. Malfoy's here!" he shouted. "I'm leaving! See you next summer!" Harry grabbed his things and dragged them into the front yard before his aunt or uncle could respond. "Are we apparating to Malfoy Manor?" Harry asked.

"Indeed. Please take a firm hold on your trunk and birdcage."

Harry grabbed his things tightly, and Mr. Malfoy seized his elbow. There was a twisting sensation, and Harry felt as if he was being pushed through a hole the size of a pinpoint. Then, with a mighty pop, the pressure was gone and Harry found himself standing outside Malfoy Manor.

"You can leave your things here, Harry," said Mr. Malfoy, walking toward the manor and gesturing for Harry to follow. "Draco and Narcissa will be down shortly, and we will be travelling to the quidditch cup by portkey." Mr. Malfoy turned away slightly. "DOBBY!"

*Crack!* Dobby, the Malfoy's house elf, appeared at Mr. Malfoy's feet, scampering to keep up with the long strides of the tall wizard.

"Dobby, please tell Lady Malfoy that I have returned, and that we should prepare to leave. Remind her that our portkey is set for precisely 11:30 AM."

"Yes, sir," Dobby said. His voice was quiet and submissive. With another *Crack!* he was gone.

"What's a portkey?" Harry asked. He was trying to distract himself from Dobby's appearance. The house elf had looked as if he had been beaten, in every sense of the word.

"A method of magical transportation. They take groups of wizards long distances, or to places where apparition is impractical. Because of the large volume of wizards attending the World Cup, the Ministry established a system of portkeys to transport groups of wizards to the stadium." Mr. Malfoy smiled. "Naturally, some accommodation has been made for particularly… worthy families. We have a personal portkey, which, as I mentioned, will activate in approximately one half-hour."

The front door of Malfoy Manor opened, and Draco stepped out. "Harry, do you want to catch a fly real quick? We can't bring brooms to the World Cup, so this will be your last chance."

"Absolutely! Can I borrow a broom?" Harry had left his Firebolt at Hogwarts for the summer, partly to keep it away from Dudley's destructive hands, and partly to avoid the temptation to fly. Harry certainly didn't need another Underage Magic citation, even though Mr. Malfoy had caused his previous citation to be "lost" by the Ministry.

"No," Draco said while rolling his eyes. "We don't have any extra brooms. We sold them all because we're hideously poor."

Harry laughed. "Let's go, then."

Draco brought out his Nimbus 2001 and handed Harry a Cleansweep 7. Harry's broom was a slightly older model, but still in pristine condition. It looked as if it had barely been used. He immediately flew into the air, leaving Draco behind on the ground. Draco pulled a quaffle out of the shed and joined Harry in the air.

"Have you heard who's going to be quidditch captain this year?" Harry asked Draco.

"Pucey, I assume," Draco said. He casually tossed the ball to Harry, who caught it easily. "Who else would it be? Bletchley and Flint graduated, and Derrik and Bole don't have heads for strategy."

Harry nodded. "I thought the same thing. Plus, Pucey is a seventh year. It's his last chance to be captain."

"It'll be Pucey." Draco drifted backwards, catching a throw from Harry that was slightly too strong. "Have you thought about fifth year, though?"

"What do you mean?"

"We'll have a rough go at it. No Flint, no Pucey, no Bletchley, no Derrik, no Bole. The only people left over from last year will be me and you."

"Don't forget about Warrington and Montague," Harry pointed out. "They're sixth years, now. They'll still be around."

"You played with them this year. Do you really want to rely on Warrington and Montague to win games?" Draco threw the ball back to Harry.

"Well, no." Warrington and Montague were adequate players who could be productive in the right situations, but they weren't anything you'd want to build a team around. "What about Urquhart? He makes a go at it every year."

Draco screwed up his face. "Urquhart is obnoxious. I'd rather play with six fliers than have Urquhart as our seventh."

Harry laughed. Urquhart was a notorious hanger-on with the quidditch team. He unsuccessfully tried to be friends with the team, unsuccessfully tried to talk strategy with the team, and, every year, unsuccessfully tried out for the team. The only person who didn't see the gap between what Urquhart knew and what Urquhart thought he knew was Urquhart himself. It was becoming rather sad.

"Crabbe and Goyle?" Harry asked. "You said that they made fair beaters, and they'll be fifth years by the time Derrik and Bole are gone."

"So, Warrington, Montague, Crabbe, Goyle… on average, our team will weigh more than a hippopotamus."

"Are you calling me fat?" Harry tucked the ball under his arm and scowled.

"I'm sorry, I didn't recognize you, Pansy. I love what you've done with your hair." Draco began to laugh, and Harry made a rude gesture.

"Boys! Come down, there's only five minutes until the portkey!" Draco's mother was calling to them from a second-story window.

Draco and Harry immediately set down and locked up their brooms. They dashed around the front of the house and found an irritated looking Lucius Malfoy standing next to their trunks.

"The portkey leaves in one minute," Lucius snapped. "Do you think there will be another?"

"No, father," Draco said. "I apologize."

"Hrmph." Draco's father did not seem mollified. "Take hold of the portkey."

Draco reached out and grabbed a green flag that had been planted in the ground. The flag bore the silver logo of Slytherin house.

"This is the portkey?" Harry asked, taking hold of the flag.

"Most portkeys are something offensive, to prevent muggles from taking them up," Draco's mother said. "I requested something nicer, since we already have muggle-repelling charms on our estate."

"Quiet," said Lucius. "The portkey will activate in three…two… one…"

The flag stopped flapping in the air, and the flagpole began to shake in the ground. With a sudden jerk, the flag rocketed upward, spinning as it rose. Harry and the Malfoys corkscrewed through the air, finally on their way to the World Cup of Quidditch.

A/N: And thus, the beginning of Book Four! Plan on this adventure lasting for the next nine to ten months, while I complete Book Five.

Speaking of Book Five… as I was writing a quidditch scene last week, using OotP as a reference, I discovered that both Bletchley and Pucey were still on the Slytherin team during Harry's fifth year. Compare that to the chapter you just read, in which Bletchley graduated after Harry's third year, and Pucey will graduate at the end of Harry's fourth year. That's a huge gaffe on my part, and I apologize for it. I have tried my best to stay true to canon, but that one slipped through the cracks.

As I said, I discovered this last week. I had two options: (1) Re-write a dozen scenes in this book and dramatically change my characterization of Pucey, Derrik, and Bole, or (2) Go with the mistake. I have decided that (2) is the correct course of action. We're just going with it.