The Hogwarts Express chugged through the mountains, its compartments filled with the warmth of sunlight and the sweet scent of Fizzing Whizbees.
Harry spread his report card on the small table, tapping the "O" next to "Defense Against the Dark Arts" with a grin he couldn't suppress.
"What're you so smug about?" Hermione clutched her own report card, looking miffed. The "O" in "History of Magic" gleamed on the parchment. "You only got an E in Potions because of dumb luck. I just added a smidge too much slug slime and ended up with an A. Snape's grading is always biased."
"But I earned this O in Defense fair and square," Harry said, sliding his report card toward her, carefully covering Professor Lockhart's signature. "Lockhart said my spells were better than some upper-year students'."
Hermione snorted, snatching his card and flipping it over to point at Lockhart's congratulatory note. "Then how do you explain Fred getting a P? Lockhart's clearly holding a grudge from when Fred called him out at the Deathday Party. You think that O was sincere? I bet he's just trying to convince Dumbledore he's 'Dumbledore's man.'"
Harry scratched his head. Lockhart's grading was suspicious.
He remembered the last Dueling Club session of the term. All he'd done was split a practice dummy in half, and Lockhart had clapped him on the shoulder, shouting "Genius!" Meanwhile, Snape's glare could've set him on fire.
"Whatever," Harry said, folding his report card into a small square and stuffing it into his robe pocket. "Point is, my total score beat yours this term."
"That's only because I spent all my time writing that follow-up paper for Hagrid!" Hermione huffed, slamming her book shut, but she cracked a smile when she caught Harry's smirk.
She took a Fizzing Whizbee from Harry. "Fine, you win this round. But next term, I'm beating you—especially in Potions. I've already memorized up to Chapter Seven of Magical Herbs and Fungi."
From the next compartment, Fred's voice rang out: "George! Look at this! Lockhart's comment says, 'Lacks imagination and has a flippant attitude'? He dares say I lack imagination?!"
Harry and Hermione exchanged a look and burst out laughing.
The Hogwarts Express soon pulled into King's Cross Station, the steam clearing as Harry stepped onto the platform with his trunk.
As expected, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were nowhere in sight.
"Come on," Hermione said, nudging Harry's arm and pointing to Mrs. Granger, who was waving from a distance, her freshly curled hair bouncing. "My mom's over there. You've got to say hi, at least."
Mrs. Granger's smile was warmer than the platform's sunlight as she spotted them.
She grabbed Harry's hand, her palm warm and welcoming. "Hermione wrote to me about fixing up a spare room, saying things at your place aren't great… Want to stay with us for a few days? I've baked lemon tarts and stocked up on the latest teen movie DVDs."
Harry's ears burned, his instinct to dodge kicking in, but Mrs. Granger's hopeful look stopped him. "Thanks, ma'am," he said. "I need to head back first… but maybe in a month?"
"Anytime!" Mrs. Granger replied instantly, pressing a note with their address into his hand. "Our door's always open."
---
The month flew by faster than Harry expected.
Summer at Number 4 Privet Drive was as dull as ever. When Harry shut the door behind him, trunk in hand, Uncle Vernon didn't even glance up from his newspaper.
This time, Harry skipped the Knight Bus. Its shrieking skull logo reminded him too much of the Chamber's Basilisk, and he wasn't in a rush.
At Gringotts, a goblin weighed his Galleons on a silver scale, pouring out a stack of Muggle pound notes.
"No limit on Galleon-to-pound exchanges, sir," the goblin said, his sharp teeth glinting. "But a word of caution: Muggle banks get nosy about large deposits."
Harry pocketed the cash and stepped out of Diagon Alley, hailing a taxi. When he handed the driver the address, the man gave him a long, curious look—probably not used to seeing teenagers in wizard robes.
The taxi rattled through the city, from towering skyscrapers to quiet rows of townhouses.
Soon, it pulled up to Hermione's house. Harry took a deep breath and rang the bell, hearing Hermione's excited squeal from inside: "He's here! I told you he'd show up now!"
The door flew open. Hermione, in a Muggle T-shirt and jeans, her hair a wild mess, yanked him inside. Mrs. Granger followed, holding a tray of steaming tarts, the aroma instantly washing away Harry's travel fatigue.
"Welcome to the Muggle world, Harry," Hermione said with a grin, pulling him in. "Don't look so shocked. I know you grew up in London too, but saying it like this just feels cooler."
Harry stood in the entryway, giving Mrs. Granger a small bow. "Hello, ma'am. Thanks for having me." He clutched a box of strawberries he'd bought, the bright red fruit glistening with freshness.
"Come in, dear," Mrs. Granger said, taking the strawberries with a smile and heading to the kitchen. "Hermione's been going on about showing you your room for days."
Before she finished, Hermione grabbed Harry's wrist. "Come on!" she said, dragging him upstairs, the wooden steps creaking loudly. "The third-floor room has the best view. I even put up new curtains."
The room was bright, with mint-green curtains fluttering at the open window, offering a view of a distant church spire. A stack of Muggle novels sat on the desk, and a pile of DVDs was tucked in the corner. Hermione pointed at them proudly. "I picked those out myself. Guaranteed fun."
Harry set down his trunk, his fingers brushing the unfamiliar book titles. This room felt far warmer than his cupboard-like space at Privet Drive.
Downstairs, Mr. Granger was reading a newspaper on the couch. He glanced up, adjusting his glasses. "Fancy a walk? London's evenings are lovely."
Hermione's eyes lit up. "Let's go to St. Paul's Cathedral!"
Mr. Granger folded his paper. "Isn't that a bit far? I can drive you."
"No need, sir," Harry said quickly. "I've got some pounds. Hermione and I can take a taxi." Seeing Mr. Granger's frown, he added, "You're already letting me stay here. I don't want to be more trouble."
Hermione chimed in, "Besides, if we go on our own, we can stop for anything fun we spot."
---
They soon reached the cathedral. The setting sun painted its dome golden-red, and the stained-glass windows cast colorful patterns on the ground.
Hermione gazed up at the towering arches, her voice tinged with nostalgia. "We used to come here every Sunday. Mum says these windows are three hundred years old." She laughed. "After learning about the wizarding world, they don't feel quite as magical anymore."
Harry followed her gaze, the sunlight filtering through the saintly figures, dappling her face with color. "It's peaceful, though," he said, thinking of Hogwarts' Great Hall, grand but always buzzing with hundreds of voices.
They strolled around the cathedral square, and Hermione pointed to a fruit stall. "Their strawberries are so sweet—way better than store-bought."
She dragged Harry over, buying a box with Muggle money. The warm, sun-kissed berries left a faint sweetness on Harry's fingers as he carried them.
Back at the Grangers' house, the living room glowed with warm yellow light. Mrs. Granger set out freshly baked cookies, spotting their strawberries and teasing, "Looks like you found something tastier than my lemon tarts."
Hermione stuck out her tongue, shoving the berries into Harry's hands. "Eat them quick, or my parents will steal them all."
Harry bit into one, the sweet juice bursting on his tongue. Outside, Muggle car horns hummed; inside, cutlery clinked softly. It was nothing like the stifling silence of Privet Drive. So this is what a summer could feel like—lively and warm.
---
One August afternoon, the Grangers' backyard basked in lazy sunlight.
Harry pulled his Nimbus 2001 from his trunk.
"Is that your… flying broom?" Mr. Granger circled it curiously, tapping the sleek handle. "Looks fancier than any motorcycle I've seen."
"Want to try it?" Harry offered with a grin, holding it out. "It's easy to pick up."
Mr. Granger's eyes sparkled, though he glanced hesitantly at his wife.
Mrs. Granger, holding a tray of iced tea on the porch, waved him off with a smile. "Just be careful. Don't let the neighbors see."
"Don't worry," Harry said. "I've cast a Muggle-Repelling Charm and a Perception Filter. As long as we stay within the property, no one will notice."
Hermione quietly explained the charms to her mother.
Mr. Granger took a deep breath, climbing onto the broom with Harry's help, gripping the handle until his knuckles whitened. "Do I… need to say a spell?"
"Nope," Harry said, standing nearby. "Just lean forward and imagine moving ahead. Tap the ground lightly with your foot."
Mr. Granger gave a tentative push, and the Nimbus quivered, lifting him half a foot off the ground.
"Whoa!" he gasped, wobbling but quickly steadying himself.
Under Hermione's envious stare, Mr. Granger got the hang of it, guiding the broom in a slow loop over the lawn, its silver-blue tail brushing the grass and kicking up tiny bits of debris.
"This is amazing!" he shouted, his voice brimming with excitement. He nudged the broom higher, waving down at his wife. "Jane, look! I'm flying!"
Mrs. Granger clapped, laughing, while Harry leaned toward Hermione. "Your dad's a better flier than you."
Behind her mother, Hermione punched Harry's arm.
After a while, Mr. Granger reluctantly dismounted, his steps wobbly but his grip still tight on the broom. "This is… an engineering marvel! No, a magical marvel!"
He turned to Harry, eyes shining. "Thanks, Harry. That was better than any roller coaster I've ever ridden!"
Then, with Hermione's prodding, Mrs. Granger took a turn, and Harry, seizing a moment when Hermione wasn't looking, grabbed the Nimbus 2000 and pulled her into the air.
"Ahh!" Hermione shrieked, clinging to Harry's waist.
Harry burst out laughing.
---
The last days of summer melted away like ice cream in the cicadas' hum.
One morning, an owl fluttered onto the third-floor windowsill, a parchment envelope bearing Hogwarts' crest in its beak. Harry opened it, and a "Hogsmeade Visit Permission" form slipped out, the signature line blank—a silent reminder.
"Going back to get your aunt's signature?" Hermione asked, munching toast and peering over, her eyes hesitant. "I can go with you."
Harry crumpled the form, then smoothed it out, his finger tracing the "Guardian's Signature" text. "No need. I'll talk to Professor Dumbledore when we're back. He'll figure something out."
---
On the day they left for the Leaky Cauldron, the Grangers insisted on driving them.
"I've been dying to see this 'magical bus' you keep talking about," Mr. Granger said, adjusting his tie, his eyes gleaming with curiosity.
Harry hesitated. "Just… be ready. Once you're on, don't talk. Find a bed and lie down."
The Knight Bus roared through Muggle streets like a charging iron beast.
The Grangers were tossed about, their faces shifting from excitement to pale horror. When the bus screeched to a halt outside the Leaky Cauldron, they stumbled off, leaning against a wall and retching.
"Sorry…" Harry said, wincing.
Mrs. Granger waved it off. "That was… quite a ride. Makes roller coasters look tame."
---
Through the Leaky Cauldron's back entrance, Diagon Alley's bustle hit them full force. Harry was about to step forward when his eyes caught a wall plastered with wanted posters.
The most prominent one showed a dark-haired man with a cold smirk, his name in bold gold letters: Sirius Black. Beside it, in scarlet ink: Dangerous! Murderer! Contact the Ministry immediately if spotted…
"He's… a wizard criminal?" Harry froze. He'd been so caught up in his summer fun that he hadn't touched a magical newspaper.
He'd seen the name Black in Muggle news, assuming he was just some ordinary fugitive. He and Mr. Granger had even joked about Britain's crime rates.
Hermione leaned in, frowning. "The papers say he escaped Azkaban—the first ever to do it."
"That's pretty impressive," Harry said, tugging her arm toward Flourish and Blotts. "But it's got nothing to do with us. Let's get our stuff."