3

A deep, contented sigh fell from Harry's lips and he leant back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head. A shadow fell over his table, and he peered up at the figure through lidded, tired eyes.

"Good grub, Mister Potter?" Tom asked eagerly, beginning to gather the dirty plates from the table.

"Excellent, thanks Tom," the young man answered, stifling a yawn. Tom chuckled lightly, smiling at Harry fondly.

"S'only two in the afternoon, tired already?" Harry grinned, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

"It's been a long day, Tom. And I haven't even done my shopping yet!" he groaned. Tom laughed at the young man in front of him, and marvelled at how different he looked and acted compared to the last time he was here. The Harry of last year would have been unfailingly polite and shy. This Harry, however; well, Tom may not approve of the clothing choices (reminding him as it did, of one Sirius Black), but he couldn't otherwise say a bad word against him. The boy was confident and charming, and though he was still polite the edge of servitude had disappeared.

"I'd best be off then, Tom, I have a lot to buy. I'll see you soon, thanks for the food," Harry stood and grabbed his jacket and bag, saluting absently in the barman's direction as he strode off out of the pub and back through the wall into Diagon Alley. Absent-mindedly, he shoved his jacket into his rucksack and tried to decide where to go first. Zonko's, he decided and headed off in the right direction with a grin, knowing that he would be doing his father proud this next year at Hogwarts.

It was almost an hour later when he finally emerged from the joke shop, laden with bags of dung bombs, hiccough sweets, fake shampoos (which dyed the person's hair instead of cleaning it), sugar quills, and some other, rarer items. He had a dangerous smirk on his face which promised nothing good to those who ended up on the receiving end of his pranks.

Flourish and Blotts was next, and though Hermione may have been proud of him for buying books other than those he had to for school, he had the distinct impression that she would thoroughly disapprove of the tomes he was interested in. He was reading a book called 'Potions for the Practical Pranker' when a figure approached him. So engrossed was he that he didn't realise the other presence until it spoke, causing him to start and drop his book.

"Fuck!" he exclaimed, jumping backwards to avoid having flattened toes, "Jesus, if this is broken, you're paying for it, mate." Harry bent to pick up the book, having still not looked up at his companion. When he heard the slight chuckle that his remark had caused, he snapped his head upwards, cringing when he realised that he had indeed recognised that voice.

"Really, Potter? Why? Do you not have the money?" Malfoy taunted, sneering down at his enemy. Harry started again, suddenly noticing that he was still on the floor and stood up.

"Sure, Malfoy, I'm poor, whatever you want to believe," Harry snapped, cursing himself for not just going home as soon as he had realised that morning that Malfoy was in town, "Where are your minions?" Malfoy sneered slightly, though Harry was unsure if this was a reaction to his words, or if Malfoy's face was merely made to look that way.

"I could ask you the same thing, Potter," he spat back, "where's Weasley and your pet mudblood?" Harry didn't even give Malfoy time to blink; as soon as that word had left the blonde's mouth, Harry's fist connected with his jaw. Reflecting on the scene later, Harry would realise that it had been quite beautiful. The punch had been far harder than Hermione's a few months ago, not only breaking Malfoy's nose, but causing him to fly backwards and fall on his arse. Blood splattered across the area, covering books and people equally. Harry, well aware of the crowd that was gathering and the yelling of the shop's owner, knelt down over Malfoy, one leg either side of the injured boy. He pushed his face right down into the blonde's , grabbing his shirt in one hand to keep him in place.

"Now, Malfoy, if I ever hear you say that fucking word again, you'll get worse than a broken nose, okay?" Harry's voice was low but threatening, and Malfoy cowered slightly under his fierce gaze. The blonde gave a slight nod, and Harry released him, standing up and facing the crowd.

"What?" he challenged. For a minute no-one said anything, so Harry took advantage of the silence and grabbed his rucksack from where he had dropped it on the floor.

"You... you're going to have to pay for those, you know!" The shopkeeper spluttered, gesturing at the shelves of blood-covered books. Harry raised an eyebrow at the statement, and his lips quirked in amusement.

"Really? Book payment before worry about the injured boy? Well, it is Malfoy, so yeah, I guess it makes sense that the books are more important. Tell you what, though, we'll get Malfoy to pay for them, considering he's so rich and all, ain't that right, ferret?" he directed the last over his shoulder, where the boy in question was staggering to his feet and glaring at Harry's back. "Brilliant!" Harry exclaimed before giving the blonde a chance to answer, "I'll just be off then. I'll come back another time for my books, when there's less of a crowd, yeah?"

"You'll do no such thing!" Blustered the shopkeeper, "you are banned from this shop, boy, we won't have your type in here!" Harry laughed, knowing that had the man recognised him as Harry Potter then there would have been no problem. The Boy Who Lived could have killed Malfoy and suffered no penalty. But, he supposed, The Boy Who Lived would also never be seen dead dressed like such a muggle, never mind such a scruffy one.

"Alright, sir, keep your knickers on," he mocked, grinning as he strode out of the door.

Harry was lying on his bed, exhausted after a day of shopping. After his trip to Diagon Alley, he had ventured into muggle London, buying far more than he actually needed, but enjoying every gruelling second of it. He had a sudden thought and turned on his side slightly, rifling through his rucksack with one hand. After a few seconds searching, his hand came out having retrieved the items he wanted. A silver lighter (apparently having been donated by Sirius) and a pack of cigarettes sat in his hand. Smoking, it seemed, was an essential part of marauder life, if the note he had found hidden in the cigarette packet was to be trusted.

Harry, it had read, in a scribbly hand all too similar to his own,

If me and your mum are alive, then DO NOT tell her about this. Seriously. She would kill me. She made me 'quit' (it's in quotes because I never actually quit. But shhhh!), she kept going on about lung cancer and all that muggle rubbish. But, we're wizards! As if our magic would let tarmac or whatever build up in our lungs. Pfft. Oh and the spell to stop yourself from coughing is on the back of this. Why do muggles carry on smoking anyway if all it makes them do is cough? Weird. Anyway, marauders must smoke, because it is tradition. So don't you dare go to your mum with this!

Love, Dad.

(PS, the 'love' is only for if we're dead, if I'm still alive, and you are even now blackmailing me with this, then it is not directed at you, kay?)

Grinning, he flicked open the lighter and held the end of a cigarette to it. Annoyingly, he wouldn't be able to use the spell until he was back at school, but muggles did it every day, and if they could do it (and enjoy it) without the use of magic, then so would Harry. He lifted the cigarette to his mouth, and was about to take his first drag when his door slammed open for the second time that day.

"Boy!" his uncle bellowed, "I do not- just what do you think you are doing? Are you smoking? Petunia and I raise you, we let you live in our house and eat our food, and you have the bloody audacity to smoke under our roof? Not only that, but I do not expect to come home and hear that you haven't done your chores! Petunia tells me you were out all day, running around with your freaky little friends, no doubt! And what in the bloody hell are you wearing?" Vernon's face seemed to become redder and more akin to a beetroot with each word he spoke. Spittle flew from his lips as he worked himself into a rage, and his double (nay, triple) chins wobbled as he shook in fury. Harry could not help himself in what he did next, however much he wished he could have stopped the noise that came from his mouth.

Harry chuckled. It was an instinctive reaction to the image of his trembling, bright red uncle in front of him, and it was not done on purpose. But even if Vernon had known these things, it would not alter the fact of what had happened, and it would not alter the anger it resulted in.

"OUT!" Vernon yelled, spit flying everywhere as he pointed towards the door.

"What? Seriously?" Harry asked dumbly, a look of confusion on his face. He had only been back for summer for a week and he was already being kicked out.

"I want you out, boy! You have five minutes to get your grubby little belongings, and then you are to get the hell out of my house! And don't you even think about coming back!" With this, Vernon stormed from the room, slamming the door so hard that it bounced back and hit the wall. Harry stared at the space his uncle had just vacated for a full second before his brain could fully comprehend what had just happened.

"Okay," he said aloud, nodding absently as he pulled himself off of his bed. He hadn't yet bothered unpacking all of his purchases from where they had been stored in his bottomless backpack, and most of his school stuff was still in his trunk. He slowly picked up a few things from the floor and ejected the CD he had listened to that morning. Had that only been this morning? It felt like a lifetime ago, he thought as he shoved them into his rucksack before hefting it onto his shoulder.

Harry took one last glance around his room before walking out, tugging his trunk down the stairs with one hand, carrying the long, leather jacket with the other. He didn't look back as he left through the front door, raising his wand hand as he reached the road, calling on the Knight Bus's services for the second time that day.