Author's Note: This is written as an alternative sixth book taking into account some of the brilliant rumours/ideas I have read and discussed in many places. It is dedicated to the pottersues for never failing to make me laugh.

Harry Potter and the Secret of Godric's Hollow

The Wizard Of Privet Drive

Little Whinging in mid-July was much like any other suburban town of its kind. When the residents weren't complaining how unbearably hot or wet it was, they were involved in one of their usual outdoor pursuits - cleaning their cars, cutting their grass, planting ever increasing amount of decorative plants, trying to hide the sprinklers that they turned on at night in spite of the ban.

Harry saw all this and more as he lazily moved back and forth on the freshly repaired swings in the park. This time last year he probably would have been close to ripping them down in torrent of anger and frustration by now, but a strange detached calm had washed over him since this year's return to Privet Drive.

Part of that was due to the fact that the wizarding world as a whole was now aware of Voldemort's return. Not a day went by when the Daily Prophet didn't contain some news or speculation concerning He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named or his Death Eaters. Fortunately they seemed to be keeping a rather positive outlook on the whole thing, apparently taking solace in the fact that Dumbledore had faced the Dark Lord head on and survived. With his help they believed it was only a matter of time before Voldemort was finally brought to justice.

One thing the Daily Prophet hadn't changed though was its apparent eagerness to slander anyone it saw fit. Last summer it had been Dumbledore and Harry himself. This summer it was the families of the Death Eaters who had been captured at the Ministry of Magic. Particularly the Malfoy's. Harry had always suspected that there was a lot of animosity for that family hidden behind a veil of fear, but he had never thought it to be quite so much or so vicious. Wizards and witches were literally crawling out from every corner of the country to tell their tales of how Lucius Malfoy had done them wrong at some point in the past - everything from ruined vegetable patches, blackmail and intimidation right up to someone blaming him for the disappearance of her great aunt.

Part of Harry almost felt sorry for Draco. He knew what it was like to be the one on the receiving end of such a foul hate campaign, justified or not. He was rather sure the feeling would vanish rapidly though as Draco threw the first obnoxious comment his way at the beginning of term. At least now any of the threats the boy made would be rendered virtually useless - his father had always been his trump card but he was ensconced in Azkaban under the watchful eye of a number of Aurors. The Dementors it was reported, had not been seen in many months and were presumed working for Voldemort.

Harry felt an uneasy chill wash over him as he thought of the former Azkaban guards. In some ways they worried him more than Voldemort. The Dark Lord himself was unlikely to simply turn up in Little Whinging, but the Dementors had already done so once. What was truly to stop them doing it again now they were unarguable no longer under Ministry control?

The thought of last year's attack made him realise how late it was and he got up and started to head back to the Dursely's. He had not stayed out passed sunset once in the three weeks since he had returned, remembering what Dumbledore had said about him being safe in his aunt's house. It wasn't that he feared for his own safety so much, more that he was loathed to put anyone else in danger on his account.

Like he had Sirius.

He hadn't voiced his feelings to anyone. He had been so angry, upset and confused at the end of last term he hadn't had the chance, and it was not the kind of thing he would discuss with the Dursleys. Upon reflection however he had come to understand that he had to lay some of the blame for Sirius' death on his own shoulders. If he hadn't acted so rashly, if he had only thought things through in a more grown up and responsible manner, Sirius wouldn't have gone there. And he wouldn't have died. It was all rather simple really. He had to stop being so selfish. There were more people than him whose lives were at risk.

The worst part of it all was still that he didn't really know what had happened. Having gone over events in his head an uncountable number of times, he was almost certain that Bellatrix Lestrange's spell had not be a fatal one. In which case it meant that the fall through the veil had killed his godfather. But why would no one tell him what it was? Harry had spent a good part of the summer in Muggle libraries and bookshops trying to find a reference in mystery or occult books to an arch that kills people if they stepped through it. He'd found nothing though, partly because he knew that Muggles were unlikely to know much about it, and partly because anything they did know would undoubtedly be better concealed than his rather feeble research skills could uncover. Where was Hermione when you needed her?

Heading down Magnolia Crescent, Harry passed that fateful alley leading to Wisteria Walk. A familiar chill wrapped itself through him, and he hurried on, relieved as the nauseous feeling in his stomach faded away again. A little further along he spotted two middle aged women standing talking over a immaculately pruned hedge. Mrs Jackson and Mrs Turner had seemingly been in competition for the title of 'Neighbourhood's Biggest Gossip' for years, and as usual they were not about to be discrete just because somebody was walking by.

"Oh, yes," Mrs Jackson said, unnecessarily loud, "Heard them hollering again today."

"So did I," Mrs Turner confirmed, not to be outdone, "Terrible racket it was too. Who'd thought it, eh? Always seemed like such a nice couple."

"Well," Mrs Jackson said, throwing a dirty look Harry's way, "I'm hardly surprised with the pressure they've put themselves under. You try to do the decent thing, but some people just don't know when their born."

Harry ignored her and continued going. It was hardly new, having the neighbours say what an ungrateful little tyke he was - after all, didn't he go to that St Brutus'?

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had been arguing a lot since he had returned though. He had never heard them argue before and he found it strangely unsettling. He had only ever caught pieces of their conversations because they were quite careful to clam up if they thought anyone was listening. He was sure it is because of him though. Uncle Vernon it seemed wanted him out of the house, whereas Aunt Petunia insisted he had to stay. For the first time in his life, Harry felt glade she was his aunt.

Dudley wasn't in the best of moods either. He had only passed four GCSE's, and even those he had just scraped through. The school were willing to let him back in on the strength of his sporting achievements as long as he passed one more exam. All summer he had been having private tuition with a very stern middle aged woman who would stand for none of Uncle Vernon's false praise or Aunt Petunia's rose tinted mollycoddling. The fact was they were finally running out of excuses for their son's bad performance. Uncle Vernon blamed Harry, of course, saying the trauma of the Dementor attack had affected Dudley.

But one good thing did come from Dudley's enforced incarceration. The children of the neighbourhood were virtually rejoicing. With Dudley stuck indoors they were free to spend their summer holidays out enjoying themselves, without having to be on constant guard for his cousin and his gang.

Harry had never realised before how many children there were living near him. At least fifty seemed to have peeked out of their hiding places as Dudley's absence made itself known. And they all looked so much smaller than Harry. But he supposed they should, what with him hurtling towards his sixteenth birthday.

He continued for a few more paces in thoughtful silence before his mind routinely returned to the arch. He had been wondering all day if there was any way he could get into London so he could visit some larger libraries with more resources. So far though he hadn't been able to solve the overriding problem of funds.

Turning into Privet Drive, wondering if he could perhaps bribe Dudley in some way, Harry's train of thought petered out as he spotted what was obviously a wizard heading in the opposite direction. To a trained eye their terribly matched Muggle clothes were always a complete give away. In this case it was Wellington boots, black suit trousers, a football shirt and bow tie. Harry smiled slightly. Clearly whoever it was had never been very good at Muggle Studies.

Curious as to who the newcomer was he moved a little faster. He knew that Mundungus and Mrs Figg were still keeping an eye on him, but they were careful to minimise their contact. Apparently it was meant to be a covert operation. This new wizard was clearly not so good at that.

Breaking out into a jog as the wizard rounded the corner, Harry caught the sound of a sharp crack. He followed him down the alleyway anyway, but the its sudden emptiness confirmed his suspicions. The wizard had apparated.