Chapter One:

A Fishy Message

The transition between daytime and evening was lost in the thick, impenetrable fog that now wrapped itself menacingly around Little Whinging and surrounding towns. Thicker than a vicious snowstorm, the vapor pressed itself coldly against the windows of silent homes, filling the streets in a flood of icy cloud that made it downright reckless for anyone to go driving. Therefore the inhabitants of the houses had been forced to stay indoors all day, calling in sick to work and making sure that the local schools would excuse their children's absences. It had been like this for an entire week; the fog hadn't lifted even an inch from when it first settled Sunday evening and was giving no sign of letting up even now. In fact, so much of the town's work force was being kept from their jobs that the productivity of Little Whinging had been cut down by more than half, and on some blocks the power had even gone out.

For those who could still watch the television, they knew that the Prime Minister had just declared a state of emergency in collaboration with the Surrey County Council (whose members, rumor had it, had been camping out in the county hall chambers). Even now, while families were being forced to dig through their cupboards in search of forgotten cans of soup, emergency response teams were being put together. Their job would be to deliver basic food supplies and blankets to the neighborhoods if this weather failed to abate before long, but it was anyone's guess as to how they would find the individual homes without getting lost in the fog like everyone else

This was the atmosphere that Harry Potter found himself in, just three days shy of his seventeenth birthday and coming of age. So far, Number Four, Privet Drive still had electricity, but it wasn't very stable. Maybe twice an hour it would flicker off, something that caused Aunt Petunia to shriek with fear and start twiddling madly with the television knobs in the dark, as though determined that one of them would signal for an electrical workman to pop out of the screen and make the lights come back on. Meanwhile, Uncle Vernon was drinking himself raw with brandy, and Harry's cousin Dudley was scooting frantically from chair to chair, trying to avoid the wrath of the new bulldog. The dog, dubbed Chomper, was a gift from Uncle Vernon's sister, Aunt Marge, and was intended as a guard dog in case one of those "madmen in cloaks", as Uncle Vernon had put it, decided to pay a visit. So far, however, all Chomper had shown was a liking for biting Dudley's shoes off his feet, to Dudley's dismay and Harry's great amusement.

At least that was how it had been when Harry was downstairs last, which admittedly was a while ago. Currently he was hovering over the toilet in the upstairs bathroom, bending in such a way that he could look right into the porcelain tank, its lid having been removed. The tank was dark; he had to struggle to find what he was looking for as he peered through the shallow water that pooled inside.

"Okay," he muttered, and he lifted the wand in his right hand, so that it pointed directly into the watery depths. "Lumos."

Immediately a silvery glow illuminated the inside of the tank, glinting dully off the water. Now Harry could properly see the mechanics beneath the surface. He pushed aside a floating rubber ball with the tip of his wand, and beneath it saw the thing he was looking for: a small flapper that Harry assumed was what allowed the water in the tank to rush into the bowl beneath.

Gritting his teeth and hoping that Hermione was right, he pointed his wand at this and whispered the words that he had read in a letter just that morning.

"Singuli Potesta."

The tank went dark once more for the briefest of moments as Harry's illumination spell was cancelled by this new one; then the water blazed again, only this time a brilliant gold. It subsided quickly, yet a blurred golden hue continued to glitter over the flapper, as if it were an embossed coin.

Satisfied that nothing had exploded or been turned into a mushroom, Harry replaced the heavy tank lid with a thunderous clang. If done properly, this spell would just be yet another in a string of protection spells that Harry had been casting over his relative's home for the past week. Among them included a charm on the front and back doors, so they would make a loud gong sound if opened by a stranger; and every window was now Unbreakable. Harry had already been planning on charming the fireplace and chimney, but it was Hermione, one of his best friends from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, that had reminded him of the vulnerability of the plumbing in the house.

"Any wizard could slip a bit of poison, or Devil's Snare, or some other devious thing into the house if they managed to get it into the water pipes," she had written hastily, "so you've got to make sure you cover that, Harry, or who knows, your aunt or uncle could jump in the bath and then go comatose from a shower of Draught of Living Death."

The spell she had given him, though not perfect, would hopefully prevent such a circumstance. Singuli Potesta, when applied correctly, would cause any substance other than water to coagulate into a solid and become light enough to float, separating it from the water's main flow. The toilet was Harry's test run of it – he figured no one but Chomper would be drinking out of that, anyway.

The Ministry had not been happy when Harry had first written to them declaring that he was going to use magic despite that he still wasn't quite of age, let alone do it in a Muggle dwelling. Harry suspected that Mr. Weasley, the father of his other best friend Ron, might have had a hand in allowing him permission – for the Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, had been adamantly against the idea at first. Scrimgeour had sent no less than three very angry letters to Harry's uncle and aunt on that first morning, demanding that they convince Harry to stop writing. Not surprisingly, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had been outraged, for Harry had conveniently neglected to tell them of his wishes to perform magic outside of school, let alone under their roof. Nevertheless, Harry had persisted, and he was eventually and reluctantly granted permission, but not without at least half a dozen letters from Ron that Harry enjoyed for their unwavering and supportive abuse of the Ministry.

Now that the toilet was done, Harry wasted no time in charming both the shower and the bathroom tap with Singuli Potesta; they, too, continued to glow with that mysterious gold light even after the charming was done, and Harry could only hope that his relatives wouldn't pay much attention to it.

The sound of clicking dog nails on kitchen tile came floating up from downstairs while Harry gazed around the bathroom, wondering what else would need charming. His eyes lighted upon the furnace vent near the floor…could that be a possible security risk…? Nothing human-sized could come through it, obviously, but something small…a house-elf, maybe…it could probably manage it. But before he could think of a spell to solve the problem, he heard heavy footsteps creaking up the stairs.

"You still in there, boy?" said Uncle Vernon gruffly from just beyond the doorway; he seemed reluctant to come into view, as if he thought Harry might have decided to do those private bathroom things regardless of the door being wide open.

"Yeah," said Harry, and he regretfully left his thoughts of spells and enchantments behind him as he walked through the doorway onto the upstairs landing, stowing his wand in his pocket as he went. There his uncle was, teetering in the space between the top of the stairs and the bathroom. His eyes were a bit glazed from the brandy and his bushy mustache looked rather static, but he still fixed Harry with an agitated glare that told Harry only too well that he had done something wrong.

"What?"

"You know very well what, boy," growled Uncle Vernon. He leaned close to Harry, and Harry could smell the alcohol on his breath. "These – these…spells" (he hissed the word as if it scorched his throat to the point of blistering) "these things you've been doing, you better not be jerking us around about them. Don't you go…enchanting our things just because that Minister man told you that you could. You have no right, and that's my word on it."

Harry sighed. "They're for your own good," he said warily.

Uncle Vernon narrowed his eyes and squared his jaw, as though he were itching to tell Harry just how much "good" he thought magic to be. However, he kept silent and merely stared at Harry for a moment longer, before finally saying, "Your aunt has dinner nearly ready. Either eat at the table or don't eat at all, it's up to you."

Harry hardly needed to spare a moment to think about it. "No, I think I'll just go to my room."

"Then go hungry, boy," Uncle Vernon growled, a smirk blooming beneath his mustache. Harry fully expected him to go back down the stairs with a gloating expression on his face right then, but instead the man hesitated. He seemed to have more to say, only whatever it was, it wasn't at all to his taste. Whatever it was, it was probably the real reason Uncle Vernon went to seek him out in the first place.

"Yes?" Harry prompted, raising his eyebrows.

"Your…your aunt would also like a word with you," he said, squeezing the words out of a reluctant mouth. "After supper."

Harry lifted his eyebrows even higher, only this time in surprise.

"What about?"

"Don't ask questions!" Uncle Vernon roared, eyes flashing. "If you're not to attend supper, then stay in your room until the time when your presence is…wanted."

This last word seemed to hurt his throat more than "magic" had, and he looked horrified that he had dared utter it. But before Harry had the chance to get anything else from him, Uncle Vernon wheeled around and stomped heavily down the stairs again.

Harry stood there, not knowing what to think. Aunt Petunia wanted to speak with him? This was most unPetunia-like. He couldn't remember the last time she had ever requested his company for anything other than household chores. What could she possibly want to talk about?

Harry's mind was churning with this question as he walked across the landing to his bedroom, where he slipped quietly inside, closing the door behind him. His eyes were greeted with an unusual sight: everything in the room was neat and orderly, not even a single sock lying discarded on the hardwood floor. The bed was even made. Harry bounded over to it and stretched out on the smoothed bedspread. He stared up at the ceiling, thinking. …The closest Aunt Petunia had ever come to taking an interest in him was two years ago, when Harry and Dudley had been attacked by dementors -- Aunt Petunia had known what dementors were, and it had shocked Harry to discover it. Those same feelings of confusion were being reborn in his chest now. He didn't know what to make of it.

Just then, the light from the lamp on the nightstand flickered and died. The house around him seemed to groan as the electricity momentarily drained away once again, only to return a split-second later. The lamp suddenly glowed brightly again. Harry turned his head toward the window next to the nightstand, as he had done so many times that summer. The white fog still swirled mischievously beyond the glass, looking cold and merciless. Dementors…they were responsible for this, Harry already knew that. It was so much worse than it had been the previous summer, when it had only been a mist and not this thick fog… Harry had heard that the dementors were breeding. If that were so, then there must be loads of them now. He shuddered at the thought. Dementors were the vilest creatures in existence. Cloaked and dead-looking, they stole the happiness from anyone within reach of their powerful, rattling breath, sucking out the good and leaving only the most distraught memories behind. It was misery to be near just one. An army of them would be more than devastating… They could be fought, as Harry knew all too well, but it would take strength and numbers to do it.

It was as if that cold, life-stealing fog was reaching through the window now and grasping his chest. Harry found himself once more being deluged with that terrible truth that lay heavy in his stomach like a jagged stone. Dementors, while horrible, could be defeated even in these numbers, if people worked together to do it. But as for the leader of the dementors…only one person could do that. Only one particular person could defeat the Dark Lord Voldemort.

That was why the room around Harry looked so neat and clean. That was why the trunk at the end of his bed was packed with everything he might need for a long and difficult journey, his Invisibility Cloak in prominence. Harry's old school books, however, went unpacked. They were stacked inside his closed wardrobe -- he wouldn't need them anymore. While the letter from Hogwarts had arrived early this summer informing students that the school would indeed be open to whoever wished to return, Harry had only read it out of curiosity. The letter and envelope since lay untouched on Harry's desk, with the emerald green ink glimmering dully in the shadows. Harry didn't need that, either. He would not be returning to Hogwarts this year.

Harry sighed and let his eyes wander freely over the ceiling, stopping here and there only when he spotted a particularly interesting shape in the paint. Yet still his mind wouldn't let it go. Harry would give anything to be free of his burden, and go finish his education with his friends. But he knew he couldn't – wouldn't. This was yet another cruel way for Voldemort to disrupt Harry's life, though Harry supposed he should be used to losing things to that monster by now. First his parents…then his fellow classmate Cedric…his godfather Sirius…and then last year, last year the worst loss of all: having to watch Snape murder Dumbledore, the only one Voldemort had ever feared, while Harry remained powerless to stop it. And now Harry couldn't have Hogwarts anymore…

Harry's eyes began to sting slightly and a small lump formed in his throat -- he blinked it back immediately. Crying didn't help anything. Only that distant, suppressed part of him thought it could do anything – eleven-year-old Harry would want to cry, or at least scream from the unfairness of it all. But eleven-year-old Harry was gone. He had been for a long time now. Time to time he had to remind himself of that again. Dumbledore…Dumbledore would not want him to grieve. Dumbledore would want him to continue his fight against Voldemort, to continue his search for the remaining Horcruxes… Harry would have to put his own suffering behind him in order to do it.

The light from the lamp seemed to grow even brighter as the sun finally set, its last vestigial rays a mere smudge through the thick, veil-like fog. There was a guttering sound as the furnace struggled to come on, and soon hot air was pouring into Harry's room through the vent. Its heat battled to overtake the chill that was already seeping through the fog-encased window. It was going to be a cold July night.

Harry kept most of his attention on the sounds of cutlery clinking on plates coming from the kitchen downstairs, yet he was also listening for the sounds of a returning owl. Harry had been quite reluctant to send his snowy owl, Hedwig, out into this weather – what if she couldn't find her way through it? But Hedwig had nipped him reassuringly on the finger all the same before she had flown out the window, the letter to Lupin tied to her leg. That was five days ago. Harry had only just begun charming the house at that point, and he had wanted Lupin's opinion as to what additional spells he should use, and Hedwig was the only one Harry trusted to find the old DADA teacher. Now he wondered if he ought to have bothered at all.

The truth of the matter was that Harry would be leaving the Dursleys in a mere three days, the moment he turned of age. He had a very good reason to want to make the house as protected as possible before he left – he didn't want Voldemort to have the satisfaction of murdering Harry's last remaining relatives in his absence. He had no idea how many of Dumbledore's old protective charms would remain on the house now that the headmaster was gone, or now that Harry was turning seventeen. He wasn't about to take any chances. Every opportunity he got, he was asking all those he trusted for advice.

Since Hedwig's absence, Harry had been receiving tips from his best friends by Muggle post; they seemed determined to talk to him even if owls couldn't be relied on because of weather. Hermione managed this easily, her letters looking ordinary and plain. Ron, on the other hand, had succeeded in sending an envelope that promptly started singing (Harry assumed this was Fred and George's fault) "Jingle Bells, Percy Smells" in a loud, raucous voice that caused Uncle Vernon to drop it with a roar of surprise, and making the mailman at the door (who had beforehand looked very woebegone from his perilous journey though the fog) to double-up wheezing with laughter, with the apparent impression that the song was due to a microchip. All and all, the Dursleys hadn't been too pleased to find out that accompanying their daily mail would be messages from the Wizarding world. Nevertheless, the advice from Harry's best friends had been quite helpful, and Harry had followed a lot of it. Hermione, of course, had swallowed all her textbooks and could quote any useful charms by memory, but Ron had the advantage of fully-qualified wizards hanging around the house – he could just ask them what they thought.

In each of their letters, both Ron and Hermione had asked Harry about his choice not to return to Hogwarts. It was inescapable that they would. Each time, however, Harry replied stiffly that he had already made his decision. He couldn't sit safely in school anymore while innocent people were murdered by someone that, as it was prophesized, only Harry could defeat. It would take time to find the Horcruxes – the items that literally contained pieces of Voldemort's soul – and Harry didn't want to waste a moment of it. Voldemort was going down.

Harry's thoughts were wandering, but before long the dismal sounds of clinking and of meaningless table chatter from downstairs began to fade, and Harry knew that supper must be ending. He realized that Aunt Petunia would be expecting him soon, but he found himself not wanting to get up. His mind was already filled with enough weight at the moment; he didn't want to add to it this new stone of whatever Aunt Petunia had to say.

He rolled over onto his side instead and attempted to redirect his thoughts to something less morbid… The image of a particular red-headed, freckled girl floated into his mind, bright and cheerful-looking. He was put at ease somewhat. Ginny Weasley…he wondered where she was right now. Probably preparing for her sixth year at Hogwarts, getting new books, quills, a new set of robes… That was one of the hardest things he was faced with leaving behind. A girl whom he had, at first, seen merely as a sort of little sister, she was now leaving a gaping hole in his heart with the force of her absence. Harry had only just realized how much he cared for her when they broke up at Dumbledore's funeral last term…but they had both agreed it was for the best. An enemy of Lord Voldemort couldn't afford to have love. It would have been Ginny's death sentence, and Harry couldn't have that.

Harry sighed and felt for the bit of parchment that was folded in his pocket. He pulled it out. It was Ginny's latest letter; she had been mailing him almost as frequently as Ron and Hermione. He carefully unfolded it, taking caution not to tear the weakened creases. Her sleek handwriting greeted him, and he read over the letter for the umpteenth time, as he had done with all her letters, memorizing each by heart. In three days, when he was to begin his journey, he would have to leave all of her letters behind. He was even contemplating burning them, all the better for security. Last thing he needed was for Lord Voldemort to get his hands on one of them. But for now he was going to enjoy Ginny's thoughts, and his brilliant green eyes danced from word to word, relishing in the rare happiness blossoming in his chest.

Dear Harry,

I know it must be hard for you, all of this. I can't imagine what you must be feeling right now. Believe me, I've tried, and my head near exploded. If I were in your place, I know that I wouldn't be able to handle it. Honestly. And even though I desperately wish that you would be returning with me to Hogwarts this September, I respect your decision. In fact, I'm glad you made it, because the sooner you kick that bastard's ass, the better. When you've ripped that monster to shreds (and you WILL), come back to me, won't you? We have some catching up to do.

Talk to you later, Harry. Hopefully it will be in person.

Love,

Ginny

P.S. Do be sure to kick Mr. Dark Lord in the gonads, if he has any. I've wondered about that.

Harry couldn't help but give a small smile, something that was rare nowadays. He didn't know just what to make of Ginny's pondering of the existence of Voldemort's privates, but it made him laugh all the same. And that bit about Ginny not being able to cope if she were in his place…he knew she was saying that merely for his benefit. The Ginny he knew was a whole lot stronger than she really let on, and she let on a lot. Harry smiled again. He was just about to tuck the letter back into his pocket when there was a sharp knock on his bedroom door.

"Hurry up," came Aunt Petunia's curt voice through the wood. "I really don't have much time to spare. Come down to the living room."

Harry knew that this would come eventually and he sighed, but he didn't feel much like disobeying. As Aunt Petunia's footsteps faded away, Harry rolled off the bed in one smooth motion. Once the letter was tucked safely in his pocket, he wasted no more time in making his way downstairs.

The first thing he noticed was that the living room was very warm, and very much in contrast to the frozen white still visible through the curtained windows behind the sofa, upon which Harry's fat cousin Dudley was snoring loudly. In addition to having the heater on full-blast, a large fire was roaring in the grate. (The fake coal one lay discarded in a corner.)

Uncle Vernon was currently sitting in the large armchair. In the three seconds Harry watched him, he kept making an odd sound, a mix between a huff and a snort, before downing another large gulp of his brandy. This was in addition to all the other brandy he had consumed earlier in the evening, and his tiny eyes were even more glazed than before. He squinted around the room and spotted Harry. Uncle Vernon gave him the same glazed look he had given everything, and then shrugged it off, taking another loud gulp.

Harry quickly turned his attention to his Aunt Petunia. Oddly enough, she was now kneeling on the floor directly in front of the television. The screen was blaring more news about the unusual weather which, the Muggles were reporting, seemed to originate from coast of the North Sea, and one rather pudgy man had just come on to argue about how Global Warming was to blame for it. Aunt Petunia unglued her eyes and turned to look at Harry, just as the fat man proclaimed, "The earth is getting its revenge on us, you mark my words, and I bet --"

"You are late," she said simply.

"Am I?" Harry replied curtly.

She narrowed her eyes in disdain, but she didn't say anything. Instead she got to her feet and beckoned Harry to follow her as she cautiously stepping over the sleeping mass that was the bulldog Chomper. Puzzled, he walked in her wake as she led him out of the dining room (Uncle Vernon following them with his glassy eyes the whole time). Harry's confusion deepened as she led him clear to the back of the sparkling kitchen and through the door into the small side room Aunt Petunia used for laundry. There wasn't much room beside the washer and dryer, but Harry crammed in after her, careful not to knock her in the back with his elbows.

"What's this all abo--?" he began, but she cut him off as she closed the door with a snap. The bright light from the kitchen was immediately blocked out.

"Quiet," she said briskly, turning to face him. It was rather hard to see her face, as the only remaining light in the room was a dingy little light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Harry shut his mouth.

"Have some tea," Aunt Petunia snapped.

"Wha--?" Harry was beginning to think she had lost it.

"Quiet," she said again. She didn't say anything else, but pointed one of her sharp fingers to the top of the washing machine. Sure enough, there was a tray of hot tea ready, right next to a basket overflowing with dirty laundry. Harry paused, unsure. Now at close range he could see that Aunt Petunia was looking really stressed, and her jaw was clenched.

"Take some!" she barked.

Harry took a cup and filled it only halfway with tea from the teapot. After another glare from Aunt Petunia, he added a bit of sugar and milk, and tentatively took a sip.

"Good," she said, and her demeanor seemed to relax a tiny bit. It was as if she had expected Harry to react in a completely different manner. "Now, I have to speak to you."

"About what?"

"I'll ask the questions here," she replied briskly. "Now…about this weather. I want you to explain."

Harry's mouth gaped open for a second. This was the reason she had called him down? This was all?

"Well…" he said slowly. "It's being caused by the dementors…you know about them…"

"Yes, yes, yes," Aunt Petunia said impatiently. Harry clearly hadn't given her the answer she wanted. "But how are they doing it? How can they invade on the lives of normal people?"

Harry didn't know what to say. Conversation with Aunt Petunia was an endangered species, and he wasn't sure how to handle himself. "Well…erm…they're doing it by…well…magic."

Aunt Petunia's eyes widened at the "m" word, and she flapped her hand in front of her horsy face as if to ward it off. "No, no, no…." she said, exasperated.

Harry suddenly got the feeling that she was trying to ask something different altogether, though he wasn't sure why he felt this way.

"What is it?" he asked cautiously, setting his hardly-touched teacup down onto the washing machine.

"'What is it?'" she repeated, voice rather strained. "'What is it?' Ha! What do you think it is, you stupid boy…"

"Er –"

Aunt Petunia put her hands to her forehead like she had a headache.

"How do they know?" she burst out suddenly, her already-strained voice becoming high-pitched. "These mad friends of yours, how do they distinguish us, MY family from any other household? Is it because YOU send off some sort of mad beacon that they pick up? Is that it, are you bringing it all to this house?"

"Er – dementors are after everyone, not just this house, but yeah, they are kinda after me – and there's no way I would ever call a dementor any sort of friend…"

"No, no, no," she repeated again, sounding very annoyed, and she let her hands fall. "I'm not talking about those – those filthy monsters."

It may have been due to the fact that Harry was in the laundry room, but an image of Aunt Petunia forcibly scrubbing down a dementor suddenly popped into his head, and he had to stifle an abrupt urge to grin.

"Then – er – what are you talking about?" Harry said with a straight face, but he truly was puzzled by what Aunt Petunia had said, and it was becoming rather annoying. Hadn't they been talking about dementors here…? What did she mean, then, by "mad friends"?

Aunt Petunia glared at him as if to accuse him of stupidity. She kind of jerked her shoulder, as if in irritation, but then she hesitated, scrutinizing him very closely. She seemed to be pondering whether or not to reveal something. Harry fidgeted in the silence; these close quarters with his aunt weren't exactly comfortable. However, within a few moments Aunt Petunia must have made her decision, for to Harry's further bewilderment, she reached into the pocket of her overcoat and pulled out a used paper towel that was covered in what looked like tea stains.

"There. This came just after lunch," she snapped, spreading the paper towel out over the top of the dryer. She glared at him defiantly. "This is utter ludicrousness, I don't need any more problems to deal with, getting mail from those freaks was one thing, but this I will not have. Whatever sick, cruel prank your freakish friends are playing, I will not have it."

This time Harry didn't say anything. He merely looked at the paper towel with dull eyes; and he wondered if all the current conditions had truly caused his aunt to snap. He knew how she felt about cleanliness and such, but all this fuss over a dirtied paper towel? Did she truly believe that any one of his friends would go to the trouble of coming over here to merely splash tea over her precious floor?

"Well…that's…um…" he trailed off, having nothing to say.

"Oh, I knew you would deny it, you never have been much for honesty, have you? Lying about what you've done to Dudley, lying about your chores, lying about what goes on at that blasted school of yours --"

"I don't lie –" Harry began hotly.

"NO! I am tired of this," she breathed angrily. "I will not even bother listening to your excuses this time." She grabbed the paper towel and pushed it toward him. "Go on. Read it!"

"Read it…?"

"Yes. Read it," she hissed.

Thinking Aunt Petunia was utterly and completely out of her mind, Harry turned his eyes back to the towel. There seemed nothing spectacular about it, besides being stained. His eyes traced the stains, which were in a spattered sort of pattern more than anything, like Aunt Petunia had merely placed the towel lightly over the spill and left it at that. There would be spatters that were grouped together, and then there would be a space, then another group, then another space, and so on. It was rather peculiar-looking, and Harry figured that it must have been quite a mess to clean up. The pattern was very distinct…in fact, the stains rather resembled…

Words.

Harry took a double-take. Yes, they were words. The curvature of some of the spatters gave away subtle the shape of letters, but mostly the stains were so smeared that it was nearly impossible for Harry to make out what they said.

"Well?" Aunt Petunia demanded, watching him closely.

Harry turned to look at her, shocked.

"How…how did this happen?"

"Why does that matter?" she said almost disdainfully, but Harry saw her horsy face go pale all the same. She wasn't going to tell him how it happened. So it must have had something to do with magic, something just weird enough to cause her to go mute about it.

"Well? What do they mean by it?" she repeated, more sharply this time.

"I…can't really read it," Harry said honestly.

Aunt Petunia glared at him. "You stupid boy, really…" she growled, as if she thought it utterly ridiculous that he was unable to read a bunch of smears. She pushed him aside a little, so he was crammed against the wall. "This is a 'the'," she said as if it were the most obviously thing in the world, pointing to the first and most illegible stain. "This one is a 'word'," she said, pointing to the second stain group.

"Erm, yeah, I know it's a word," Harry replied dully.

"No, you stupid boy," she said again. "It's the word 'word'! This third one is 'is', and the next is 'out'."

Harry rushed to put the words together in his mind. "'The word is out'? What is that supposed to mean?"

"How the hell am I supposed to know?" said Aunt Petunia irritably. "The sentence ends there. The next word is 'You', then 'must', then 'stay', then 'alert'."

Aunt Petunia was reading the smears so fast that he knew that she must merely be reciting it all from memory, rather than deciphering the actual stain. But Harry had gotten the hang of it now, and he could sort of see the words through the tea.

"The word is out," he read aloud. "You must stay alert. They are…" He squinted at this last word.

"'Coming'" finished Aunt Petunia ominously. "It's not signed."

A heavy silence fell. They are coming… Harry had the feeling that he knew who the "they" were. His stomach twisted painfully.

"How did you get this, Aunt Petunia?" he asked seriously. "Who sent this, how did you receive it?"

"I don't know who sent it!" she snarled irritably.

"Okay, then how did you get it? Why is it written in tea?"

She paused, her face again going pale. Harry noticed that she had begun chewing on her tongue, a nervous habit of hers.

"Aunt Petunia, listen, I have to know how you got this, it's really important, okay?" Harry hoped that, if he knew the way the message was delivered, he might get some clue as to who sent it. And if it could be trusted.

Aunt Petunia's eyes were defiant.

"Aunt Petunia…please…" Harry pleaded.

"It's not important," she snapped, looking away.

"Look, I'm not going to think you're crazy, but I really need to know how you –"

Harry stopped mid-word. Something hot had just splashed down his back, soaking through his shirt.

Bemused, he turned to the washing machine, on top of which his undrunk cup of tea sat. Harry was shocked to see that the liquid was roiling, bubbling as if something beneath the surface was fighting to get out.

"Oh no," Aunt Petunia moaned, staring at it. "No, not again!" She backed away as far as she could, until her backside collided with the far wall. She sank to the floor looking absolutely terrified, hands over her face.

Harry kept his eyes on the teacup. It was bubbling harder than ever, and little spits of tea kept flying out. Harry got hit in the forehead and he wiped it away impatiently as his other hand groped for the wand tucked in his waistband. He pulled it out and held it at the ready, pointed directly at the teacup.

Then something orange leapt clear of the tea into the air, and Harry was so surprised he forgot to act. It landed with a wet plunk on top of the dryer as the tea in the teacup settled down once more.

Harry stared at the orange thing, his heart pounding in his chest. He was shocked to see that it was a common goldfish. Before he could think much of this, the goldfish began to dart – like a dance, somehow – across the surface. Its wet tailfins flashed, drawing lines of pearly brown tea over the white metal. Words began to form, and a dazed Harry realized that this must have been the mode of delivery for the last message as he began to read this new one.

"THEY ARE COMING. THE TIME IS SHORT. YOU MUST GET OUT. THE HOUSE IS NOT SAFE ANYMORE. HOGWARTS IS NOT SAFE ANYMORE. THEY ARE COMING."

The message complete, the fish flopped down and remained limp, its gills gasping for breath in the waterless environment. Harry remained stock still, listening to nothing but his own heartbeat and the sound of Aunt Petunia's whimpering. Only one thought could cross his mind – What happens now?