This is a sixth year story, non HBP or DH compliant, but takes up where OotP left off. It may be only a summer story, or it may turn into an entire sixth year story. We'll see.

Disclaimer: I'm really JKR, and I'm a bazillionaire, posting here everything I couldn't fit in the canon books. Or maybe I'm a 19-year old broke college kid from South Dakota, doing this for fun, and making no profit. Take your pick.

Chapter One

A year ago at this time, the sun had been blistering hot, and the neatly trimmed, manicured lawns of Little Whinging had been burned to a crisp, even more so than they were now. The sidewalks, so hot, would have served to fry eggs, had a person so wished it. Of course, the resulting egg might not have been the most hygienic to eat, but that was entirely beside the point.

Kelly Winthrop shook her head to clear the nonsense out of it. How had she gone off on a tangent about eggs on sidewalks? Her mind was so strangely inclined, these days. She shook her short black hair out of her eyes again and shaded her eyes against the sun, high in the sky, halfway through its daily journey. At least it wasn't so hot now, though it wasn't exactly cool either.

"Give me a hand with this, Kelly?"

A tall, wiry man was motioning to her from the back of the truck, one hand on a chest of drawers. Nodding, she hopped down from the high passenger's seat and ambled toward him.

Grunting heavily, the two hefted the oak set down the ramp, across the lawn and up the steps into their new home. The man and his daughter half-carried, half-dragged it into the master bedroom, panting heavily by the time it had reached its' resting place.

"Thanks, Kelly. Time for a cancer stick, I think."

She nodded to her father wearily, watching him pull a pack from his breast pocket and light up. She wished he wouldn't smoke, and if it wasn't for the stress he was under, she would've said something to him about it. But after Mum, did little things like smoking really matter?

Not for the first time today, Kelly sighed and looked up and down the street. She hated this town already. But for the sequential house numbers and the occasional different flowerbed, each house was the same as the last, and the residents of the houses were probably the same story.

Here came one of them now, in fact. A short, fat man, his mustache flaring out as the man breathed with the exertion of crossing the street. Kelly doubted that the man had had this much physical exertion in several decades. He was sweating heavily, great massive sweatstains under each arm, and a V of it under his collar. Kelly regarded him with impassion as he stepped onto the driveway.

The man stopped in front of her father and gave her what he must've thought was a reassuring smile, before extending a fat, pudgy hand to her father, who stood to greet him.

"Name's Vernon Dursley. It's good to meet you," he breathed heavily.

"Ben Winthrop – the pleasure is all mine, Mr. Dursley," her father intoned politely, shaking the older man's hand. "This is my daughter, Kelly."

Vernon nodded at her again, before returning his gaze to her father.

"Moving in, are you?" the man smiled greasily, and Kelly had to restrain herself from rolling her eyes. No, we're just moving in furniture for the hell of it.

Ben nodded, and said nothing more. The two men stared at one another for a moment, and then Vernon stepped back suddenly from the curb.

"Well, I just stopped by to greet the new neighbors and see if you needed anything," he said hastily, backing away from the curb a few more inches, making to turn back towards his house.

"We could use help moving in furniture," Kelly found herself saying, standing up suddenly. The fat man's eyes turned toward her.

"Well, it's been a long day," Vernon said, fidgeting a little, eyeing the many large and heavy things still in the back of the truck. "I'm pretty knackered, as it is. Perhaps tomorrow – "

"You said you wanted to help," Kelly interrupted him, not caring that she was being incredibly rude, or that her father had his hand on her shoulder, silently begging her to behave herself.

A light suddenly turned on in Mr. Dursley's eyes, and he stopped fidgeting.

"Tell you what," Vernon said, "I've just remembered I have some important work to do at the, er, office. But my nephew would be happy to help you; he's not doing anything important at the moment."

Kelly opened her mouth to say something else, but her father's hand clamped down on her shoulder and Ben said graciously, "Thank you, Mr. Dursley. That would be very nice of you." Dursley nodded again, and crossed the street quickly.

"That was rude, Kelly," her father said very quietly, taking another drag on his cigarette. Kelly let her breath out quickly. She hated how calm her father was all the time. She wanted him to yell at her, to be angry when she was rude to innocent neighbors. He looked at her for just a second, and the haunted look in his eyes quelled her anger. Even more than his newfound calmness, she hated the defeated look in his eyes. Ever since Mum…

It hurt to think about it. She shook her head again to clear it and stared across the street at the boy who had just exited Number Four. He was dressed in possibly the ugliest assortment of clothes she had ever seen; his shirt looked like it would've been just the right size for his uncle, and the pants he was wearing looked like they would be well suited for a circus clown. His sneakers were nearly destroyed, and he had an ugly scar on his forehead.

Her father snuffed the cigarette out on the pavement and stood to greet the boy. Kelly remained seated. If the two specimens of humans she had met so far on this wretched street were any indication of the rest of them, she had no interest in being polite or friendly to any of them. It was unreasonable, but reasonable was not something she was especially fond of being, particularly in the foul mood she was currently in.

Luckily, this boy apparently had no interest in talking or making meaningless conversation either, and so after stiff introductions the three worked in an awkward silence. Her father, for the sake of propriety, tried to pay the boy – did he say his name was Harry? – but he refused, and also refused Ben Winthrop's invitation to dinner. The truck was soon cleared out, and the boy, continually looking about as if he expected to be attacked at any moment, made his excuses and hurriedly left the two Winthrops standing in their dining room.

Ben frowned as the boy strode purposefully across the street, watching him burst through the door of Number Four like it was the only safe place on Earth.

"Something strange about that boy," he said thoughtfully to his daughter.

"Probably had a Playstation waiting for him," Kelly said derisively, supremely disinterested.

Her father frowned again and replied, "Did you notice he was carrying something under his left arm?"

Kelly fixed him with a penetrating glance. "Dad, he could've hidden a Volkswagen under that tent he was wearing."

"I was thinking more along the lines of a knife," the elder Winthrop said, thought for a moment, shrugged, and settled into his chair. "It's been a long day," he said, smiling at Kelly and cracking a beer.

Kelly gazed out the window across the street, where Vernon Dursley and who she assumed to be his wife and son were getting into the car, presumably going out for dinner. The boy Harry was not with them; if his actions earlier were any indication, he had a fear of leaving the house.

She sighed heavily, and her father looked up at her. "This is going to be a long summer," she said sadly.


Across the street, at roughly the exact same time, Harry Potter was thinking along the same train of thought. Despite being out of school for a mere four days, the Boy-Who-Lived was already wishing for the term to begin. Anything would be better than this miserable room in this wretched house, on this impeccable street in Little Whinging.

Little Whinging was a place that any normal, sane young British couple would dream to live in someday. Property values were up like never before, and there was even talk that a new shopping center might be opening up a mile down the road, which would probably cause real estate in the immediate vicinity to gain even more ground. There was no crime to speak of, other than the occasional random act of vandalism by some pampered teenage brat. Despite the Dursley's derision of Stonewall High, the school had a good educational reputation. But despite all the great things Little Whinging had to offer, Harry would've preferred the depths of hell to this, well, hellhole.

Lies. Violence. Death. They followed him everywhere, and the only thing that Harry could conceive of would be that they would follow him here.

Well, there would go your perfect crime record, Harry thought savagely. He had witnessed firsthand the savagery the Death Eaters were capable of, and had no doubt that they would have any compunctions about destroying the lives of a few more innocent people if it meant getting to him.

Even the nice people that had bought the place across the street. So when his uncle had asked – rather, told – him to go help them move in, it had been only his desire to avoid a fight with his family that had persuaded him to help, careful to remember to take his wand with him. He was by no means afraid of manual labor – in fact, he genuinely liked it, as anything that could take his mind off his late godfather was heartily welcomed by the young wizard. It was just that, in Harry's experience, anyone whom he got close to ended up hurt or dead.

Sirius. Never did an hour go by that that name didn't present itself, an accusing, nagging name. Sirius, falling through the veil, his last words dying on his lips as he was catapulted from the realm of the living into…whatever there was after this life.

Letters from Ron and Hermione were unsurprisingly staunch with admonishments not to blame himself; that he had made a mistake which many a stronger or smarter wizard would've made; that Sirius wouldn't want him to wallow like he was.

Harry didn't agree. He was suffering from what Muggle psychiatrists refer to as survivor's guilt, and no amount of reassuring letters would convince him of his innocence.

Perhaps, the Boy-Who-Lived thought, if he could just get a decent night's sleep his summer would look a little brighter. But even in his dreams he was plagued by grief and nightmares of that fateful trip to the Department of Mysteries that had claimed the closest thing to family he had ever had.

Groaning in frustration and rolling over on the bed, he padded down the stairs, no particular destination in mind. He ambled through the kitchen and dining room, to the door. For a moment he stood, indecisive, and finally threw open the door rather more violently than was necessary and stood on the doorstep, looking out at the lawn listlessly.

What he would give to be in Snape's potion class right now, stewing in the dungeons with the hook-nosed professor giving him the evil eye. Anything would be better than this place. He stood for a few moments more, simply looking at the dying grass. He vaguely wondered how long it would take to count every single blade on the lawn. Perhaps it was a venture worth undertaking. Although, considering the highly suspicious nature of the other residents of Privet Drive, perhaps it would be better if he were to count the blades in the fenced backyard first. Then, if there was time, he might do the front lawn.

"Something wrong, Harry?"

Harry jumped about a foot in the air, startled out of his reverie. He couldn't see anyone, but the voice sounded unmistakably like Remus Lupin. Probably under an invisibility cloak. Then it struck him how ridiculous he must look, standing vacantly for five minutes in an open doorway.

"Harry?" the voice had a modicum of concern now, and the last thing Harry wanted was for Remus to run back to Dumbledore telling him how Harry was losing his marbles.

"I-I'm fine," he croaked.

Silence. Remus wasn't convinced.

"Look, Remus, I'm fine. I just – thought I heard something out here, is all."

Lupin remained quiet for a second, and then:

"Alright, Harry. Just promise me you'll tell me – or someone else, if you don't want to talk to me – if you ever need to talk."

I'll keep that in mind, Harry thought savagely, though he knew Remus was only trying to help. He had lost more than Harry had, after all – Sirius had been his friend for nearly twenty-five years.

"Thanks, Remus," he forced himself to say, and he shut the door slowly.

Standing with his back to the door, the last Potter slowly slid to the floor, holding his head in his hands. And for the first time in nearly seven years, he wept.

Author's Note: I've always loved Harry Potter fanfiction, and I finally decided to try my hand at it. If readers seem to like this, I'll continue it. If not, I'll probably continue anyway, since this is mostly for my own benefit. Cheers!