Author's Notes: And here you have it, the sequel to Three Turns Of The Hourglass! If you are not familiar with Three Turns Of The Hourglass, my short fanfiction detailing the end of The Order Of The Phoenix, with several large alterations, I suggest you read it, otherwise I doubt this renovition of the sixth Harry Potter book will be of much sense to you.

As always, I ask that you please review. I would very much like to know who, if anyone, is enjoying my story and how I can improve. Thank you and please, enjoy!

Chapter I: The Vanishing Door

It is not often that one dreams while awake. Commonly, some manner of sleepiness must be involved for one to lapse over into the realm of ethereal visions. Certainly there is the less-rewarding standard of daydreaming, which one might argue to be much more gratifying in means of controlling ones thoughts and therefore channeling the dream, but regardless the fact remains that it is very unusual for one to dream while still being tightly tied to the waking world.

But on this, a particularly cold day in June—the coldest summer day on record in Surrey, and a bone of contention for the residents of Privet Drive—Harry Potter jerked his head from his hands, emerging from a dream which had really been more of a vision, and wondering, blankly, why he could never find a moment's peace anymore.

Harry was a tall boy, slightly lanky, with dark hair that was perpetually untidy, vivid green eyes that seemed almost permanently grayed by lack of sleep and were hidden by thick-framed spectacles that seemed to have been broken then mended several times, and a scar on his forehead in the shape of a single lightning bolt. This, more than anything—more than his pale complexion or his over-large shirt or his baggy jeans or his shredded trainers—was what set Harry Potter apart from most other people…it made him special, even in the secret world that he was privileged to be a part of.

For you see, Harry Potter was a wizard; a wizard of extraordinary sorts, and one who was currently tallying on his calendar the fifth night in a row that he had not slept in a single week.

Night had bloomed beyond Harry's window, the pale full moon casting a dull sheen across his disarranged room on the upper floor of Number Four, Privet Drive. Standing with his shoulders pressed into the wall, a pen—he did not waste expensive ink on marking the days down on his calendar—dangling limply from his fingers, he gazed around at the floor, besmirched by ancient ink stains, scattered spell-books, robes, owl feathers, useless parchment pieces that were overflowing from his wastebasket, and several quills that he had, by mistake, broken with his shaking hands while attempting to pen letters to his closest friends.

Now Harry…moving like a sleepwalker…approached his desk, and fell heavily into the straight-backed, uncomfortable wooden chair beside it, flicking on the dim light and staring down at the beginnings of the letter that he had been worrying over for an hour before attempting, unsuccessfully, to sleep. He wasn't at all certain what to do with himself anymore, seeing as how he was now faced will a full night and day in relative solitude, repeatedly. He had no one to talk to about this troubling sleeplessness; his aunt and uncle, Petunia and Vernon Dursley, would just as soon he suffered rather than offer solutions, and Dudley, Harry's overweight and rather mean cousin, would likely make some jab along the lines of, " You're a wizard, aren't you, you freak? Why don't you just jinx yourself to sleep? Oh, wait, you can't, because then you'll be expelled from that dumb school of yours!"

Harry was grudgingly forced to admit that Dudley was right, though privately he thought that, if this pattern of empty nights and visions while waking continued, he wouldn't be worth much on his return to school anyways.

And Harry did want to go back to school, quite unlike most children of his age, because in truth Hogwarts, school of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was the closest thing to a real home he had ever had. Certainly the Dursleys gave him shelter, but to Harry's heart, which had always longed for a feeling of something more than being just a burden, Number Four Privet Drive was no more his home than were the trashcans outside.

And in this darkest of dark nights, in this time when everything in his world seemed to be upside-down and inside-out, he felt certain that Hogwarts would be something of a sanctuary.

Rubbing his aching, tired eyes, Harry gazed down at his letter as though hoping it would magically write itself. He scanned through the feeble paragraph he had already written…and considered adding this scrap of parchment to the excessive heap already crowding his wastebasket.

He had been trying to pen this letter for close to a month, but somehow it never seemed to come out right. He could never describe in full detail the dreams that had haunted him for three weeks until, finally, his mind shut down all together, and the sleeplessness began. He could never aptly articulate the truth of what he saw when he had the visions, or where he mind wandered if given the chance. He could not find the words to say how desolate he felt, locked in this prison of a house, cut off from the world he missed and the friends he loved so much…

But Harry was just as afraid to write to them as he was to maintain this lasting pause in communication. Because he knew he couldn't write to his best friend, Ron Weasley…the last time they had seen each other, after walking for hours in the barren countryside together, Ron had seemed like a conscious sleepwalker, and he hadn't said a word when they had separated at the King's Cross station…Harry feared greatly that Ron would not reply to his letters. And Harry felt far too ashamed to write to his godfather, Sirius Black…not because Sirius wouldn't write back, because Sirius always, always did, but because Harry knew that there would be something, some hint of the distance he felt inside of him, hidden in any reply letter, and because Harry knew he had betrayed Sirius's trust in him during their last meeting by acting like a child who refused to be comforted.

And so that left Hermione…Hermione Granger, his other best friend, and the most brilliant witch Harry had ever met. And it was to her that he had been trying, and failing, to write, for nearly a month…and he failed miserably because he hadn't even stopped to say goodbye to her when he left the Hogwarts Express—the utterly ruined scarlet steam-engine—and Hermione behind him, dragging the bodies of their unconscious friends from the remains of the carriage that had sheltered them all.

Harry had to admit, if only to himself, that he was afraid Hermione would be angry with him for leaving her behind. And he didn't want to put any more distance between himself and his friends…not when it seemed that Hermione was the last one he could count on.

But there might have been another person to write to…one more magical somebody that Harry thought might have had an answer, someone who he had begun to trust implicitly during his most recent year at Hogwarts. He thought that maybe she would have some idea, because there was a bond linking them together that went deeper than friendship; it was understanding, the understanding of the manipulated and the used, the remorseful who were trying to make things right. And with his strange dreams bringing the fear that he was being toyed with by the enemy again, Harry desperately, desperately wanted to write to her.

But he couldn't, because Ginny Weasley was currently in the hands of the Death Eaters, Dark Wizards of great strength and number, her whereabouts unknown, her status unknown, likely under the supreme strain of torture at the hands of the Darkest wizard that had ever risen to higher power; Lord Voldemort.

Harry's elbows descended onto the desktop with a bang, and he buried his face in his hands.

It was the Ginny's kidnapping that had been driving him mad all summer; he could still remember that day, clear as though he was seeing it all happening over again, whenever he allowed his idle mind to wander. And no matter what consolatory words were spoken, he knew that it was his fault; because he had dragged her with him into the past, to make right a wrong that would have devastated his life, and because Voldemort thought that Ginny had some power above and beyond what was normal for a witch of her age. Or maybe he didn't…maybe he was going to use Ginny for a bargaining chip against Harry. Voldemort would know who Harry was close to…

For three endless, tortured weeks, and for five endless, tortured days and nights after that, Harry had wondered if he would change what he had done, if given the chance. But it was a terrible line to walk…on the one hand, Ginny, innocent and brave, and on the other, Sirius, the one person who he would have gone to any lengths to save. It was a dreadful choice to make, and some part of Harry was glad, whatever the consequences, that the task of choosing was behind him now. Because he did not feel at all decisive now…not after the events of three days before that had added a whole new aspect to the sorry mess.

It had been the second day that Harry had gone without sleeping; he had descended the stairs, into the kitchen, his appetite absent but his need for food still strong as ever, and he had found the Dursleys all seated around the table, eating in silence and not paying him any mind whatsoever.

That was not meant to last, however; the moment Harry had retrieved a cereal bowl from the cupboard, Aunt Petunia had glanced up at him, her horsy face twisted with rebuke, as she surveyed the dark circles under his eyes, his listless movements, his vacant expression.

" What's the matter with you?" She had demanded snappishly, as though it was a sin for Harry to feel anything. Without replying Harry had flung himself down at the table and proceeded to pour himself a bowl of cereal, ignoring Dudley, who, by the look of it, was already well into his third bowl.

" Answer your aunt when she speaks to you!" Uncle Vernon had ordered tersely. Harry had thought that perhaps his essentially dim-witted uncle had somehow realized that Harry had lost almost all contact with the wizarding world, and that such knowledge had made him bolder; whatever the case, Uncle Vernon had gone back to treating Harry like the scum of the earth in recent weeks. Only by a massive exertion of effort had Harry been able to control the anger frothing inside of him.

" Nothing's the matter with me." He had stated dully, stirring his cereal about his bowl distractedly.

" Don't use that vacant, disrespectful tone with me, boy!" Aunt Petunia snapped in reply, and Harry had glanced up to say, much more firmly, " Nothing's wrong!"

" Yeah, right." Dudley had mumbled with his mouth half full of sweet cereal. After swallowing…and half-choking in the process…he had added maliciously, " Are you having nightmares again? Is ickle Harry scared of the dark?"

" Shut it, Dudley." Harry had hissed beneath his breath.

" Well, for goodness sake, boy, if something's wrong with you, by all means we should get you checked. We don't want you doing you-know-what, if the neighbors hear…" Aunt Petunia, at least, seemed to have grasped that Harry could and, if the situation called for it, would, without reprisal, use magic to cure himself of any serious ailments.

" I said nothing's wrong." Harry had insisted quickly…but then something, maybe desperation, maybe that unbearable, painful loneliness, had ripped deeply into Harry's soul, and he had suddenly found himself blurting, " My best friend's sister was kidnapped at the end of term."

He could see that this news had little affect on his uncle or his cousin; Dudley had simply sneered, and Uncle Vernon muttered something about lax security and padded cells, but Harry was watching Aunt Petunia, who had gone a curious shade of green.

" Not…not the Dementors?" She had gasped. Dementors were the only thing in the wizarding world that Aunt Petunia feared just as greatly as Harry did, and Harry had seen the relief in her eyes when he shook his head.

" No…Death Eaters. The closest supporters of Lord Voldemort." He had explained, his voice gaining a bit of life as he went on. " We don't know where she is, or if she's alive, and I…I've been having dreams…"

Dreams where she dies. He had concluded silently, but he didn't say it, because Dudley was suddenly laughing.

" Aaahhh, you're having dreams? Is the little-bitty kidnapped you-know-what your girlfriend? Ha, ha!"

And then, without knowing what came over him, Harry had been on his feet, his wand out of his pocket and pointing at Dudley's flushed face, and he had been trembling all over, ignoring Aunt Petunia's tiny shriek and Uncle Vernon's ham-like fists slamming down on the table.

" You…shut up…about Ginny." He had hissed the words raggedly.

Dudley had looked anxious but not truly frightened.

" You can't do you-know-what here, you'll get expelled from that stupid school of yours for sure this time!" Dudley had stated triumphantly. " So I'll say whatever I like! I'll say that that little freak got what she deserved…"

And then Dudley had been flying through the air, colliding with the wall, where Harry had held him, one arm braced against Dudley's throat, his wand digging into his cousin's cheek. And before Uncle Vernon could leap roaring from his seat and come at them, Harry had snarled, with as much venom as he could muster, " If you talk about Ginny like that again, I swear I'll kill you."

This was the third summer that Harry had been locked in his room without any hope of being let out except for meals and to use the bathroom.

Now, as he listened to his Uncle snoring down the hall, Harry wondered, dully, over what Dudley had said…he had asked if Ginny was Harry's girlfriend.

She wasn't, of course…Harry hadn't had a great deal of time for dating during the past year, and his only relationship, with Cho Chang, had ended rather badly on Valentine's Day…but he couldn't deny that, with Ginny, he wanted something more. He truly wanted to be closer to her, but he couldn't understand why. He had known she fancied him for several years now, but it was only in the past seven months or so that he had begun to notice things about her…the way she laughed, the way her eyes glowed, the way she smiled at him…

And he felt terrible for thinking of her that way right now, because it wasn't objective, and everyone knew that when it came to matters involving Voldemort, one had to be objective.

With a low cry of anger burning in his throat, Harry swept all of his parchment, quills, and empty ink bottles from his desk with one arm, and then leaned forward, resting his cheek against the semi-warm wood, as he wondered what to do next.

Obviously, he couldn't escape from the Dursleys…not without inflicting harm on them, or using magic. And there was no hope that Ron and Hermione would come and rescue him…besides the will, they quite obviously lacked the means. And Sirius…regardless of whatever had happened between them, Harry didn't want his godfather risking exposure to a world that thought him either dead or highly dangerous. It was too risky.

Harry had come so close, lately, to writing a letter to Albus Dumbledore, Hogwarts headmaster and the wisest wizard Harry had ever known, asking for advice. But he always stopped himself just short of actually penning his troubles to paper…because he remembered that Dumbledore had gone away somewhere for the summer, and last he had heard…from the less-than-reliable source of the Daily Prophet, which was delivered to him daily by owl post…Dumbledore was supposed to be unreachable. Harry was tempted to take the chance of writing to him anyway, but he didn't want to risk the life of his snowy owl, Hedwig, the only company he had.

Sometimes—owing solely to the fact that she was his only source of friendly companionship anymore—Harry talked to Hedwig. She didn't often seem to understand, but Harry had no one else with which to share his fears, and he had decided long ago that she would have to do. So he read the Daily Prophet aloud to her, and expressed his fears about the new Minister of Magic—the previous one, Cornelius Fudge, had been murdered several days before the end of the last term at Hogwarts, presumably by Voldemort—and how, judging by the reports given by the Prophet, this man…Bandoreen Finch…was quite power hungry and not well suited to the job.

Whenever his worries over the happenings beyond his small home became overpowering, Harry found himself longing after his friends.

The cool night air swirled through Harry's open window, setting the discarded parchment on the floor aflutter. A set of wind-logs chimed somewhere down the street. Distantly, a car backfired, and a dog howled a lonely song to the staring eye of the moon. And Harry wondered what it would be like be normal.

Normal, so that he could listen to these common sounds and be disturbed by them, and not be wondering if each creaking stair, each trembling branch, each rustle in the night was the movements of a Dark wizard creeping into the house to kill him.

Harry had never been much of a worrier…he truly believed that there was no sense in trying to predict and prepare for the unpredictable…but after five nights and five days of constant wakefulness his nerves felt as taut and tender as the skin over a livid, pulsing bruise. He wanted to get up and run from the room, run screaming from the house, down the street and all the way back to Hogwarts, but at the same time he was so weary he didn't ever want to move again.

Occasionally, Harry remembered that Ron and Ginny had invited him to spend the summer with them in the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, the underground organization of highly-skilled wizard who, unbeknownst to the Ministry of Magic—vociferous denouncers of Voldemort's return and quick rise back to power—were operating in secret to bring Voldemort back to his knees. The center of operations for the Order was Sirius's old house, Number 12 Grimmauld Place, though Ron's family now divided their time between Grimmauld and their own home, The Burrow. Frankly, Harry would have felt uniformly blessed to be at either place right now…despite everything that had happened to set him apart from his friends, anywhere was better than the hell that was Number Four, Privet Drive.

But Ron hadn't written him, and Hermione hadn't written him, and Sirius hadn't written him, and Harry somehow felt that the invitation had been revoked. No one was coming to get him…he was going to be stuck here, for the first time since his very first year at Hogwarts, all alone until next term started…if he didn't die of restlessness and loneliness first.

Slowly, Harry lifted his head from the desk, then banged it back down again.

" This is insane." He muttered. He had to get out; he was going mad.

But where could he go? The Burrow was too far away for him to walk there, as was Grimmauld Place, as his legs were still mending from where they had been crushed by a luggage rack when the Death Eaters had attacked the Hogwarts Express three weeks prior. The long, on-foot journey that he and Ron had embarked on shortly thereafter had only complicated the healing process; Harry found that he still couldn't walk great distances without finding himself in serious pain.

He could always use his Firebolt, the top-of-the-line broomstick that Sirius had given him during his third year at Hogwarts, but if he did take wing on his broom, Harry also took a great risk of being seen by Muggles—non-magical folk—because, in a foolish fit of temper, he had left the train without his Invisibility Cloak, which had once belonged to his father. It was only luck that he had gotten any of his school things back at all…luck, and the kind-heartedness of the Weasleys, Ron's family, who had met them at the train station with their luggage in hand.

Harry felt a mixture of sadness and gratitude surging through his belly as he thought of the Weasleys, and he put them from his mind as quickly as he could. There was no point in dwelling on the ones he cared for and couldn't be with. It served no purpose beyond causing him pain.

A low rustling near his window drew Harry's attention. Picking his head up from the desk, he glanced around, heart racing, to see Hedwig shaking out her ruffled feathers and watching him with her luminous amber eyes from her perch on the windowsill.

Harry smiled tightly, and got to his feet, moving to greet her.

" 'Lo, Hedwig." He murmured, running his hand gently along the top of her head. " Been hunting?" Hedwig clicked her beak and shifted slightly beneath his caress. Then, with a swift swiveling of her head, she took wing and glided to her cage, sitting at the foot of Harry's bed; once there she plunged her head into her drinking bowl.

Still grinning despite himself—it was a weak gesture but a gesture of resigned happiness nonetheless—Harry knelt amidst the scattered pieces of discarded parchment all about his floor, and picked up the most recent letter that he had tried…and failed…to finish. With eyes still stinging from sleep deprivation, Harry read what he had written.

Hermione,

Hi. It's Harry. How are you? Are you at Ron's? I wish I was with you guys. Life's pretty boring here. The Dursleys are being about as friendly as Professor Umbridge nowadays. Guess I shouldn't have laid into Dudley the other day, but was being a prat. Anyway, just wondering how you're doing. And I thought you should know, I've been having these weird dreams about

And that was where it ended, because for the life of him Harry couldn't think of a way to describe his dreams and visions, which alternated between reliving that terrible day on the train, and walking down the corridors at Hogwarts, looking for a room that was never, never there. Harry had a strange feeling that he was seeking after the Room of Requirement, a strange place inside the castle walls that granted its seeker whatever they were looking for, but for the life of him Harry couldn't, upon waking or returning to the present, ever remember why he had been looking for that room in the first place.

And so he crumbled up the letter—which sounded too impersonal to be completed anyway—and lobbed it into the trashcan. Then he got to his feet, trudged to his bed, and flung himself across it with his arms tucked behind his head, staring up at the ceiling and watching the moonlight splay in strange, twisted patterns across his walls.

He lay there, sleepless and contemplative, until the first rays of dawn light began to filter over the horizon. He realized then that the neighbor's idiot dog still hadn't shut up; it sounded very close, maybe only a few houses down. Grumbling, Harry staggered to his feet in the semi-darkness and returned to his window, where he leaned his head and shoulders out into the chilly morning and listened intently.

The dog sounded hoarse; it was still baying at the top of its voice, and Harry could see it, across the street and three houses down; the dog was facing his way and lunging sporadically against its chain, dancing on its hind legs for seconds at a time before crashing back down, only to leap up again a moment later.

A prickle of fear brushed against the back of Harry's neck as he wondered what the dog had sensed. Instinctively he swept the deserted street with a single glance, then surveyed the Dursleys' yard. It was empty, as quiet as the rest of the neighborhood, but Harry had a very distinct feeling that something in the shadows was watching him.

" Ron? Hermione?" He called their names impulsively, but nothing stirred in response to his voice. Shaking away the brief hope that had sunk its dagger-sharp talons into him, Harry moved away from the window, picking up his quills and ink bottles as he went and rearranging them in perfect order on his desk. When he had completed this benign task, Harry sensed that it was late enough for him to leave his bedroom. Glancing once more toward the window, he backed out of the room and closed the door softly behind him, turning as he did so.

Uncle Vernon was standing at the top of the stairs five feet in front of Harry, looking as though he had been forced to swallow a bucket of slugs.

" Breakfast." Uncle Vernon grunted unwillingly, patting his rotund belly as he spoke, his reddish face turning even darker in color as though he was embarrassed to be talking to his criminal nephew.

" I know." Harry sighed, following his Uncle downstairs.

Aunt Petunia and Dudley were already seated at the table around a large skillet full of scrambled eggs and hash. Dudley cast a single glance toward Harry, and then, grinning wickedly, he began to load up his plate with food. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia followed his example, leaving Harry to serve himself last. Harry gazed at the small serving of eggs that remained, and thought longingly of Hogwarts, where the plates were only empty when everyone was full.

Breakfast was a quiet affair, with only the clinking of silverware and the occasional rude belch from Dudley puncturing the silence. Harry took his time eating, savoring the small meal as though it was his last. He did his best to ignore his aunt and cousin, who, upon finishing their eating, began to converse quietly, but some of the words that Dudley spoke seeped into Harry's mind, refusing to be barred…

" Yeah, mum, can I go hang out with Piers today? We'll just go down the lane…no, of course I'll stay away from the place where we saw that…that thing last year…just don't let him get anywhere near us…"

As if he didn't know that Harry was confined to his room.

" Of course, Dudders." Aunt Petunia simpered, giving her son an almost dreamy look. " Just be back before dark, okay, sweetums? And tell your friends they can come for dinner if they'd like."

Harry repressed a groan, wondering if he could possibly manage to convince his aunt and uncle to leave him to himself tonight. He was far from afraid of Dudley's gang—a group of boy who were disgustingly mean to almost anyone who crossed their path—but Harry didn't feel he could handle their snide remarks and jeering taunts…not now, when his nerves were so taut and frayed and he was so close to snapping…

" Thanks, mum. I mean, at least I have friends." Dudley directed this snide comment toward Harry, along with a sidelong glance. Harry's hands clenched into white-knuckled fists against his knees.

" I…I'll be right back." He muttered, getting to his feet. Uncle Vernon glanced up from the paper he held in his rather large hands; his beady eyes were glinting with suspicion.

" Where are you off to, boy?" He demanded sharply.

" Bathroom." Harry tried to work a proper note of respect into his voice, and then made a hasty getaway, up to the top of the stairs. He turned the corner toward the bathroom, placed his back to the wall, and slid down into a crouch, head tilted back, eyes closed and breathing ragged…because he could feel it brimming near to bursting, that old sensation of uncontrollable hatred and rage…

Stay calm, stay calm…

But he could only hear Dudley's voice in his head…

" At least I have friends! She got what she deserved! You'll be expelled for sure this time…!"

" Calm." Harry hissed to himself, resting his fists against his forehead. " Don't blow it now…"

A voice called up the stairs to him then, causing Harry to jump.

" Bye-bye, ickle Harry! Wait 'til I tell the boys about your little girlfriend!" Dudley was laughing as he departed from the bottom of the stairs—laughing coldly—and Harry was so angry that he was shaking…and then the pictures on the hallway walls were shaking, too, and Harry could hear things rattling on the bathroom counter two doors down…

He was going to do it, he was going to do something he would regret…

And then, quite suddenly, the shaking stopped. Harry breathed out slowly, carefully, and heard the sound echo. Confused, his lifted his head away from his knees and glanced around—and an icy chill surged through his body.

He was sitting a brightly-lit hallway, very unlike the one he had been crouched in moments before; the walls here were stone, the floor carpeted in red, the world all around flickering in the dim glow of torchlight, and there was something scraping against the back of his head…

He was back at Hogwarts again.

Harry got to his feet, very slowly, afraid to move too fast in case it caused the illusion to dispel. He revolved on the spot, carefully taking in every angle of the corridor and all that was in it—candelabras, suits of armor, tapestries hanging limp from the rafters of the hallway, and a portrait just behind him of a man and several trolls, a portrait that looked very familiar…

The dancing trolls.

Harry's body froze again.

Slowly, he turned to face the opposite wall.

The tapestries fluttered once, the flames bowing in a nonexistence breeze, and then settled back into stillness.

Harry began to pace, very slowly, up and down the corridor in a tight circuit, staring at the wall so intently his head ached.

I need…I need…I need…

What did he need?

I need to find out what my dreams mean.

Harry repeated this phrase in his head again and again as he paced, and on the third lap around the predestined space, a door shivered into existence before him. Harry stepped toward it eagerly, caution abandoned, and reached for the knob…

And then the world around him vanished; Harry blinked, looking round at the dull, off-white walls hung with immobile pictures of the Dursley family. Then he turned back to stare what was directly before him.

His fingertips were brushing the empty wall. There was nothing there.

Disappointment flooded through Harry, and he stepped back, lowering his arm to his side. Perhaps the anguish of the not knowing was so terrible because this felt like an echo of the times he had raced down the hallways in the Department of Mysteries, searching for something.

But this was also different, because he wasn't truly asleep when these new visions sprang up. He was safely awake and alive, but caged, trapped in the prison of his own mind, unable to discern fiction from reality…

Yet there was another similarity between his visions of the previous year and the ones he was seeing now, a definite parallel, not bound inside the dreams but rather outside them, that linked them together and made Harry wonder if they somehow led down the same road, to the same single place—neither the Department of Mysteries nor the Room of Requirement, but something that was a tallying of both…

Harry placed his flat palm to the wall, leaned his forehead to the cool plaster, and inhaled deeply.

His scar was burning.