Chapter 1

Eye of the Storm

The early morning fog from two weeks prior had yet to lift and the creeping scarlet dawn foretold of another wet day for the residents of Little Whinging, Surrey. Although relieved of their complaints of parched grass and dust from the previous season, the steady drizzle did not suit the inhabitants of the sleepy suburbia. The lawns and shrubbery now sparkled green, yet sodden grounds and distant thunder kept young and old inside. Long tired of typical rainy-day amusements, they began to turn to each other for entertainment, or, more often the case, to vent frustration.

Such was the case at number four Privet Drive when a disheveled teenager was jolted out of sleep this gloomy Saturday. A booming voice rang from downstairs, soon mixed a crash and nasally yells. The teen moaned and slowly lifted a plume of black bangs from over a pair of brilliant green eyes. He squinted at his bed-stand clock and could just barely make out the blurred numbers. Twelve o'clock. Noon. He closed his eyes again and allowed his head to fall onto the mattress, shoving the pillow over his head. More muffled shouts from downstairs. He squeezed his eyes tight and tried to pretend he couldn't hear anything. In fact, that is what he had been trying to do for the past two weeks: block out life. Forget where he was, what he was doing, what his family was doing, what he had to do—forget that he was Harry Potter.

CRACK! A great clap of thunder split the air nearby and the lightening illuminated the bars of Hedwig's empty cage against the walls. Harry had sent her with his promised bi-weekly letter to Lupin two days ago, but had not seen her since. He suspected Lupin was holding onto her until this latest storm died down a bit. He didn't mind—Hedwig would need a decent rest after a long flight to London, where he suspected Lupin was staying at the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix...number twelve Grimmauld Place...Sirius' home...

Stop it, he told himself. He clutched the pillow harder over his head, trying to drown out the storm, the shouts from downstairs, the memory of Sirius falling... Familiar blackness started to consume him, almost as if he too, were falling through the veil. He was almost asleep again when his bedroom door flew open and slammed against the wall. He cracked open his eyes under the pillow, but did not move—judging by the clacking heels, it was just Aunt Petunia.

"Still in bed!" she screeched. The heels clattered around the small room, apparently surveying the scene.

"Lazy, useless git," she muttered under her breath, quite Kreatcher-like. He closed his eyes again and the footsteps stopped.

"Up! Now! Your uncle wants a word downstairs!" He didn't move and was swiftly rewarded with the sharp sting of a wooden mixing spoon slapping his back.

"NOW!" In a huff, he threw the pillow from his head and swept off his bed so quickly that Aunt Petunia started. He grabbed his glasses off of his bureau, shoved them on his face, and jumped to his feet.

Suddenly, a sharp pain swept through his head and just as quickly as he had risen, he fell to his bed again. His aunt, who was already by the door, swept back to him as he quietly massaged his forehead. His lightening-bolt scar had split open not two months ago when Lord Voldemort (whom had marked him with that scar as a baby) tore into his body and mind, in an attempt to possess him. Each time his scar had twinged since, the ache was becoming clearer, until his head felt red-raw...almost as though the scar was reverting back into a cut.

"What is wrong with you boy? Are you ill?" A cool hand suddenly embraced his forehead and he jerked up in shock. Aunt Petunia had never once checked his temperature, even that time when he was seven and covered in chicken pox—she had just shoved spoonfuls of bitter pink liquid down his throat and tossed him a bottle of calamine lotion—stop complaining, she had breathed.

"You haven't got a fever," she continued, moving her hand to his cheek. Harry automatically recoiled slightly but, in the next second, surprisingly held down a lump in his throat. He closed his eyes, not daring to hope that his Aunt would greet him with a kind, caring look he had always so desperately longed for. Yet as the pain subsided, the hand did not move. He felt her thumb brush away a tear he did not know had escaped. But the moment his eyes opened, the hand disappeared and was replaced with the retreating form of his Aunt. She paused by the door, not turning around.

"We'll be waiting for you."

Sure enough, five minutes later as Harry slouched into the kitchen, he found the three Dursleys impatiently awaiting his arrival. Dudley's massive frame occupied a chair in the corner, his beefy arms flexing as he picked at the remains of his dinner with the end of his pocket knife, eyes downcast. Aunt Petunia leaned into the sink, dipping her hands in the dishwater, but making no true effort to clean the dishes. Only Uncle Vernon, who had evidently been pacing, stopped his motions and turned toward Harry, his moustache bristling, as it often did when he was upset. Harry hesitated at the door, then, against his better judgment, took a step into the kitchen. He too, cast his eyes downward, and waited to be addressed (as "boy", no doubt...Harry sometimes wasn't sure if Uncle Vernon really knew his name). The air was heavy--still with tension, like the eye of a storm. However, after a moment of silence, Harry glanced up to see his Uncle looking fit to burst. It seemed time to make the first move.

"What," Harry asked.

Wrong choice of words. Uncle Vernon looked as though he might explode, but Harry was bored by this game. He stared his uncle down as fragments of words seemed to escape from under the mustache.

"What...ungrateful...insolent...little...lazy," Uncle Vernon sputtered.

Aunt Petunia looked over her shoulder as Uncle Vernon pointed a sausage- sized finger at the chair next to Dudley.

"Sit."

His hand was shaking and Harry dimly thought that it would be unwise to disobey. He took a seat next to his cousin, who continued to mash peas with his knife. What's he about this time, Harry wondered to himself. Uncle Vernon seemed to hear his thoughts and answered.

"All right. Since you two lads seem to think you are old enough to do as you please, and mind you, you will not continue on as you have been," Vernon, pointing toward Dudley, "You. Are grounded and will behave like a young gentleman (Harry snorted to himself) that attends Smeltings is expected to act: no more gambling, smoking, none of it!"

Aunt Petunia sniffed and moved the dishwater around with her sponge, "It just those friends of his. They forced him into it."

Uncle Vernon solemnly nodded. "No matter, though," he grunted. He squinted his eyes now and rounded on Harry.

"And you," he continued, his voice growing more menacing, "You are permanently grounded."

"What did I do?" Harry yelped incredulously.

"You, lazing around during the day, making a racket every night, acting as though someone's died..."

Harry could not meet his eyes, but his face started to feel hot, mingling somewhere between hurt and fury.

"If you think you can do whatever you please, eating our food, lodging in our house, you are finally going to earn your keep and get a job--"Uncle Vernon started.

"Fine! I'll get a bloody job!" Harry pounded his fist into the table, unable to contain himself. "But don't act as though I've done anything wrong! I haven't been smoking! I haven't been beating kids up and breaking and entering! I never—"

He was cut short as Dudley took the knife and slammed it into the table, an inch from Harry's fist.

"Don't try to pin anything on me Potter! You're the one who's been sneaking around, trying to do...to do magic ("Dudley!" cried Aunt Petunia, looking around nervously) at any turn!" Uncle Vernon turned again on Harry and Dudley seized his chance.

"I've seen him at it dad! Looking at books, muttering...words. What good do you think those bloody useless spells are going to do you Potter?" Dudley sneered.

"Because one day," Harry began calmly, "I'm going to use those bloody useless spells to cause you as much pain as you've caused me."

But just as Harry was no longer afraid of his cousin, Dudley had grown tired of fearing Harry. He lunged at Harry and shoved him hard, pinning him and the chair against the wall. He prodded his knife at Harry's throat. Aunt Petunia gave a little whimper and Uncle Vernon backed off a step.

"Now, son, don't do anything rash," Uncle Vernon looked worried. Aunt Petunia kept muttering under her breath "No Duddy no Duddy no Duddy..."

"You don't have the power to cause pain, you skinny little freak," snarled Dudley, nicking Harry's skin lightly before backing off.

Relieved to see Dudley backing off, Uncle Vernon seemed to regain his confidence, muttering softly, "Except being a pain in the ass to us."

Harry had had enough. He strode toward the kitchen door, but Uncle Vernon blocked his exit. Uncle Vernon opened his mouth, but Harry beat him to it. The words seemed to rush out of him—suddenly the tidal wave of emotion he had been keeping inside of him all summer, silently weeping over Sirius, frustration of being locked indoors, knots of fear balling in his stomach over the prophecy, tore open.

"A pain. A thorn in your side...I get it. That's all I've ever been to you. You don't want me, you've never wanted me...I get it. I know, okay. I KNOW! You didn't want me? Well, I certainly didn't want this! I didn't ask for this! I didn't ask for any of this! You know NOTHING about pain!! See, I get it. You don't get it, do you? DO YOU!? YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU'VE DONE TO ME!"

Harry's breath was ragged. He had so much inside him, so many things to say, but suddenly, all of the pent-up energy seemed to drain and he just looked at the three of them hopelessly.

"I'm done," Harry whispered, "I can't do it anymore. I won't. I'm leaving. Get out of my way."

Uncle Vernon made the mistake of misjudging Harry's determination and gave him a slight shove back to his chair. Harry, anger welled up again like a volcano and he followed his first reaction—he shoved back.

"Why, you hostile little," Uncle Vernon growled and he slammed Harry back, knocking him hard into the wall. Aunt Petunia scuttled over and Dudley cautiously approached the situation, switchblade at the ready.

"Duddums, put that thing away!" Aunt Petunia yelped.

Harry struggled and Uncle Vernon rewarded him with a stinging slap, but Harry wasn't going to give up that easy. He kicked out and tried to scamper away and Uncle Vernon howled and grabbed his shin. Dudley ran in to help his father and received a kick to the thigh as Harry struggled to get up.

"I'll get you, you freak!" Dudley shouted. In one swift movement, he landed on top of his cousin and the knife that was clutched in his hand found Harry's shoulder.

Harry screamed. Aunt Petunia was trying to help Uncle Vernon up, but everyone was rolling around so much, her heels scuttled back, out of harm's way. Harry tried to kick off Dudley, but the weight could not be ignored—he was pinned. He suppressed another screech of agony as the knife plunged deeper, and looked up through watery eyes for a weapon. He reached out hopelessly with his left arm to a vase on top of the refrigerator. Come on! Harry thought hopelessly, grabbing at the air a second time. Suddenly, he felt odd warmth in his fingers, and the vase levitated and vanished. I must be losing it, he thought, when his cousin's harsh weight went limp, the knife dislodged, and he heard the sharp clink of glass breaking around him. He shoved the limp Dudley off and pushed himself up. He readjusted cracked glasses on his nose and stared at his cousin.

Dudley was lying on the floor, out cold, the vase from on top of the fridge shattered all around him. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were staring at him with looks of terror upon their faces.

"Erm," Dudley moaned. Aunt Petunia rushed over to him and began kissing his head, whimpering. Uncle Vernon just stood looking between the refrigerator and the shattered vase, too shocked for words.

Harry looked at his hands, breathing hard. I couldn't have done that, he thought wildly to himself. That wasn't an accident...I wasn't out of control. I moved that vase. I purposefully moved that vase. Before he had anymore time to think about it, though, he noticed that Uncle Vernon had seemed to regain himself and was helping a disoriented Dudley to his feet.

"I'm...," Harry started, "I'm..." But Harry really wasn't sure what he was. He looked up to see Aunt Petunia staring at him with an offended look in her eyes.

"I...I didn't mean to hurt him," Harry stammered and looked down.

They didn't answer. He saw the blood on his hands—his blood—and added in a whisper, "He was hurting me too."

Aunt Petunia's stare changed, her watery eyes now filled with a look he had never seen before: pity.

"He...is my son," she whispered back, but there was a firmness to her voice.

For some reason, Harry felt as though a poisoned dart had just passed through his heart, hurting more than the aching gash on his back. He knew the Dursleys didn't love him. He had never felt any affection for them either, yet it felt as though something new was breaking in his heart. He managed to nod and made his decision. He walked to the foyer and threw open the front door, but Aunt Petunia started.

"They will kill you!!" she whimpered after him. The house had become deadly silent, only Harry's harsh breaths filling the void.

"He will kill you," she added softly.

Harry stopped dead, standing on the threshold between the foyer and front lawn, safety and freedom, his past and his destiny. He knew this moment would come, the moment he would have to make the choice. As he looked out at a darkened Privet Drive and realized this was the day he had been dreaming about...the moment he was going to be free of the Dursleys forever. But this was not how he imaged it would be. This was not how he imagined it would feel.

"Fine," he said, staring into the darkness, "Let him kill me."

And as he stepped outside, leaving the Dursleys standing dumbfounded at the door, he felt a surge of pain dance across his forehead and a wave a sick joy nauseate him--someone was happy and, like always, it wasn't Harry.