It was pitch black when Harry shot awake, scrambling for his wand. Ragged breaths were the only sound penetrating the thick darkness, his thundering heartbeat hammering in his throat. It was an unbearably stuffy night on Privet Drive, but still Harry Potter shivered violently.

He could still see it; the absolute blackness was a canvas for his nightmares to take shape. He was there, all over again. The cursed cemetery, with cold stone and even colder laugher. Had he even escaped? The hard floor beneath a thin mattress—was he lying inside a tombstone, trapped?

Harry ripped the damp sheets off his shivering form as panic seized him. He clutched his wand. Where was he? Was he dead? Was he in hell? He could still hear that chilling laugh, taunting him. His breath shook as he struggled to breathe the humid August air.

No, he never escaped. He was still there, watching, helpless as that worm stole his mother's last gift to him; her love. He stole it and made that thing and then he came back and then—

A flash.

A streak of green, so vivid, so bright, he could feel the static of the lightning as it shot past him, hitting a boy—a man—and Harry screamed and screamed and could do nothing as the light left his eyes.

Cedric Diggory.

I'm sorry. He whispered through choking tears, but he was already gone.

Harry wept silently, his body shaking in the darkness. It was an oppressively hot night, but he'd never felt so cold.

Harry lie awake, shivering, until dawn peaked through the curtains. His tears had long since dried. He felt raw. A weight had settled over him draining his energy. He was tired. Just so tired. All he wanted to do was lay in bed and forget the world existed, but he couldn't. He had to get up.

With willpower he didn't know he still had, Harry dragged himself off his thin mattress and crawled onto the wooden floor, fumbling for his glasses. His room was sparsely decorated; his Aunt and Uncle were reluctant to give their freak of a nephew even the bare minimum furniture. His bed lay near the center, a tangled mess of thin sheets and thinner pillows. The light of the sun illuminated his small dresser, its brown paint starting to flake off. He had a bookshelf filled with second-hand books and little broken trinkets he'd found over the years, and Hedwig's cage sat on top of a knee-high nightstand. His room was empty, a constant reminder of how little he was wanted in this house.

Harry picked himself off the floor and stumbled to his dresser, pulling out a the first articles of clothing his hands touched. They had all at one time been Dudley's, of course—Aunt Petunia refused to spend any money on such "luxuries" for her nephew. All of his clothes were three sizes too big and hung ridiculously off his too-thin frame. Grabbing it from where he clutched it the night before, he pocketed his wand. Vernon had been too terrified to confiscate it at the beginning of summer. He hated to be without his wand, even for short periods of time.

After dressing, he let Hedwig out of her cage to hunt. He was grateful that Vernon had finally allowed the owl to leave the house, if only because he had threatened to start breeding mice in his room. Aunt Petunia was disgusted and fought with Vernon until he had acquiesced to the lesser of two evils; letting the bird out on her own.

Harry watched the snow-white owl gracefully glide through the air and disappear over the neighbors' houses. At least Hedwig was free on Privet Drive.

Although, Harry was lucky today—his Uncle was having guests over. Vernon wanted to impress some big-time metal manufacturers and Aunt Petunia refused to let such important people encounter their freak of a nephew while she played host in their perfectly normal home. He was to be out of the house by sunrise and not come back until sunset—a deal that suited Harry just fine.

Harry slunk down the stairs, silent as a ghost after years of memorizing every creak. The house was unbearably quiet. The sun had only just risen, yet the already oppressive heat smothered any noise.

He crept into the kitchen. He snatched an apple, a bottle of water, some bread and cheese, and after a moment's hesitation—a peach. He knew Aunt Petunia was loathe to allow him "excess" food, but he knew she would rather he stayed away and if an extra bite of food was the price, she was willing to pay it.

Dudley's outrageously large pockets easily accommodated all of Harry's plunders. With a final glance around the kitchen, he grabbed one more water bottle. It really was going to be a scorching day.

He made for the door, pausing by the small cupboard under the stairs. His Hogwarts things lay just beyond a thick padlock. Locked away, like all freakish things were. Like he had been. With a sour taste in his mouth, Harry turned and walked out of Privet Drive.

That night, he would wish he had never left that cupboard under the stairs.

Harry wandered aimlessly for a few hours, absentmindedly nibbling at his apple. He had nothing to do, really. He had no friends in this muggle town. Dudley had made sure of that when they were younger. He and his gang picked on anybody brave enough to ask the scrawny, messy-haired kid if he'd wanted to play a round of tag. Harry always sat on the edge of the playground when they were little, looking at everyone playing together and having fun. Nothing had changed as he grew older. Until Hogwarts, that is.

He missed Hogwarts terribly in those hours; there, at least, he wasn't alone. After eleven years of painful solitude, he finally had friends. Friends...if only they would talk to him.

Harry sighed. He hadn't received a single letter that contained anything of significance. He begged and pleaded in his notes to Ron and Hermione for any information on Voldemort, anything, but...they never did. It was always about trivial things, like vacations and sibling fights. It was so frustrating! The greatest Dark Lord of this era had been revived, a mass murderer with countless deaths on his hands, and still, it was if the man never existed. Harry needed information. He was trapped in a bubble at Privet Drive. There was no news from the outside, the magical side of Britain. No Daily Prophet, no moving photographs, not even Rita Skeeter for Merlin's sake. The magical world continued on but for three months Harry was trapped in a world without magic.

His fists clenched. Out of all the wizards who should be updated on Voldemort's attacks, it should be him! The man tried to kill him nearly every year at Hogwarts! Harry fumed, punting a small rock that was unlucky enough to be in his path.

Eventually, he settled for a bit at the rundown playground. He sat on one of the few swings still usable; Dudley had managed to break most of them. The sun beat down on him while he finished his sandwich and peach. He had already gone through one of the water bottles. Sweat ran down his face, but strangely, Harry didn't quite feel it. Inside, he shivered. While the outside of him was being baked alive, there was a portion of him, deep down in his core, that remained unbearably cold. Colder than stone.

Harry started as harsh laughter echoed around him. Even in midday he could still feel the freezing grip of death around him, choking him, squeezing him, laughing as he—

He doubled over, gasping. The knots in his throat throbbed as he tried to choke down tears. He grabbed at his wand in his pocket. He felt sick.

Harry didn't move, desperately trying to center himself and regain composure. He couldn't cry anymore—crying wouldn't bring Cedric back. If he had been stronger, he could have shielded him from the curse that killed him. If he had been quicker, he could have gotten to the cup long before Cedric had. But he didn't. He hadn't. He was weak and pathetic and Cedric had paid the price. No, tears were weak, and weakness wouldn't solve anything. He didn't know how long he stayed like that.

Harry was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't notice Dudley until he spoke.

"What're you cryin' over?"

Harry stiffened. He raised he head out of his hands, shooting Dudley daggers enough to turn him to stone.

Dudley scoffed, leaning up against the swings. "Bet it's that boyfriend of yours. What's the bloke's name you always cry out? Cedric?"

"Shut up!"

Dudley rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't get your knickers all in a twist, I hear you moaning his name nearly every night."

Harry clenched his jaw, turning his head to ignore his cousin. "What are you doing out here? Thought your mummy would be beside herself to show off her precious little Dudleycuns."

"She was," Dudley scowled, kicking the dirt. "I just don't want to work in a bloody drill bit factory. So I left."

"Didn't think you were capable of independent thought."

"Didn't think you were capable of growin' past a meter n' a half."

Harry settled for another glare before giving up. Dudley leaned further into the pole. They were both tired. It was too hot out for this.

"Where's your posse of brickheads at?" Harry muttered half heartedly.

"Home. Too hot out."

"And here you are."

"Rather fry than hear one more thing 'bout stocks."

Harry squinted at the sun. Blistering, even as it hung low in the sky, dipping just below the trees. It was getting late.

"When're they supposed to be gone?"

"Reckon they ought've left by now."

Harry stood, cracking his joints. "I'm going back to the house." He took out his remaining bottle of water, drinking deeply.

Dudley straightened. "You better bloody well not drink all of that."

"Piss off." Harry turned and started home. Dudley trailed behind.

"I mean it. Gimme that."

"I'd rather dump it on the ground that give you any."

"You gimme the rest and I'll let you alone the rest of the night."

"Fine." Harry huffed. He tossed Dudley what was left of the water, only about two or three mouthfuls. The larger boy gulped it down in an instant.

Dudley tossed aside the empty bottle. He wiped his face in his shirt. "Hot as balls out."

Harry rolled his eyes and trudged onward back to Privet Drive. Between the heat and bickering with his cousin, he was exhausted. He was so tired, and with so little sleep the past month he was all but stumbling on the way back. Dudley didn't fare much better, the heat proved too exerting on his larger form.

They walked in silence. The ground seemed hazy despite the darkening sky. Harry was sweaty and covered in dust, and he wanted nothing more than a shower as he passed through the start of the tunnel that lead back onto their block.

It was then that he first noticed something was wrong.

The air was...cooler.

No, not just cooler. Cold.

Not the gentle cool of shade, but the bite of frost. The air was freezing. Dread filled Harry even as Dudley spoke.

"The hell is this? It's bloody freez—"

"Shh!"

Harry anxiously twirled his wand in his pocket. His eyes darted between the ends of the tunnel. His breaths came out in white puffs.

Something was wrong.

Dudley noticed his unease. He glanced back toward the way they came.

"What?" He hissed, nervously wetting his lips. "This better not be one of your freaky tricks!"

Harry didn't answer right away. His heart was beating too fast, his instincts telling him to run. They were too far into the tunnel. They only had two exits.

"Something's wrong."

They were trapped.

Silently, a rotting, black figure drifted around the corner, blocking their path. Black rags stretched over an emaciated form. It's face was hidden beneath its moldy hood, but Harry could still feel it's sightless eyes on him, it's mouth stretched agape, its insatiable hunger. The air froze in his lungs as he realized what he was seeing—a dementor.

Harry turned to flee, only to find that another blocked his retreat. They were trapped.

"Harry this isn't BLOODY FUNNY!" Dudley whimpered. Harry could see his irises blown wide in terror.

Harry whipped out his wand. Dementors. Why were they here? Dementors were supposed to be under control of the Ministry, guarding Azkaban! Were they now free to roam the countryside? Harry backed against the wall, his wand level in front of him, switching between pointing at the one in front and the one behind them. How did they get here? This was a muggle town! The nearest Wizarding society was over an hour away, how did they get here?

He found no more time to think as they drifted closer to him. Fear clenched him. He couldn't use magic, not around his muggle cousin. He couldn't escape.

Numbing hands wrapped around his throat. He heard Dudley shouting, but he seemed...distant. Foggy. Cold. All he could hear was a woman pleading, begging to save her son. Every joyful memory was forgotten, replaced by black despair. Tears sprung to his eyes, only Harry was too tired to cry. Everything was pointless. His friends were dead. Voldemort had won. Why bother? He was tired, just so tired, and all he wanted to do was close his eyes...

"HARRY!"

Dudley's scream jolted Harry awake. A rotting, putrid face clutched his throat, sucking the life from him.

He'd have to use magic, consequences be damned. This was life or death. Shutting his eyes to the black mouth before him, he thought back, back to the first time he had found out he was a wizard. He was a wizard, he had magic, and he was free from that cupboard under the stairs. Yanking on that elation, he channeled the pure emotion up through his arm and out from his wand.

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!"

A brilliant white stag shot forth from his wand, hitting the dementor strangling him directly in its chest. With an ear splitting shriek, the dementor released Harry and launched out of the tunnel into the night air. The stag circled back, rearing its head before charging at the second dementor.

Dudley lay slumped against the tunnel wall, whimpering and staring up in horror at the black figure above him. The dementor twisted, suddenly taking notice of Harry's Patronus. It screeched as it took the full force of the stag's charge, antlers piercing its rotting form. With a shockwave of light, it fled in a cloud of black mist.

As his stag dispersed, so did Harry's strength. Why did he even bother? Everything always ended up the same: too pathetic to save anyone. Shivering violently, he collapsed onto the ground, his wand rolling away. It was so cold. With his cheek pressed against the concrete, his eyelids drooped. He was too weak to keep them open.

Vaguely, he saw Dudley crawl to his knees, retching.

'So...cold,' his last thought before darkness overtook him and he knew no more.