Title: The Flame of Change

Summary: After the mess at the Department of Mysteries, Harry Potter was just trying to come to terms with his Godfather's death. It all started with an 'innocent' wish… Honestly, he hadn't meant to set the ceiling on fire, it just sort of happened. Join Harry for his 6th year… It's gonna be a doozy.

Warnings for this Chapter: Nothing but a bit of naughty language.

-----/-----

Harry Potter was currently staring at a wall, willing it to catch fire. Thus far, the Boy-Who-Lived-to-be-a-Pain-in-the-Ass-to-Evil-Wizards-and-to-Overuse-Dashes had been unsuccessful with his wishful arson. As much as he would like to burn Number 4, Privit Drive to the ground with the Dursleys still in it and dance in its ashes, he had nowhere else to go. It was here or…

No, despite Harry's loathing of all things Dursley, he would prefer to be here than at the so-called home of his late godfather. Better here than Grimmauld Place. Better to stay here than to face the memories that that house held.

Sirius. He was dead. Dead. Never coming back. All Harry's fault. There was no denying it.

But Harry had accepted that fact, as best he could. He would live for Sirius as well, now, and he would not make such a grievous mistake again. Still… Grimmauld Place was best avoided for now.

Harry snorted. He didn't have much of a choice of living quarters anyways. Dumbledore would not allow him to stay elsewhere.

In the corner, Hedwig ruffled her feathers softly, shifting on her perch. The threats from Moody and the others at the train station had convinced Harry's uncle to allow the owl out of its cage, and Uncle Vernon had even gone so far as to allow Harry the use of his school books. That was as far as the threat had got him, though. His wand had been locked in the cupboard under the stairs, despite his protests. Vernon Dursley and his family had decided that ignoring him was the best route to take, only speaking to him to remind him about the obligatory letter every three days. In some ways, it was for the best, Harry didn't want any of the cruel comments this year, but the absence of talking had left far too much time for thinking morbid thoughts and for stewing in self-pity and hate. He was doing his best to avoid that path, but the lack of things to do was making it difficult.

His letters to the order were always long, practically begging for news; not just about Voldemort, but about everyone else as well, be it friends or order members. Harry hated feeling so needy, but he longed for some contact. Obligingly, Ron and Hermione had owled him, Hermione fretting over having not received her OWL results yet, Ron complaining about the Chudley Cannons' latest loss. Even Neville, Luna, and Ginny had written to him, for which Harry was grateful. Their letters had assured him that they held no grudges about their latest "adventure." I'm not sure I would've written someone who had dragged me into a fiasco like the one that happened at the Department of Mysteries. Thank goodness the Order showed up. I could forgive me for getting myself killed but if the others had been killed because of my actions… I couldn't take more than one death right now. I don't need any more blood on my hands.

Harry groaned and brought his hand up, running it through his messy black hair. It was definitely time for sleep if he was grinding down into that self-pitying, depressive rut again. Best to get some rest. Harry lay down flat on his bed, directing those arson-wishing eyes to the ceiling, before closing them. He tried for sleep for a bit, then gave up and returned to his glaring. Insomnia was a real bitch.

In a few hours Aunt Petunia would be coming in to awaken him, and he had little chance of getting any sleep by then. Then he would be making breakfast, doing some chores, making lunch, doing some more chores, and eating dinner. Just because they had been threatened by a scary man with a rolling eye didn't mean the Dursley's would lay off on the chores. Frustrated, he glared even harder, hoping that the ceiling would catch fire, and damn the consequences. He was so sick of this bare-walled, white room, so sick of his family.

A small flame suddenly appeared with an odd muted crack and began burning away the spider's web that Harry had been meaning to clear away for a week now. He watched it for a moment, fascinated as it spread to the ceiling, before having a revelation.

My ceiling is on fire! Oh, shit!

Harry shot off the bed, looking wildly around for water to put the flame out. He was always very tidy, Aunt Petunia demanded utmost perfection in that detail, and so there was not a glass of water or conveniently located fire extinguisher to be seen.

Oh shit oh shit oh shit...!

The small flame had grown with the new fuel and had spread slightly. Panicking, Harry grabbed his ratty blanket and flailed it towards the fire. Missing the ceiling by several inches, Harry was sharply reminded why he hated being short. He hurriedly jumped onto the bed and swatted at the ceiling once more.

Two things happened at once.

First, his blanket caught fire. Harry threw it to the ground and stomped on it, heedless of the fact that he was in his bare feet and the fact that he was just down the hall from his volatile relatives.

Second, Hedwig awoke from her perch and, seeing the flames, panicked as well. She flew crazily about the room, avoiding the flames and the wildly flailing Harry, hooting anxiously. However, Hedwig was uncannily smart for an owl, and she quickly came up with a strategy. She swooped for her water dish, clutched it in her claws, and flew towards the blaze, spilling some of the water on the floor and some on Harry but making it to the fire with about two thirds left. Somehow managing to hurl the water at the burning ceiling, Hedwig turned to the side and landed on the windowsill. The dish clattered noisily to the floor and she let out a hoot that sounded oddly like a sigh of relief.

The snores that were always heard at night in Number 4, ceased suddenly. They were soon replaced by a confused murmur. Which very rapidly turned into a yell.

Harry stopped his stamping on the ragged and soggy blanket in favor of listening to the bellow that echoed through the house. It was his uncle, he knew, and a prickle of dread reminded Harry why he used to fear him. Harry looked hopelessly about the room.

There was smoke everywhere and a small hole in his ceiling that Harry could see the attic through. Good thing it didn't get up there… It would've lit up like a tinderbox. His blanket was burned and ripped beyond repair. There was water on the floor, too, and Harry would bet ten galleons that he looked like a bedraggled waif. His hair was plastered to his head, he was covered in sweat, his feet were covered in soot, and, now that the adrenaline was wearing off, he was becoming rapidly aware that he had just tried to put out a fire with his feet.

Harry had to think fast. He wanted to send a note to the Order, but Vernon would be there any second; there wasn't enough time, damn it! Limping over to the window anyways, Harry opened it. "Hedwig, get out of here, ok?" Hedwig hooted worriedly, and stared at her master with golden eyes. Seeing something in those green eyes, she hooted balefully and launched from the window. Harry watched as she glided gracefully away until he could no longer see her white form in the darkness.

Harry sighed in relief. Vernon wasn't above threatening Hedwig when he was angry, and, Merlin, was he going to be angry.

Loud footsteps sounded down the hall. Harry turned from the window, swallowing hard.

-----/-----

Um, this is my first attempt at writing fanfiction, so please be nice. Comments or suggestions are welcomed, but please don't flame me. Ideas would be especially welcomed. Please review!

Thanks-

Lovel