Eyes in the Dark
As the sun beat down over trim hedges and the pristine lawns of Little Whinging, a heavy silence hung in the air. This summer was the hottest on record, and the residents of Privet Drive had retreated into the refuge of their lounges and the relief of their expensive model air conditioners. Not a soul stirred out of doors, every window was closed, curtains were drawn and blinds were pulled down in an attempt to keep out the burning rays of the sun.
There was one window, however, which was not closed. This particular window belonged to number four Privet Drive, and was wide open. The occupant of this room was lying on his bed with a sheet pulled over his face, a small broken fan lay discarded by the bed.
Harry Potter gave an audible sigh from under his sheet. He was a skinny boy with a slightly underfed look about him, sporting a tuft of jet black hair which sat untidily on his head, and bright green eyes. The only unusual thing about Harry's appearance was a thin scar in the shape of a lightning bolt on his forehead. Looking at him, no-one would guess that he was unusual in anyway, but Harry Potter was not an ordinary boy. He was a wizard, about to begin his sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Even by wizarding standards, Harry was unusual. The scar on his head was a souvenir of an experience that had nearly claimed his life. A souvenir of Lord Voldemort, the dark wizard who had killed his parents then turned his wand on a young Harry. Unbelievably, the curse rebounded and Voldemort was rendered powerless. Harry became famous; he was the boy who lived. But he had been unaware of his true identity until he was eleven, being raised by his horrible Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. For his own protection Harry was forced every summer, to return to Privit drive until the new school year began.
This time last year, Harry had been longing to return to the school, to see his best friends Ron and Hermione, to play his favourite sport, Quidditch, and especially to escape the spiteful indifference of his Aunt, Uncle and Cousin. But the events of the previous year had changed everything. In his fourth year, Harry had seen Voldemort return to power and had barely escaped with his own life. Since then, nothing had remained the same. Refusing to believe Harry's story, the Ministry of Magic had branded Harry a liar, and made his fifth year a living hell. The Ministry's ignorance eventually led to the death of Harry's only family, his godfather Sirius, and Harry had discovered the truth about his connection with Voldemort, that one must kill the other before the end.
Harry shuddered. "At least," he thought, "here I don't have to worry about being asked questions." He snorted; Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon would sprout wings before taking any interest in Harry's life. Both of them despised wizards, and liked to pretend that Harry didn't exist. Their son, Harry's cousin Dudley, hadn't spoken to Harry since the incidents with the Dementors last year. Still, it was better than being around other wizards. Sirius' death weighed heavily on Harry's heart. At times, he wanted nothing more than to scream everything out at once, but mostly he just wanted to go on as if it hadn't happened, as if Sirius was still alive. Even Ron and Hermione's letters brought little comfort. After last summer, in which they had been forced to keep silent on all matters to do with the wizarding world, they seemed to have decided to make up for it with a stream of letters. Hedwig, Harry's owl was utterly exhausted from delivering mail back and forth. Though the letters were long, they all seemed to be about nothing. Ron had obviously decided that the events of last summer were better to be ignored, and talked with a jovial desperately light hearted tone that Harry found sickening at times. Hermione was nervous not to upset Harry after his angry outbursts the previous summer, and was constantly apologetic and kept hinting that if Harry ever needed anyone to talk to……..
"Bang!"
Harry was shaken from his thoughts by a loud rap on the door.
"You! Boy!" Uncle Vernon's voice pierced the sharp silence. Harry pulled the sheet higher over his head and tried desperately to hum loudly.
"I know you can hear me! We need to have that fan back! Dudley's getting distressed."
Uncle Vernon's cooling system was top of the line, and could turn the living room into an igloo on a forty degree day, but unfortunately, the system could not penetrate Dudley Dursley's enormous hide. Harry had been ordered to his room with nothing but a small fan, accused of "heating up the room with his body." The fan had been completely useless, and had broken down within five minutes, leaving Harry to rely on a non existent breeze and a sheet as protection against the heat.
"What? He's still hot. The air conditioners turned up full blast, and you've got three ceiling fans. Maybe he should strip some extra layers of fat."
"I'm warning you boy! If you don't shut your mouth…….." Harry gave a short sarcastic laugh. It was an empty threat; his uncle was terrified of magic.
"The fan's broken, but you can have it. Now unless there's anything else, I'm busy." Harry kicked the fan over to the door and lay back down.
"Oh no you don't!" yelled Uncle Vernon, "You've got to earn your keep. The begonias are drooping. We need you to give them a water."
"What!" said Harry incredulously, "On a day like today! Not a chance!."
"If," said Uncle Vernon dangerously, "you do as I say, we might consider letting you into the living room. It's getting awfully hot up here." He said with a nasty grin.
"Sure you want me in there heating Duddy's air?" sneered Harry, but he sat up slowly and removed the sheet. There was no way he could stand another hour in his room.
"I'll expect you downstairs in five minutes," said Vernon, and slammed the door.
Sighing, Harry stood up and began rummaging for a shirt. He found a particularly vile old shirt of Dudley's and pulled it on along with an old pair of his boots. He was just closing his bedroom door when he heard a rustle at the window. He turned around, expecting to see Hedwig's white snowy feathers, but there instead, perched a dark grey owl. Surprised, Harry moved towards it but it shied away. He turned and went to his drawers. He pulled out an owl treat and offered it to the bird.
It was not, thought Harry, any owl he had seen before. It was large and very finely bred, but in its eyes was an unpleasant gleam. The gleam grew brighter as it studied, not the treat it Harry's hand, but his face. It turned its head away from the treat, and Harry was just withdrawing his hand when, without warning, the bird flew at his face.
"HEY! GET OUT OF IT!" Harry yelled. But the bird continued to scratch wildly at his forehead, its wings beating at his face. He struggled and waved his hand and tried to fend it off, but it continued its attack with vicious purpose. All of a sudden, he felt a searing pain on his head, but different to the usual pain his scar gave when it was warning him. The bird suddenly desisted and Harry felt a thump on his lap. He watched as the owl swooped out the window and disappeared. Shaking, he felt his forehead, it was painful and wet. In the background, he could hear Uncle Vernon thundering up the steps to investigate the noise.
Harry turned and looked in the mirror, and was horrified to see his forehead covered in blood. The bird had cut open his scar. Now shaking, Harry looked down at his lap. An envelope lay there, with no address, no mark of any kind. His hands trembling, Harry began to open the letter. He reached inside and found a piece of parchment. Slowly, he opened up the piece of paper and gasped. His eyes filled with horror, time seemed to stop and the room turned dark.
Uncle Vernon burst into the room.
"WHAT IS THAT BLOODY RACKET!" he noticed the letter, "what have you got there boy?"
Trying to breath and stop the violent shaking that was racking his body, Harry placed the piece of parchment down. In the centre of the letter, was a skull, the terrible dark mark of Lord Voldemort, and at the bottom of the page, in black ink, one single word:
Soon.