"Bye Mum!" yelled Dudley as he went out the door.

"Bye popkin!" Petunia yelled back, blowing him a kiss, which he acknowledged with a slam of the door. A minute later, Vernon's car was heard backing out of the driveway, on the way to take Dudley to Smeltings and Vernon to Grunnings for the day. She put down her dishrag, and stepped to the front window, watching the car make a left-hand turn off of Privet Drive. She went back to doing the dishes, listening hard to make sure Vernon wasn't turning back to get something. As soon as she was sure, she made her way up the stairs.

Step by step, tension in her chest grew, almost as if she were being handed back important test scores. Petunia knew she should absolutely not be doing this. Nothing had gone wrong yet—surely she would hear someone if the walked into the house. She laughed at her self silently, realizing that she sounded just like an addict. Which she wasn't of course. All she needed was just a little time today. After twenty years, she deserved some rights. Twenty years... at times she forgot what was before that wall. This life was hers now. This life with Vernon, and Dudley, cleaning, and seeing what the neighbors were doing. Vernon—she remembered fondly how she met him working at the cash register of a home improvement store. Back then he was just a delivery boy for Grunnings. She uttered a sound of surprise, and her thoughts ended abruptly, for the staircase had ended.

She opened the door to her bedroom with the bed still unmade. There would be time for that later. She pulled the blinds down, giving the room a drowsy feel. Nevertheless, she was fully awake with adrenaline. The closet door beckoned to her, and she went towards it almost trance like. When she touched the door know, she retracted her hand violently, remembering a story about how fog creatures lured people into traps by calling their names. As soon as she realized the ridiculousness of this idea she put her hand back down again. Closets don't produce fog, nor call names, and there are no such things as monsters. Still, the same eerie feeling enclosed her, the kind that made you aware of every sound.

As Petunia opened the door, a neatly organized closet met her eyes. She fumbled in the back corner which held shoes, the long dress coats, and a shoebox labeled "To Be Repaired". She snatched up the shoebox and simply held it. It seemed rather ridiculous how fast her heart was beating. Calm down, she thought. Her body seemed intent on ignoring her thoughts today though. She pried open the lid of the box, waiting for something to happen. When nothing blew up, and nobody suddenly appeared, the tension that strung her let her lax. Sighing, relieved, she opened the box all of the way.

A happy squeak escaped her—she was expecting it to not be there. There was no reason it would have been, but Vernon might have thrown it away or… or someone else. It was there though, all of it. Beautifully polished, just like twenty years ago. Eleven and a half inches, holly, essence of dragon heartstring. Tentatively, she picked it up. Warmth began to spread through her fingers, reaching and grabbing at her. It called playfully, wanting her to join in, to play a game. And how she wanted to—but she used all the restraint she had not to. She had to be satisfied with just holding it. For a few minutes she was, but eventually the tingle died down. Her body was used to it a bit, it needed a larger dose. Yet she utterly could not. Reluctantly, she decided to place it into the box. Back it went, under the coats and into the shoes. For the time being.

Well, the bed needed making and she was the only one home. She did so, and then went off to clean for the day. Distraction would make her feel better. As she headed towards the staircase she whirled around, feeling as if somebody was watching her.

"Hello?" she called.

The noise of silence greeted her. She couldn't see anybody. Nobody had come in. Pretty soon they're going to lock me up, Petunia thought. She began heading down the stair again, her senses alert.

At the bottom of the stairs, she stopped and went onto the closet to get the vacuum. The thought of vacuuming seemed to bring her to her wits. She was just tense and imagining things, like when you tried sleeping after a horror movie. Nobody was watching her.

Miles away, Harry Potter was tapping his quill against a table in the library, staring out the window a few feet in front of him. It was a grey day, with the wind tickling the trees and the lake. All day it seemed as if a summer shower was about to break out; which might be possible since it was very early in September. Harry longed to go outside and feel the wind, feel something natural and fresh. Regrettably, he had an essay on the Audeo charm. Professor Flitwick had taught the charm to them yesterday, and it was supposed to make the recipient more daring. A few in the class had pronounced the incantation too strongly, and the daring had become an acute ignorance to danger. The rest of the period was spent preventing people from jumping out the window. Now that it was his sixth year, everything had gotten harder—including Flitcwick's essay. Harry continued to gaze out the window until Hermione looked up and called him back to the library.

"Harry?" she asked.

"Huh? What?"

"Are you all right? You just spent a half hour staring out that window."

"Yes… I'm fine," Harry lied.

He was worried. Not only was he worried, but he couldn't figure out why. This seemed to only make him more apprehensive. Something told him that there was an imbalance somewhere, a feeling in his stomach. Obviously Voldemort was back, he could feel that like you feel a slap across the face. This feeling though, it was much more subtle. There was time to worry later though; he needed to finish this essay now. Grudgingly, he opened the book Hermione had found for him, and began to write.

It was dinner time in the Great Hall, and a cheerful buzz greeted Harry. The aromatic smell of the meal greeted him as he sat down at the table. As usual, a group of very pinkly clothed second years was giggling at him. Ever since the Daily Prophet and Fudge had admitted to the return of Voldemort, he was a hero again. These particular second years made Harry wish that he was seated next to a banshee.

"'Lo Harry," Ron greeted him, as usual though a mouthful of food.

The rest of Harry's dorm mates looked up from their food once Ron said this, and gave Harry a wave.

"Where's Hermione?" Ron inquired.

"Huh? Oh—she was in the library still when I left," Harry said.

"Gee, that's unusual," replied Ron, his voiced laced with sarcasm.

"Mhmm,"

"What's wrong?" asked Ron, noticing Harry staring off into the distance—worried enough to stop chewing.

"Er—nothing,"

"Yeah, nothing. Right. What really?"

"Ron," said Harry, "I can't tell you because I don't know… I just have this feeling. Like a sixth sense…"

"Whatsa sixth sense?" said Ron curiously.

"Never mind,"

"No, really!" he persisted.

"It's a Muggle term," Harry replied bluntly.

Ron did a very nice job of shutting up after that, leaving Harry to worry and eat in peace. Worrying and eating didn't really mix though, so Harry's food mostly traveled across his plate. After a half hour, he couldn't stand it anymore.

"Ron, I think I'm going to go look for Hermione,"

"Okay. Want me to come?"

"No," said Harry shortly. Then he realized how he sounded, and added in kinder tones, "I'm just going to take a look in the library, that's all. You stay here and finish eating."

Ron shrugged, and went back to devouring a strawberry tart. Harry told his plate that he was done, and gathered up his bag. As soon as the plate disappeared into the kitchen, Harry gathered his bag and walked out into the entrance hall.

The hall and the staircase were both silent, seeing as everybody else was busy eating. The familiar luminescent lighting gave the area a warm glow, but it was eerie without the bustle of students. Harry felt as if he belonged under his invisibility cloak; the building seemed to be watching him. He shook his head, and walked up the stairs. His footsteps were loud and echoic, making it painfully obvious how alone he was. Alone—that was a new feeling for The Boy Who Lived. He had spent the past few years seen as a walking publicity act in the eye of the public, and all of a sudden everybody wanted to be his friend again. Instead of making him feel better, this sudden change of opinions had made him overly cautious—which people were truly his friends? Well… there was Hermione and Ron—Hermione… he has told Ron he was going to look for her.

Harry took a quick detour to the library, opened the door and walked in. He weaved through the rows to where he and Hermione had been sitting, and she wasn't there. She must've gone to dinner, though Harry. He had done what he told Ron he would do, so he continued back to the dormitories to lie down. Exhaustion filled his bones, even though it was a relatively easy day. He had homework form only one teacher, surprisingly none from Snape, and there had been no Quidditch. Of course, it was because he had scheduled none. It had been a unanimous vote that Harry was the new Captain this year. He wasn't the youngest Quidditch player in a century for nothing. Harry's thoughts tumbled around in his mind until he reached the Fat Lady.

"Dolorem Ipsum," said Harry tonelessly.

"In you go dear," responded the painting, "You look a bit peaky…"

Harry muttered something in response, and stepped up into the common room. A warm fire crackled in the grate, tempting Harry to sit in one of the numerous plump armchairs and sleep right there. He didn't though… he'd been having nightmares again, and didn't want to be wakened later by worried Gryffindors. Instead, he trudged up to his bed, protected by a silencing charm. He threw open the curtains, and had just enough energy to kick off his shoes, remove his robes, and set aside his glasses before he fell spread-eagle on top of the covers, almost too tired to sleep.

Hermione was not at dinner. In fact, she was lying in her bed. Instead of sleeping though, she was thinking. She was thinking of life in general, of how close the N.E.W.T.S were, how strange it was that Draco hadn't called her mudblood yet this year, and how Harry hadn't been normal lately. Well… as normal as one gets when they are being plotted against every second of their life. She sighed, remembering the simplicity of her first year. She was small, intelligent, and determined for success. Now she was tall and graceful, but much less single minded. Before, it was simple—get top marks. Now she had to think of her friends, meaning mainly Harry and Ron. She wasn't a leper, but people tended to be chummier with her during finals, not dances and feasts.

She had been concerned about Harry lately. Ron was stable, he was constant. He also had all of his siblings there for him. Harry… well Harry had them. He wasn't speaking to Dumbledore, and the Dursleys certainly weren't worth much. She also remembered that Harry had dealt with so much so soon in life, and she was sitting here worried about a mere test. She should be antagonizing about bigger things, more important things. Life was more enclosed at Hogwarts, which was protection in a way. It wouldn't be much of a school year if she was so preoccupied with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named that she couldn't learn.

Hermione looked down at her restless hands, and saw that they were fraying her sweater cuffs. She decided to get up and go for a walk. That should distract her.

She descended from the dormitories, and went out the portrait. As she began walking, she started thinking of what else wasn't so simple about life—love. Or in her case, lack of it. She always heard her dorm mates talking of their experiences with who they fancied. Their hushed whispers and embarrassed giggles floated across the common room to Hermione, where she sat doing her homework; pretending not to listen. It was something she was entirely not a part of. She did go to the Yule Ball with Viktor, but that was about the extent of her extravagant affairs. Was there anyone even worth it here? Harry and Ron were her friends, not her romance. She needed them right where they were now. She had been thinking lately of what it would be like to adopt lesbianism, but then realized that she would be in the exact same situation. Hermione gave an audible sigh.

She was walking quickly, with her head down, obviously in thought. By now, she knew her way around the castle well enough to navigate subconsciously, even if the staircases and doors took the liberty of relocating themselves. Suddenly she felt a jolt—and looked up to see Draco Malfoy's face looking down at her.

"Oh!" she uttered, quite surprised.

Then she walked away, before he could say anything. She braced herself for a biting insult to follow her as she continued, but none came. Surprised, she decided to go back to the common room. Maybe Ron would want to play a game of wizard chess. She had been in thought for long enough tonight.

Draco looked down the hall at the receding figure of Hermione. He had been quite as surprised as she, for he too had been preoccupied, not looking where he was heading. His stare lingered for a minute, and then he looked away and silently continued walking.

He was startled by Hermione's reaction: just walking off. Of anybody, Draco would have expected Hermione to say "Excuse me,"; but then again it was him. She was a mudblood—he had called her that enough times. So he had it just the way he wanted… without her speaking to him. Crabbe, Goyle and the other Slytherins—the purebloods—were his friends.

Ron had just sat down in front of the fire when Hermione came in. He gave her a friendly wave, and she broke out in a grin. She walked towards the fire, and sat down in the chair next to him.

"Hullo," said Hermione, "want to play a game of chess?"

Ron looked at her with scrutiny, not completely sure she hadn't ingested something inappropriate. Hermione saw his look.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Nothing… you're just… happy is all,"

"Is it illegal?"

Ron laughed, and got up to go get the chessboard.

Five minutes later, they had begun. Ron hardly ever played against Hermione, she was usually doing homework—and correcting his and Harry's as well. He was surprised—she was exceedingly good at it.

"How did you get so good at chess?" he inquired, just as she captured on of his pieces, "I mean, I never knew. You probably could've handled that chessboard from our first year!"

Hermione smiled, and responded, "No, I'm not nearly as good as you Ron. But they do have Muggle chess."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. Except you have to move the pieces yourself… and they don't talk."

"So, you played muggle chess, is that it?" Ron inquired, hoping that she did…he did have a reputation after all.

"Yep,"

The match continued, one knight capered here, a bishop there—until the common room was almost empty. A fifth year reading a book titled "Spell of Passion", and a pair of first years scribbling furiously at a homework assignment were all who were left besides Ron and Hermione. It was Ron's move, and had been for about ten minutes.

"Well?" asked Hermione, getting rather impatient.

Ron looked up, moving a piece.

"Checkmate," he said, smiling. He had kept his dignity after all. Hermione looked down, and saw that it indeed was a checkmate.

"Oh well. There's always next time…" she teased. Ron's look of horror cracked her up.

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding!"

"Right," he said, "I knew that."

He looked at the fire, and saw that it had been reduced to embers.

"I'm going to call it a night," he said, packing up the board. Ron got up, and walked towards his dorm.

"G'night." he called, heading up the stairs.

Hermione stretched, and decided that she should go to bed too. There would be double-potions first class with the Slytherins to deal with tomorrow.

Aunt Petunia was watching the TV, engrossed by the 6 o'clock news.

"Well it seems we have a new natural phenomenon on our hands," said the female newscaster, "Mysterious fog shapes have started appearing all over Great Britain. One woman claims that the fog was even colored a bright acid green. All sorts of claims as to what the shape might be have poured in, but most agree that it was in the shape of a skull."

The male newscaster sniggered, but made no remark. He obviously thought that the "eyewitnesses" were mad. Petunia had become very pale. Her hands clutched the bed sheet.

The program continued, steering away from the direction of queer fog shapes. Instead, a quip about the Royal family came on. She relaxed a little. Five minutes later, Vernon began to snore loudly. Petunia was beginning to feel drowsy too—the snoring kept a constant rhythm, meanwhile the TV droned on with the timbre of voices fluctuated. Petunia thought it was just like a song. The blankets seemed to fade away, and she never wanted to move again. She welcomed the sleep blissfully.

Petunia looked up as the door opened. Lily's head popped in, red hair swaying.

"Petunia- you want some sweets?" she asked, "Mum and Dad sent some."

Petunia did want some—she had been craving for chocolates since Sunday. She sighed.

"No thank-you,"

"You sure?"

"…Yes,"

"All right then,"

Lily's head popped back out and the door closed. Petunia looked down at her stomach, which gave a small bulge over her skirt-band. She was skinny enough, yes. But she had imperfections everywhere. Her hair was too dry, she had acne, she has this one ring of fat that dieting could never get rid of. Lily, on the other hand, was perfect. She never even had to diet. Vehemence filled Petunia. Why did Lily have to get the good traits? She was pretty, she was talented… Petunia felt sorely overshadowed. Sometimes she wished Lily would just die…die a horrid death. Even then, thought Petunia bitterly, even then she would be better than me.

In bed, Petunia was restless. Incoherent mumbles escaped her lips, while next to her Vernon snored peacefully on.

"Mmphly," she moaned.

"Mmmphly!"

She rolled completely over, and breathed heavily. Gradually, she calmed. For a minute, everything was silent except for snoring. Suddenly—Petunia opened her eyes, and said clearly:

"Lily!"

She gasped at herself. Why that name? she wondered desperately. Hyperventilating, she looked wildly around the room. There!—outside the window—somebody was watching.