OK. Here I am. No help for it. I've sunk into my little hollow of a world. And I'm going to have to write FF. Serious FF. Possibly even... SERIOUS HP FF. And it will not be read. Oh well. Poor FF.

Now for you FF Harry Potter kick. Read. Review. Then read Draco Veritas cuz it's good, and Miss Lupin's stuff (she's on my Fav Author's page...) if you like really good slash or a nice long story about Mini James and co. She's got talent. But if you're reading this, then you're probably familiar with her. Because there's so much HP FF and this is only my first chapter of the stuff. That's how it be.

DISCLAIMER : Don't own HP. Don't own any characters. Get over it. Own this story. Read it.

Harry Potter and the Golden Snitch

Chapter One : The Midnight Visitor

He was sitting on one of the benches. He remembered these benches from before. They were good, sturdy, wood seats, but he didn't really pay attention to them. Dobby was sitting beside him.

"Master will be here soon," Dobby whispered. Only it was Kreacher. Harry jumped. But Kreacher wasn't paying attention. He was pointing over Harry's shoulder at two figures. They were standing on a raised dais. A tall woman with black hair was laughing. A tall man with Black hair was laughing too. Only it wasn't as is if either of them had said something funny.

Then there was a flash of yellow light (A/N : It was yellow, wasn't it?) and the man fell backwards. Back through a black curtain. And the woman was still laughing. And Dobby/Kreacher was laughing. And Harry screamed. The woman turned. But it wasn't who he'd thought it'd be. It was Cho Chang and she was laughing.

"This is my revenge, Harry!" she laughed. "This is because you liked smart little Hermione Granger so much more. I don't see why. She isn't even cute."

Harry stared. Cho turned back to the black curtain and laughed again. "Not much you can do about it now. I mean, you killed him. Both times, you killed him. If you hadn't been so stupid, he'd still be alive. If you ever listened to anyone and didn't have such a swollen head that it should be hard for you to fly..."

Now Cho was Snape and Harry felt really cold. Only Snape looked sad. "Pity, isn't it? It's always your fault. They always try to kill you and end up killing someone you love. Like now."

Snape pointed over Harry's shoulder. Harry felt his throat catch. It was Voldemort. He stood on the benches and smiled, pointing a wand down at Harry. He shouted something, "Aveda Kedavra!", but before the green light hit Harry, someone jumped in its path and fell down against the floor, eyes wide. It was Cedric Diggory. Then it was his mother. He knew it was her, without a doubt. Then it was... him? No. It was his father.

"Who is it going to be next Potter?" asked Snape from behind. "Weasly? Lupin? Granger? Longbottom?"

Harry thought he was going to scream, but before that Voldemort shouted the curse again, and Harry's lighteningbolt scar erupted in pain. It hurt enough to wake him up.

It was a relatively dark and stormy night in Little Whinging. Harry Potter was standing next to his window, and behind him, Hedwig was hooting softly.

"Sorry, Hedwig," Harry murmured. "Can't let you out. Really bad weather."

He was distracted. Very distracted. And he had no real hope of focusing on the rain. Outside his window, lightening crackled and lit up the houses behind it. But inside the window, another lightening bolt burned. Harry had slept through the storm until dreams woke him. Bad dreams. He was still sweating. And his scar hurt.

They were dreams of Sirius.

He hated those dreams. But they were like the voices Harry heard whenever he was around dementors, the voices of his parents. He wanted them gone-- but if he didn't have them, what else was there to remind him? He didn't have anyone now. Hermione hadn't written him. Ron had sent a short letter, but it didn't say much. Not that Harry was intrested in, anyway. He'd crumpled the note and chucked it. He didn't want to think about the Order now.

The room was pretty bare. Only the desk he'd managed to get from Dudley at the threat of not sending an owl to Mad-Eye Moody for a week, his bed, Hedwig's cage, and the old wardrobe Dobby had hidden in during second year. No pictures on the walls.

A dusty birthday card from two summers ago was sitting on his desk. To Harry-- it began. And the ending was written in the same loopy writing that Harry missed so much. From Sirius. Harry leaned back on the bed, staring at the card, and drifted into a gentle sleep. He very much hoped he would not have dreams.

Harry rubbed his forehead. The storm was still loud enough to keep him from hearing Dudley snore, he guessed. At least he didn't hear anything that sounded like a hippo in the other room. He sat up on the bed. Hedwig was silent now, and Harry felt bad. The storm seemed to be letting up. He opened the cage door and then the window. Hedwig shrieked suddenly, but she didn't have to. Harry had heard it. He closed the window softly and headed down the stairs. Hedwig was still in her cage. She might have been frightened, but Harry didn't blame her. He knew that sound.

Somewhere downstairs, somebody had apparated.

Harry didn't have his wand. He realized that just as he reached the landing. But he couldn't help it. He had to go downstairs. At least he would know if somebody was there. The house was silent. Something seemed to be missing. But down in the kitchen now, Harry could hear voices. Two voices. And his last hopes that the wizard in his house was somebody from the order was there smashed. But the voices seemed familiar. Where had he heard them before?

One was definitely Dudley's. One was Aunt Petunia. And one was a deep, rumbling voice that Harry knew did not belong to any wizard he had ever been told to trust. He crept forward, trying hear what the voices were saying. It was really weird, Harry decided, to have visitors at six a.m. Not very polite, even in the wizarding world.

The voices hushed. Harry was thrown back as the door swung open. He lay on the floor, eyes wide, staring at the wand pointed down at him.

A big, bulky frame blocked light from the kitchen. It framed the man, his thick black hair, his broad shoulders. Harry gaped. This guy was big. Really big. Not as big as Hagrid, but with a similar figure. It took Harry a moment to realize why. The man was wearing a really, really big, heavy jacket. Harry still stared. It was summer! Now Harry knew who it was.

But it wasn't a Death Eater. It wasn't a student. It wasn't anybody Harry had been expecting. In fact, it was the last person in the world Harry Potter expected to see in his house, six a.m. or not. In fact, it was the last person he'd expect to see anywhere.

"Hello, Harry," said a familiar deep, booming voice. The wand went down, and a hand came out, ready to pull him to his feet.

"No!" moaned Aunt Petunia.

It wasn't the fact that a wizard was in her house and she didn't really care. It wasn't that someone had just apparated into her kitchen. It wasn't the fact that Dudley squealed in terror at the sight of Harry and Aunt Petunia didn't even glance at him. None of these things surprised Harry the most. It wasn't the fact that, after a moment, Petunia sat down and closed her eyes and said something very, very softly.

"I suppose you'll have to tell him then."

Dudley nodded and said, "Yeah, mum," and then turned to Harry. "I don't go to Smeltings. That's whay he's here."

No, it wasn't even that. It was that standing beside Harry, the visitor's eyes widened.

"You mean Harry didn't know?" asked Viktor Krum.

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Well. It may be short, but I JKR I ain't. I aught to called this Harry Potter and the Mysterious Seventh Year Story Which Rowling Won't Write. It gets better. Promise. If not, I'll owe you money. Or something.