The day was fairly warm, yet not uncomfortably so. Groups of people made their way through the street: kids played ball on the opposite side of the road; mothers were making their way to the local co-op and the teenage boys were eyeing up the teenage girls, who pretended not to notice but were giggling amongst themselves.
There was one teenager, however, who was not doing anything of the sort. The boy in question had come home from boarding school some two weeks previous, and as always he had looked downcast, which resulted in everyone passing him with as wide a berth as possible. After all, he was going to that school for criminal boys, wasn't he? St. Brutus' whatsits. Never could remember the name.
People couldn't help but pity him though: his clothes were nothing more than rags and hung of him; his hair was an unruly mop of black and he was hardly ever seen with a smile on his face. There was something strange about him - people thought it was because he was dangerous - but no more than four people living in the neighbourhood could point out what it was. Unfortunately for the boy, three of these people had a very hard time accepting it, and these were the people he was to live with.
Apart from the few times when he had been seen with his aunt, uncle and/or cousin, the boy was hardly ever seen outside. And it wasn't because he would disappear in a crowd, on the contrary, he was very easily spotted. His black hair, that seemed untameable, differed him from the rest of any crowd. His green eyes shone in the sunlight when you came close enough to see them, and then he had that hideous but strangely interesting scar on his forehead. A scar shaped like a lightning bolt. It was common knowledge in the neighbourhood that the poor boy had received the scar the night his parents were killed in a car crash. The manner in which he had received said scar, however, had long been a point of discussion, but after a while the neighbourhood had come to the silent agreement that some of the windscreen must have cut the peculiar shape. Why it hadn't disappeared, no one had figured out, but the discussions died out after a while.
There were very few people who really knew the boy and, unbeknown to the general public, his family was definitely not among those few. Many people, however, prided themselves in thinking that they knew how his mind worked. One of these people was now standing outside number 4 Privet Drive.
Remus Lupin smiled wistfully at the sight that greeted him in the front garden. Harry Potter was weeding the flower beds with a smile on his face. The man had not seen his one-time pupil for fourteen days, but he was not surprised. What he was surprised about, however, was the fact that Harry was now outside, looking happier than Remus had ever seen him. The boy had recently lost his godfather and Remus had expected Harry to blame himself for it, even though it was not his fault. Sirius had been one of the last and closest links Harry had to the past; to his parents. But even if it was unexpected, it was certainly an unexpected pleasure to find Harry in such high spirits.
Remus' smile faded quickly as he thought about Sirius. He himself was far from done mourning over his twice lost friend. It had been very painful, loosing Sirius together with three of his other friends all those years ago, and regaining one of them, two years ago, had been breathtaking. Now, he had lost the one he had regained once again, and this time he would not come back, Remus was certain about that.
Unfortunately, Sirius was not the only one who wouldn't come back, and Remus knew it. Many more would be lost before this was over.
'But as long as Harry lives through it,' Remus decided silently, 'it won't have all been for nothing.'
Apart from that, he could only hope the casualties would be kept to a minimum and Dumbledore would find a way to put a stop to all this soon.
With a thoughtful look on his face, Remus leaned against a lamppost, watching the person that meant the world to him do the gardening.
Seemingly unaware of his audience, Harry Potter worked on, sweat glistening on his recently uncovered back. At times, he would halt, his head in the rosebushes, and a sad and pained look would pass across his face, before he grimaced and straightened up again, his mouth twisted into a wide smile once more.
Thus the afternoon passed, until, at five fifty, a car made its way up the drive. Before his uncle had a chance to get out of the car, Harry had gone round the house, put away the gardening tools and gone into the kitchen. Oblivious to the fact that his presence was known, Remus followed his charge to the back garden silently, and then settled at the far end to watch the scene through the kitchen window. Keen eyes would have noticed a slight indent in the hedge and grass, and although Harry needed his glasses, he was the only one of the three people in the kitchen that saw it. He sighed lightly before obeying to his aunt's snapped: 'Wash your hand before you set the table, boy!'