Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter (although I wish I did, who wouldn't?) J K Rowling does, I just enjoy writing in my spare time.

A/N: Set at the beginning of the fifth book, so it's the summer before fifth year…will follow canon to an extent but I'll start to deviate from The Order of the Phoenix the further in I get, can't have it all the same now can I? That would be beyond dull. :D

The Whisperings of the Shadows

The sweltering heat bore into London, with news of higher temperatures tomorrow reaching travellers ears. The heat wave had been ongoing for near a week, and a water ban was now enforced in several areas, causing the prized gardens of the locals to wilt and die.

On the outskirts of London, namely an area called Little Winging, a boy called Harry Potter sat, knees on the hard crumbling soil, as he painted the garden fence. For him the summer consisted of chores, sent out regardless of the weather by his loving, caring relatives, the Dursleys, who for now, appeared to have set their hopes on him dying of heat stroke. Water was not a commodity they had bothered to offer him.

Up, down, up down…Harry stared at the rhythmic motion of the paintbrush in his hands unseeingly, the dull work far from holding his attention. It was the type of work he was used to, chores he'd completed so often that he preformed them seamlessly, mindlessly running through list after list set by his Aunt Petunia.

Lots of long and pointless work.

Not that it was worse than last year, for once again he was supposedly enjoying his holiday, away from the hustle and bustle of wizarding life, and their many stares. To be honest with himself, Harry wasn't sure what was worse. If it wasn't for the events of last year he would have been itching to return to wizarding life, but now with the war…

He didn't know what to think anymore, Voldemort was back, back from the dead…or… wherever he was, and the Ministry wasn't doing a thing. The Daily Prophet, a wizarding newspaper he had delivered every morning, denied his resurrection adamantly, not to mention calling him a lying delusional brat.

The press hated him, last year was bad, but it was bordering on ludicrous now. No longer did they report on his apparent girlfriends, now they questioned his sanity, and if that wasn't enough, they were attacking his headmaster as well. Dumbledore had never seemed entirely…sane, but there was no denying his intelligence, the intelligence of the wizarding population however…

Judging by last year, people tended to take things at face value, no reading between the lines, no questioning of shoddy reporters. The wizarding world of Britain didn't have news…they had fifty odd pages of gossip, delivered once a day, everyday.

Harry was seriously considering dropping his subscription; there were other papers out there, ones which didn't drag his name through the dirt at the command of a corrupt ministry official, now he understood why the Ravenclaws favoured the Wizarding International or the Dragons Journal. He'd only read the occasional copy when he found one left discarded in the library, and from the general gist of everything written, they were the wizard equivalent of The Herald, not useless tabloids.

Still, he needed to check for mysterious deaths and happenings, and The Daily Prophet would no doubt create a brilliant tale of treachery and betrayal in a lovers spat, for one unexplained death. So in theory he shouldn't miss any clues, any hints of Riddles activities…but there was nothing. Someone was controlling what was 'acceptable' to be printed now, but almost two months monitoring for anything suspicious was bound to turn up something…right?

Harry sighed, dumping the lid on the paint can and standing, brushing the dirt from his huge jeans. Taking the supplies back to the shed, not even bothering to clean the paintbrushes, Harry headed quickly inside Number 4, welcoming the cooler air the house provided.

He'd been home a week, one long dull week, with nothing to do but dwell on the war, and the graveyard…and Cedric's death. His room had become an oppressive prison cell, locked in every night, and no doubt all day, well, once they ran out of things for him to do. He hated it.

Pouring a glass of water and quickly downing it, before heading upstairs having successfully avoided his aunt, Harry set about changing out of paint stained…rags. The last thing he wanted was to be assigned another chore, and sitting in the heat working was worse than sitting doing nothing, so Harry hastily left for the park.

Maybe he should start listening to the muggle news, they reported everything, and anything odd was bound to hit the headlines. Or if he had money, buy a muggle newspaper…he didn't even have a pound coin to his name. Near fourteen years he'd spent in the muggle world, and the most money he'd possessed was fifty pence, and he'd given it to Ron back in first year at school.

The next time he visited Gringotts Harry promised himself to get some money converted, at least then he might be able to buy clothes that fit, and suntan lotion…the weather was terrible.

Fishing an old crumpled newspaper out a bin, Harry tucked it under his arm; at least it wasn't difficult to steal them. It was when he was heading towards the swings that Harry heard a tell tale stumbling sound behind him, turning rapidly to check the area…nothing. There was no one there yet again.

It wasn't a surprise, at least not anymore, for the past few days he'd had a feeling someone, or something, was following him. A prickly feeling on the back of his neck…either that, or he was becoming seriously paranoid.

And the last thing he wanted to do was prove The Daily Prophet right.

Shaking his head and perching on the only surviving swing left (no doubt the vandalism was the work of Dudley and his gang) Harry opened the newspaper. If he was being followed then there was little he could do, he couldn't use magic despite carrying his wand around continually, and he didn't fancy being expelled due to an overactive imagination. And if he was being tailed they hadn't made any move to hurt him.

Not that that was a terribly encouraging fact, they could be waiting for an opportune moment or something…he really should write something about it in his letters. To Sirius of course, Ron and Hermione wouldn't be able to do anything, but his letters…they were…empty. Devoid of any useful information.

Padfoot was obviously up to something, and everyone seemed to be involved. All his letters were empty, pointless information and hollow words of encouragement. Hell, Sirius just prattled on about how he should be a good little kid and keep his nose clean. And the last thing Harry wanted was for Sirius to come bounding over to Surrey at the smallest sign of trouble, as he did when Harry mentioned his scar last year…he wouldn't endanger Sirius for nothing. For all he knew, he could just be imagining it.

Leafing open the paper and beginning to scan the headlines, briefly glancing at the latest celebrity scandal and some political law which just passed, he finally found what he was looking for. Mysterious Death Baffled Police in Dordeny, it could just be a muggle death, but there was always a chance, at the very least it looked promising.

Yesterday three police officers in Dordeny rushed to a scene after a disturbance was reported by the local neighbours involving gun shots. Witnesses reported hearing screams from 32 Falkner Avenue shortly after 1am as they described an explosion that occurred which destroyed the top floor. The family living there, the Russell's, are believed-

"Ouch"

Slapping his hand to a sudden stinging in the side of his neck, Harry was shocked to pull out what resembled a tranquiliser dart. It was then that a sudden feeling of panic griped him, Oh Merlin, OH MERLIN!

Throwing it to the ground and trying to stand up, the edges of his vision was already blurring, his thought process slowing. The ground lurched dangerously and his vision started to black out.

He was unconscious before he hit the tarmac.

OoOoO

Harry groaned, his head was pounding, he had to fight to open his heavily lidded eyes. Suddenly sitting bolt upright as he remembered just what had occurred, Harry scrambled to his feet, reaching for his wand, adrenaline surging.

He wasn't dead, yet…

Falling forward as bright sunlight blinded his vision; whatever he had been sitting on wasn't a terribly stable surface. He couldn't think straight, his stomach was coiling uncomfortably. It was only when the smell of dirt reached his nose that Harry warily opened his eyes again. Scrunching his eyelids almost shut until he got used to the light.

He was in the park…having just fallen off the swing, the newspaper just a few feet away from him. Getting unsteadily to his feet, gripping the swings tightly as he waited for his sense of balance to right itself, Harry glanced around…no one was here. I am definitely sending that letter now.

Stretching his muscles, Merlin he must have landed of his right arm badly, and both his knees felt rather bruised. Finally feeling the strength of his limbs return, the shakes and nausea decreasing, Harry shifted a few steps forward experimentally; taking deep breaths as he wearily cast a glance at the park. I can't stay here…safety, got to get home…

Quickly picking up the paper, scanning one last time at his surroundings, Harry left, he was not staying outside longer than he needed to. How on earth had he ended up back on the swing, what had they done? Was it Death Eaters? His thoughts were travelling a mile a minute.

Making it back to the Dursley residence in record time, Harry shot up to his room, praying silently that Hedwig would be in, she normally was during the day, especially seeing as a white owl was hardly inconspicuous.

Panting for breath he pushed the door open with more force than truly needed, finally remembering to tuck his wand away before anyone saw it…not that they'd know what it was. It did look like a stick…

Nothing appeared off; his room was the same, exactly as he left it with Hedwig snoozing in the corner. What had just happened? Shaking his head and pulling open his wardrobe door to stare in the mirror, he could just make out where the dart had pierced his skin. Where was the dart anyway? He hadn't seen it when he came round, although granted it had been the least of his worries at the time. Now he had time to calm his breathing and think, he really should have picked it up, he'd need to return later and retrieve it.

It was when he was examining the small mark that Harry suddenly noticed. He could just see the markings of an injury at the top of his right shoulder…that certainly hadn't been present earlier.

Pulling his enormous T-shirt off, Harry could only stop and stare dumbly at the wound in his neck. It was a bite wound, to the looks of it a dog…but was it a dog? What could cause a bite like that? It was too big to be a cat...resembled the size of wound a large dog could cause. It couldn't be could it? A werewolf bite? What else was it going to be? Maybe a neighbourhood dog came along and bit him while he was unconscious, but then why was the injury healed over. Harry forced himself to suppress a snort at that theory, it sounded absolutely ridiculous even to his own ears. The wound would scar no doubt, but if it had been healed how long had he been out of it? It wasn't bleeding freely or anything, the skin had closed up, but it stung when touched, it was…peculiar. His watch said it was just after six, so either he been down and out for an hour or so, or he'd been gone whole days. It was still light outside…not like werewolves transformed during the day anyway… What else would have caused it? He lived in a quiet suburban neighbourhood! Wild animals were not exactly commonplace!

What in Merlins name was today's date? He wasn't–, was he? A werewolf, Harry couldn't even dwell on it; he had more than enough problems… He was just being paranoid, jumping to the worst case senario, his luck wasn't that bad! Well, at least I hope its not, not like I have a great track record...

He must have spent fifteen minutes staring at the yet another mark marring his skin before jolting out of his shock.

First he needed to find out how long he'd been missing, and then he needed to check the lunar calendar (just a precaution of course)…so jump quickly onto Dudley's computer when he wasn't home. Not a difficult task, and then, well, depending on what had occurred, he'd have to send some very awkward letters.

Shoving his shirt back on Harry walked quietly downstairs, avoiding the living room where his Aunt and Uncle had taken up residence in front of the television. Harry silently passed into the kitchen, pulling his Uncles old paper out the bin and checking the date…12th of July…only one day had passed.

He'd been who knows where for one whole day, a day! What else had happened? Why didn't he remember a thing, had his memory been wiped or something? And why the hell, when someone had successfully managed to kidnap him, was he brought back?

Running his hand through his hair, he had to see if Dudley was home, he didn't want to have to wait…feeling his stomach drop as he slowly made it back upstairs Harry forced himself to approach Dudley's door at a calm pace.

What if he was a werewolf, what would he do? He'd be thrown out of Hogwarts no doubt, people would notice when he was ill. The students stared at him everyday; it wasn't as if his absence would go unnoticed, and how would his friends react. They knew of Remus and hadn't made a fuss, well, at least not after his lead…Hermione had sounded horrified in the shack and Ron's initial reaction hadn't been pleasant. At least Sirius would help him…

As it turned out, his dear cousin wasn't in, no doubt out with his gang. Quickly turning the machine on and shifting uneasily as it loaded itself, Harry typed into the search engine, pressing search with some trepidation.

Opening the first link and scrolling through all the months…the full moon in July was on the 18th, he was fine, safe…not infected with Lycanthropy. Allowing the feeling of pure relief to wash over him, Harry sighed, it didn't solve the problem of where'd he'd been, but it took a whole load of his mind. And tht bite...just a dog? Not bloody likely. It was the only injury he could find on himself, the only change. Harry resisted the urge to throw his hands up in the air and scream, he was not ready for another deadly adventure...normally his problems came to a head at the end of the school year. He normally had a somewhat...peaceful summer. War, it ruins everything.

Shutting the computer down before any of his relatives stumbled across him; Harry made his way to his room and sank gratefully onto his bed. He had letters to write, but before he could retrieve his quill Harry heard his Aunts shrill voice, Dinner was ready. At the Dursleys he ate all he could, they didn't give him enough to sustain and ten year old, and it had only gotten worse with Dudley's diet. Meals of carrots and lettuce leaves were far from appealing, but he wasn't one to be fussy.

OoOoO

The meal served to be a quiet and tense affair, but the Dursleys appeared normal, their usual selves…and surprisingly made no comment about his disappearance. Instead they berated him for his performance, apparently he'd managed to scratch his Uncles company car, and he hadn't washed the car the last day he remembered. Either it was one of his cousin's delightful lies…or someone had been impersonating him, and had done a rubbish job of it to. It wasn't as if Dudley hadn't damaged something before, Harry still remembered what happened when the T.V. broke, he wasn't even in the house and still he got the blame, he was seven when that incident occured.

Harry released a frustrated groan when he made it back to his bedroom, the locks outside the door clicking shut as his uncle lumbered away up the hall. Kicking his trunk did nothing to relieve his worry; it only severed to give him some very painful toes.

At least he could contact help. Sitting himself in his old desk chair and pulling some parchment out Harry started to scratch out a note.

Sirius,

I want to know where you are, where are Ron and Hermione and you staying?

Harry froze, staring at what he'd just written, how had 'I think I was kidnapped' translate to 'I want to know where you are'? Or 'I believe I'm being followed' turn into questions about his friends whereabouts?

What was wrong with him?

Discarding the ruined piece of parchment in favour of some flimsy printing paper, he started again. Focusing all his might on writing the words 'Someone's been following me' Harry was dismayed to see the words 'summers been dull' scribbled out in front of him.

Maybe it was his quills? Harry knew it was a false hope, but he had to try…what could cause a person to do that? Searching around the room quickly before finding a pen, he touched the tip to the paper…even just the word 'help' would get Sirius's attention.

'Sirius'

Harry glared at the blue ink as if his murderous stare would miraculously fix the problem. Trying again while gripping his right hand tightly, forcing it to comply with his thoughts.

'Hi'

Unable to reign in his temper anymore Harry ripped the paper to pieces, hurling the pen against the wall.

Something had happened, but what…none of his school books mentioned anything like this. What was it…a writing block? Probably had a better name…if wizards had invented ways to overpower a persons free will with the imperius, then obviously this sort of stuff was possible…he just had to work out how to break it.

Would it stop him from speaking? Opening his mouth to say 'I've been kidnapped' Harry was shocked to feel his mouth moving without his accord, murmuring words nothing like he intended.

"I've had a long day"

It was unnerving…he couldn't even say anything…what the hell was he going to do? The situation was getting worse by the minute! He had to do something…he was safe in the Dursleys house wasn't he?

Dumbledore had said he was protected by blood wards, but how far did they reach to? What size of the local area was covered? The house had to be, that was why he'd disregarded the theory of an imposter impersonating him…they shouldn't be able to get into the house at all. But the park was a fair distance away…

Was it the real Dursleys in the house? Not some foes under polyjuice potion? He was becoming far too paranoid for a teenager…but then again, he'd never had a normal life, expect the unexpected and all that.

But what was he going to do now? He was locked in for the night. Stroking Hedwig to calm his frayed nerves Harry got ready for bed…he was exhausted, he had no energy…and he doubted he'd be able to do anything tonight at least. He couldn't concentrate…he was just too tired, too weary to deal with this just now.

OoOoO

Having completed his relatives chores again the next day, Harry trudged towards the shower. He hadn't noticed anything odd today, no unexplained noises, no quiet footsteps wondering a short distance behind him, but then again he hadn't dared stray outside the garden walls. The house had to be within the wards.

Drying his hair quickly with a towel and dressing…time to see if he could find that dart. Fighting to keep a grimace of his face and throwing his cloak over himself, he would not give his shadows an easy way to catch him again.

Quietly making it to the park remaining under his cloak despite the stifling temperature, Harry stared at the tarmac underfoot. He couldn't see it off hand, but he had a rough idea of where it landed. Tracing back and forwards and around the area repeatedly…whoever hit him with it had no doubt removed it, that or someone else found it.

Shaking his head in disappointment having lost his only clue, not that he knew what he would do with it, Harry gave up his search to head home again. Carefully keeping his right arm tucked into his side, whatever gave him that bite…it hurt like hell. He'd probably had a numbing charm on it when he first awoke, because come morning even the slightest jolt sent waves of pain up his nerves.

Attempting to weed this morning was murder, but it was just as well he worked on the garden every second day, the Dursleys wouldn't notice his lack of effort.

He had to do something. Warn the people around him somehow…Harry had originally thought of showing his scar to Aunt Petunia, he'd worn a top where it was pretty obvious to see. But she hadn't said a thing, just stared at him with her usual expression of undisguised disgust. If she had been able to see it she would never have refrained from commenting…she practically jumped at every chance she had to torment him.

So he couldn't write, he couldn't talk, and no one could see his only injury. No one appeared to have noticed his absence either…it was as if it never happened. Harry was seriously debating running away…escaping whatever was happening around him. The situation was incredibly unsettling, for the first time in weeks he hadn't dreamed of the graveyard or Voldemort…just darkness.

He was hardly scared of the dark, but an invisible foe is far more dangerous than an obvious one, one where you don't realise you should run. Whatever his dreams meant they were quite simply giving him a headache, but at least it was a normal one...his scar hadn't hurt at all, even the dull continuous ache normally present was gone. A welcome relief if he knew what caused the change.

He had to get into contact with wizarding Britain…he needed books, maybe he'd stumble across a friend and they'd be able to help him. But the chances of that happening when he had so few friends he trusted were slim to nothing, and the last thing he wanted was to have a run in with Death Eaters. But at least that would be a shock to Fudge, couldn't get a more incompetent Minister if you tried.

Progressing slowly back to the Dursleys as silently as possible, Harry only risked removing the cloak when he was safely back in his room. So he needed to visit Diagon Alley, get books…see if he could find someone to look him over for unwanted curses and hexes, and get some healing potions…

It wouldn't be hard to slip away…but should he come back?

A/N: There's the first part of yet another story I'm starting…I'm quite enthusiastic about writing this one…believe me, I normally don't have such long chapters, normally I struggle to reach 2000 words before posting. Review if you want people but I won't die if no one does…to be honest I hate to read them…I always imagine the worst x)