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The air outside was sultry, the surrounding houses sweltering in the midsummer heat as the sun beat mercilessly down on their unprotected roofs. Everyone had fled indoors to the cool of their air-conditioned, semi-detached houses as evening drew closer, to prepare dinner and to talk to their families.

Or, if you belonged to the Dursley family, of Number 4 Privet Drive, to watch television. The son had in fact not moved from his position slumped in front of the set all day, only stirring himself to grunt out an order to his thin, bony mother, who would dash to get her baby whatever small thing his heart desired. She too was peering at the screen, whilst simultaneously attempting to clean an already immaculate cooker. The father, Vernon Dursley, had arrived home not fifteen minutes beforehand, had pecked his wife on the cheek and collapsed into an armchair from which he occasionally surfaced to bark at the program.

In fact, only one of the Dursley family was not present; indeed, to be honest, the term 'family' could only loosely be applied to him. The boy in question was lying on his bed in the smallest bedroom in the house, gazing out of the window as the last rays of the sun began to slowly slip beneath the horizon.

Harry Potter sighed and rolled over, resting his chin on his pillow and closing his eyes briefly. He instantly regretted this decision, as an all-too-familiar figure immediately leapt before his vision; Sirius Black's wasted form slowly curving backwards, as though carried by an irresistible force, through the gently fluttering veil.

Your fault, said the nastily sneaking little voice that had recently taken up residence in Harry's brain. Entirely your fault. He's dead because of you, because of the way that you just can't leave well enough alone. Always got to be doing something, haven't we, Wonder Boy? Always meddling, and then you kill them…

Shut up, Harry told himself firmly. Just – shut up. This is not going to bring him back.

Fighting back the prickle that threatened to overwhelm his eyes, he sat up and got to his feet. Much as he hated to admit it to himself, he had never felt more alone. He hadn't heard from Ron or Hermione in weeks, and though Hedwig came once a week bearing a letter from the Order, the message was always the same.

Be a good boy and don't get into anything you can't handle, though Harry bitterly.

He wandered over to the mirror and looked at his reflection. Still somewhat skinny, he had grown an inch or so over the past weeks. A year ago this knowledge would have pleased him, but now he couldn't summon up the energy to fell anything but dull indifference. And, he realised, hunger.

This latest epiphany coincided neatly with Petunia's yell of 'Supper!' from downstairs. Since the Order's little chat with Vernon at King's Cross at the start of the holidays, the Dursleys had adopted a policy of pointedly ignoring Harry whilst ensuring that he was at least aware of mealtimes. This way, they reasoned, they could be in no way accused of maltreating the boy.

Harry slowly walked down the stairs and helped himself to Petunia's congealed beef stew. He gobbled it as fast as he could, eager to escape the uncomfortable silence and return to his bedroom. Having finished and cleared the table, he hurried back upstairs, thankful to have finished the brief interaction with his so-called family.

The room was dark when he stepped inside and flicked the light on. Harry wasn't tired, and thought that since he was stuck here for the rest of the summer he might as well get some work done. It was the beginning of July, and still he'd had no real news from anyone. At this thought, he felt the familiar surge of bitter anger rise inside him, but crushed it immediately; there was no point in getting angry, because there was no one to hear.

An hour and a half later, he'd read a chapter of the insanely thick Defence book Lupin had sent him with strict instructions to read all of it. Harry reflected that there really was no point in struggling on with it, but that he might as well go to bed. He shivered slightly at the thought of sleep, but told himself that he'd just have to get used to either clearing his mind or enduring the nightmares, there was no other choice. He undressed and clambered into bed, and as his head hit the pillow he only had time to briefly notice that the moon was full tonight, and that somewhere Lupin would be transforming, before the black void of sleep stole him away and he fell into the ever-present pit of nightmare.

Later, Petunia Dursley would tell herself that it was the oppressive heat that had woken her. It was not the scream that penetrated her sleep, it was not the vague feeling of unease and it was most certainly not the odd golden light that was streaming out from underneath the door of Dudley's second bedroom. And she had not got out of bed to check that everything was all right, because she didn't care. No, couldn't care less. She'd simply wanted a glass of water and had gone into her nephew's room to tell him to shut up.

But whatever she told herself the reasons were, she couldn't forget the sight that had greeted her when she did go into Harry's room.

Harry, lying on his bed, writhing in apparent agony, uttering seemingly silent screams, though still appearing to be asleep. He was surrounded by a globe of light which was fundamentally a deep gold in colour, but which was punctuated by jabs of bright hue, red, green, blue, that stabbed down towards the boy. Every time he was touched by one of these bolts, Harry's head jerked backwards in another silent scream. And as Petunia gazed horror-struck, she noticed the energy gather in a spot growing brighter by the second. She opened her mouth to scream, to warn the boy…

Too late.

A shaft of brilliant gold light shot from the spot and pierced Harry's body, through what Petunia knew must be his heart. The globe vanished, leaving the boy's arching body transfixed by the beam. Petunia had to turn her eyes away as the light grew in intensity, until it was so bright that it rivalled the sun itself. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, it departed, leaving the boy lying on his bed, the boy Petunia knew must be dead…

And yet who was still alive. Petunia saw the rise and fall of Harry's chest as he breathed peacefully. She saw it, and was terrified.

She turned and fled back to her bedroom to sob into her pillow and try to explain away to herself the occurrence she had just witnessed, to explain and to attempt unsuccessfully to forget.