It had been a long time since he had heard the name; a very long time indeed. The man, cranky in expression, with an aged, sagging face that had probably once held much weight, suddenly looked up from his morning paper. Such was the time he had heard the name, that he had since managed to convince himself that it no longer existed; that he perhaps was free of the burden that had arrested much of his adult life. He and his wife, who happily spent her old age scrap-booking pictures of their grandchildren, hadn't so much as uttered the name in more than three decades.

When, once again after so long, he heard the name spoken, it was as if his steadfast barrier had instantly crumbled, and he once again felt vulnerable, something he had not felt in a very long time. The man slowly folded his paper and straightened up, pulling his large tweed jacket tighter about him. His beady eyes, buried within folds of skin, darted around, searching the afternoon park for the source of the voice that had spoken the treachery.

But he saw nothing unusual. Only small children and their parents enjoying the last warmth of summer. But the man wasn't convinced. Though he had been trying to forget the name for the last thirty years, he knew at that instant his ears had not be deceived.

When he arrived home, it was to find his wife speaking into the telephone.

"...Yes, yes, Dudley, the children can come spend a weekend with Vernon and me... It is a bit short notice... I'll have the spare room ready... Yes, dear... children sometimes can be quite a burden... Yes, I know you need a vacation! Yes, I know you deserve it, Dudley! Alright... alright... I'll see you in an hour... Goodbye." She hung up the phone with a click.

The thin, scurrying woman turned to face her husband. Her wide mouth and hollowed face wore an exasperated expression. The man wasn't quite sure if he should share with her his worries, seeing as she looked as though she had quite enough. So he stayed silent, and let her, as always, do all the talking.

"It was Dudley just now," she began breathlessly, her hand fidgeting and smoothing her blouse, "He and Sylvia have had an argument again and she's locked him out of the house. So now he feels he needs to recuperate, so he's sending the children here for a weekend while he and Sylvia play cat and mouse, Honestly!" She sighed and glanced at the solemnly ticking clock over the mantle.

"What have they been arguing about, Petunia?" The man asked his wife.

"Oh the same old thing," she replied anxiously, smoothing her blouse repeatedly, "Bills, the car, the house... Oh, Vernon..." she said, stopping for a moment and staring at her husband. She was too engrossed with her own problems to see the worry in his eyes. Quickly though, she snapped out of her reverie.

"Oh dear... I'd better get the spare ready..." And with that, she hurried out of the room to the stairs.

Vernon shuffled slowly to the couch and sat down, his mind in disarray. Everything seemed normal enough: his wife fretting and bumbled over Dudley's affairs, the grandchildren stopping by, he, Vernon, reading the afternoon paper on a pleasant summer Friday, and --- the man stopped and sniffed the air --- raspberry scones baking in the oven. So he could not find an explanation for why he had heard someone whispering the name "Harry Potter" at the park.

"And that's checkmate... I'm afraid you've lost, kid,"

A boy and his uncle sat at a chess table scattered with the remains of noble chessman that had been assailed in warfare during an intense game of chess.

"Aw, c'mon! What happened to the days when you used to let me win?" The boy said, smiling at his uncle, who chuckled, and ruffled his nephew's dark auburn hair.

"You're practically a grown man --- fourteen!" he added, as though his nephew had forgotten.

"If I'm such a man, then will you at least stop calling me kid?"

The boy's uncle chuckled, "We might have to wait on that!"

Before the boy could remark, a woman walked in the room. Though she was nearing middle age, she was still very beautiful, with long, striking red hair and youthful freckles on her still unlined face.

"Ron, leave him alone!" she laughed, slapping her older brother on the shoulder. Ron put his hands up in defeat.

"I surrender, I surrender!" he said.

The woman turned to the boy, and fixed slightly more stern look on her face.

"Sirius, your room is filthy! I expect it to be cleaned by the time your aunt and cousins arrive!"

Sirius moaned, "Aw, Mom," he groaned, "Can't you just use a charm on it or something? "

"That room needs more than a charm..." Ron interjected sarcastically. Sirius glared at him. Ron grinned.

"No!" the woman said to her son, and then turning to glare at Ron. Ron rolled his eyes.

"Hey! I'm on your side, Ginny!" he said.

Now it was Ginny who rolled her eyes.

Ron yawned and pulled out his silver pocket watch.

"Hermione and the kids should be arriving soon," he said to Ginny, who nodded. There was silence for a moment. Suddenly, Ron sat bolt upright, as though he'd just remembered something urgent, and leaning towards Ginny he whispered, "I have news...".

Ginny glanced quickly at Sirius, and her voice took on a whispered, serious tone.

"Is it... about... Harry?"

Ron's benevolent face collapsed into something grave and he nodded; he too, then, glanced hurriedly at Sirius. Sirius knew better than to hang around; his presence was clearly unwanted, so he left the is mother and uncle to discuss the whereabouts of his newly missing father, Harry Potter.

Sirius wandered to the living room, staring into golden framed mirror on the wall. He examined his face, which had changed subtly over the past year. It looked older now, wiser. It was a face that hid many secrets, that had perhaps too soon abandoned childhood. Sirius' face was mischievously elfin, though grim, with a long nose like his mother. His face was pale and freckled, and his hair was a dark auburn, a mix of his mother's bright red hair, and his father's jet black. Most people concluded that he looked much more like his mother than his father, and Sirius himself agreed. He could see very little of his father staring back at him from the mirror. However, there was one thing, one unmistakable detail that caused people to glance twice at him, seeing in him the heroic ghost of his father. It was the eyes. Almond shaped, they were mysterious and deep, going on forever; they held much wisdom for a boy so young, and they were bright emerald green sprayed majestically with gold, impossible to miss. 'You have your father's eyes' he repeatedly heard, as people stared at him in awe. It was said to him so often that Sirius found it wearing.

Next to the mirror was an unusual clock that his mother had inherited from his grandmother when she died years ago. Instead of two hands and numbers around the edge, it had three hands with the names Sirius, Ginny, and Harry inscribed on them and things like Home, Traveling, Work, and Mortal Peril around the edges. Currently, two of the hands were pointed at Home. However, one was pointed at Mortal Peril, and that was the hand inscribed with the name Harry.

Sirius sighed. He couldn't count how many nights he had spent staring at the clock, wishing that the hand would change. But it would stubbornly remain on Mortal Peril. Sirius was now so used to seeing it that tears no longer welled up in his eyes. He turned and collapsed onto the maroon couch, where he lay wearily, staring up into the high rafters of ceiling through which drifted the shimmering silver ghost of a phoenix. His father used to spend hours whispering to the spirit phoenix, named Fawkes, the bird responding with gentle songs that would soothe Harry Potter. The ghost phoenix now looked at Sirius with a clouded contemplative eye. Perhaps it knew that Sirius had retreated deep into his thoughts, because suddenly the bird descended from its perch on the ceiling to rest its translucent plumed head on Sirius' chest. Sirius felt the cold of a ghost seeping through him, but he did not stir.

Harry Potter had been missing for three long months. Rumors had spread that somehow Voldemort had returned, but that was untrue. Voldemort was forever gone. Harry Potter had destroyed him years ago. Other wizards suggested that he had killed himself, but Sirius and Ginny knew otherwise. It was popular belief that the hero had fled towards the mountains to live a life of solitude, but this was exaggeration. Harry Potter was not one to flee. It was a great mystery, perhaps never to be explained. Harry Potter had vanished without a trace, leaving his son nothing but the solace of a ghost familiar, Fawkes.