Author's Note – So we all thought that Lu was just going to forget about her little diddy of a story. Even Lu thought so. But inspiration struck her on mandatory evac. She wrote and she wrote and she's nearly completed the story. This just means, that after some travel, she will be able to post. There shall be hardly any waiting, I promise. And for this reason, you review and the laundry fairy will leave you a nice and purdy present under your pillow. smiles real big I'm proud of myself, leave my chipper-ness alone.

Lulu Loves Her Reviewers –

lilblondie2182 – I'm updating now, worry not.

Jessi Black (still having login problems) )- tackles Remi and Jessi I haven't talked to you guys in oh so long. You must email me.

Destiny Bunny- jumps and skips around with Destiny Bunny and sings the update…sing?

Marauder Number 5- I'm sorry, but you'll have to wait. smirks evilly You don't find out what darling Tonks has to say until a later chapter. 'Tis a dreadful thing.

Rating – PG-13

Disclaimer - I told you I wasn't doing this again, so don't expect it.

Chapter Two – God Bless the Demti-Whatzits.

July - A Few Months Earlier.

The bed creaked under a tan, black-haired boy's weight as he tossed and turned. The Dursley's air conditioning was broken and it seemed as though the unnatural sweltering heat that poured in through the open windows only made the night more uncomfortable. To make it worse, a series of screams and yells came from Mrs. Number Eight slightly down the way. The storm lights had turned on with the commotion revealing a rigid Mr. Number Eight and his livid wife duking it out as if actors on a large stage.

"How dare you sleep with that slut of a woman…" she screeched into the starless night. Harry Potter gave up hope of ever falling asleep and walked over to the window to watch the action take place. Lights had blinked on in most of the houses on Privet Drive, but for once, the Dursleys' stayed dark. Harry much preferred to watch without being noticed and neither Aunt Petunia nor Uncle Vernon had heard the commotion over Harry's uncle's snoring. As far as Harry could tell, Dudley was immersed in video games and didn't particularly care about what very well could be the most drama Privet Drive had seen since "that criminal boy" (Harry) had returned from St. Brutus's for the summer.

"You-will-get-out-of-MY-house-now­!" Mrs. Number Eight yelled, her words so closely together that it was almost difficult to tell exactly what she was saying. Her husband stood dumbstruck in a halo of light as though he wasn't quite sure he could believe that he'd been caught. "Did you hear me?" his wife demanded of him. Harry smiled despite himself. The summer had been another dull scorcher. Dudley, still not totally recovered from the "Dementi-whatzits" had graciously given Harry a summer off from constant torment, but had also lost his position on the boxing team and his championship had gone to some once-scrawny victim of Dudley's. He had returned to his own version of entertainment: sitting in front of the television munching on doughnuts that were in a box. The box was permanently stuck to his hand and followed him wherever he went. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon would drop hints about Dudley getting back in shape, but there was never any real decision to their words. They were worried about their son, and what ever made the rolly-polly happy was done right away.

No one had been willing to explain Harry's Aunt's outburst on the Dementors last summer and any attempt for Harry to ask was met with a nostalgic "don't ask questions" from either Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon. But soon, Harry gave up trying; he gave up caring. Even his Aunt and Uncle had noticed a change in his behavior, though they did nothing. He had become sulky and sullen. He didn't have to scrounge the city anymore for bits of news; the Daily Prophet had finally come to its senses. Harry had expected that with the return of Voldemort he would feel more afraid, but he wasn't. There seemed to be an emptiness where this fear would have been, where Sirius would have been. Now, he just felt a sense of unwanted purpose. Perhaps all the events of last term hadn't quite set in. Sirius was dead, gone. Harry would have to kill or be killed by Voldemort himself in the not-so-distant future. He had told Ron and Hermione his fate through owl post and endured their shock and dismay, their pitied tones, much better than he would have had he told them in person.

But the summer hadn't been a total loss. At his birthday, he had received a new homework planner from Hermione for the year to come, a book about the Crumple-Horned Snorkack from Luna who had insisted on keeping in touch with Harry over the summer holidays, a box of homemade treats from Mrs. Weasley, and a jersey from the National Quidditch League from Ron and Ginny. Fred and George had even chipped in this year and sent him complementary Skiving Snackboxes (who knows what type of nutcase they're going to give you guys this year…) and Headless Hats. Harry had to admit to himself – knowing that they all cared had brightened up his summer at Privet Drive.

As Harry hung his arms out the window, hoping for a stray breeze to cool him off, his thoughts turned back to that moment in the Department of Mysteries. In the matte night sky, he could see the slightly surprised look that had come over Sirius's face as he fell backward. Harry could see the veil rippling in the wake of Sirius's fall – then he hopefully thought of the voices that had seemed just beyond the stone archway. He had lost his only connection to his parents that he'd had. The only person who had known them as he, Harry, would have. But then his thought process moved to an opened letter that sat upon his dresser. Lupin. He had kept in contact with Harry all summer, always ending his letters with a similar message. Now isn't the time to dwell on what might have been – the most recent said – nor is it a time to think about the what may be's. Live in the here and now, Harry, and only worry about what must be done now, not tomorrow.

Harry could honestly tell Lupin that he was trying. He had no desire to think about what he would eventually have to face. It was the former that seemed to give Harry the most trouble. How could he not think about the what-ifs? What if he'd tried harder at Occlumency or opened the mirror when Sirius had given it to him? What if they'd all been nicer to Kreacher… the list was endless. But one stuck out in his mind. One he could scarcely imagine not thinking about.

What if there were a way to bring him back?