Chapter 3

The summer had been going surprisingly well. The Dursleys seemed to be taking the Order's warning at the beginning of summer to heart. Uncle Vernon was ignoring his existence, a surprisingly difficult task for him. Aunt Petunia, on the other hand, seemed to have decided that he may as well do the tasks no one else wanted to do, and Dudley was hardly ever home.

Harry didn't mind the work. Even cleaning the toilets was better than sitting and doing nothing, while dwelling on last year and mourning for Sirius. At least the work kept his mind off it all. Hermione had suggested he keep busy as a way to alleviate his grief. He'd thought it a stupid suggestion at the time, but he was now admitting to himself what a smart witch Hermione was.

Sweeping the porch, he found himself sinking steadily into a deeper and deeper pit of depression every time his mind would wonder to that night in the ministry. His aunt's sharp comments and his cousin's occasional comments to him, seemed so unimportant compared to what had happened, and to what was surely coming up.

Harry had always rather enjoyed washing dishes, but the fun of it was somewhat diminished when you had Aunt Petunia grumbling alongside you, Harry thought somewhat sourly. The Dursleys were having a party tonight.

Aunt Petunia had been preparing for it all week, which meant Harry had been preparing too. Now as she fiddled with some delicate salmon sandwiches, she kept up a running, if slightly disjointed, commentary.

"Hope no one's allergic to fish... tables set... ten per tray...arrivals at six thirty... iron Dudley's suit...make sure the boy's out of the way... and that awful owl, can't have it screeching again - it'll frighten all the guests..."

Harry belatedly became aware that instead of mumbling to herself, Aunt Petunia was now talking to him.

"Sorry," he attempted to explain, "but she's out at the moment. I had to send...well, one of my kind, a letter. He was a bit worried, you see." Aunt Petunia's lips pursed like the always did whet 'Harry's people' were mentioned.

"I suppose you've been writing to that criminal godfather of yours again, have you?"

The glass in Harry's hand shattered.

They both stared at it in disbelief for a moment.

Harry wasn't sure how that had happened. Sure, the mention of Sirius had rankled. And sure,

he'd been about to angrily reply that Sirius had not been a criminal. But he hadn't been aware of holding the glass particularly tight, or of squeezing it in frustration. He only hoped it wasn't magic. The last thing he needed was more trouble from the ministry.

"Can't you do anything right?" Aunt Petunia shrieked.

"I'm working my fingers to the bone here and you're just smashing my expensive, one-of-a-kind, crystal glasses, of all the things! No wonder no one from that school wants you to stay with them. You ruin everything!"

The plate in Harry's hand shattered. This time Harry couldn't be sure it wasn't the pressure from his hand. Blood ran down his arm his fists were clenched so tightly his arms were shaking slightly. Not from anger as much as a variety of pent-up emotions he could no more explain than he could isolate.

Luckily he didn't have to try. Aunt Petunia was frantically ushering him out of the house while scolding and shrieking after him.

"Out!" She said in a tone of great finality. "I don't care where you go, but make sure you don't come back until after everyone has left."

Before Harry could reply, the front door had been slammed in his face.