Chapter 1: The Never-Ending Summer
The rows of identical houses on Privet Drive were quiet. An illusion of calm seemed to hang over the neighborhood.
Despite the unbearable heat, the street was asleep.
The peace of the night was disturbed by a strangled gasp as Harry Potter jolted awake from yet another nightmare. He had just re-lived the death of Cedric Diggory for what must have been the thousandth time, cold green light jerking him violently into wakefulness. He pulled in ragged breaths as he tried to dismiss the image of those blank, dead eyes.
Harry untangled himself from the sweat-soaked sheets and stood on unsteady legs. Grabbing his glasses from his bedside table, he made his way over to his desk and plopped himself down onto the rickety wooden chair. He shoved his glasses onto his nose and glanced at his digital clock. It was just gone four in the morning.
This was hardly the first time Harry's sleep had been disturbed by nightmares. He hadn't managed more than five hours of sleep since the Third Task.
Harry was no stranger to nightmares, but the ones about Cedric left him shaking and terrified in a way he'd never before experienced.
In those dark hours of morning, when the terror was still palpable, Harry would wish more than ever that he had living parents. He could imagine his mother hugging him while his father regaled him with tales of his Marauder days. He knew that their love could have driven the fear away.
The knowledge that they had died for him ached more than ever in those moments just before dawn.
Since the Dursleys would never offer him comfort, Harry found other ways to deal with the nightmares, pushing away the lingering terror with distraction.
If there was one thing the graveyard had taught him, it was that he was in no way prepared to face Voldemort. He knew deep down that if he'd just been faster, more vigilant, better, Cedric might still be alive.
That knowledge drove him into his studies with a fervor that would have made even Hermione proud. He reviewed all the texts from his first four years of school, paying close attention to details he'd missed, desperate for information that could make him better, stronger.
He'd even asked Hermione to borrow the texts for Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, cursing himself for failing to take those classes in third year. She'd been delighted at his request, sending him her textbooks along with giant stacks of notes that were somehow longer than the books themselves.
Somewhere during the hours of study, Harry had rediscovered his zeal for academics. In past years, he'd been too distracted by magical stones, giant snakes, mass murderers, and death tournaments to really put his all into his schoolwork. Those distractions, combined with his upbringing, had made him an average student.
In his early years living at the Dursleys, Harry had been branded a hooligan and a troublemaker. His primary school teachers were warned about him before he even entered the classroom. If he did well, he was called a cheat. If he raised his hand, he was seen as disrupting class.
He'd learned pretty early that it was better to be mediocre.
When he'd first gone to Hogwarts, Harry had hoped to start doing well in school. Before his first year, he'd read his textbooks excitedly up in Dudley's second bedroom, relishing the freedom from his cupboard. He'd read each of the books at least once, fascinated by the fact that magic was real, enthralled by the enchanted world promised on every page.
His hopes of academic success had been dashed fairly early. That first Potions class had brought back too many memories of being despised and singled out by teachers.
He'd later learned that the questions Snape had asked him would've been better suited to an NEWT class than to the first-ever Potions class. Hermione had only known the answers because she was a bookworm with a near eidetic memory who had gotten her letter a full ten months before he had gotten his.
After that class, humiliation still fresh, Harry had fallen back into his old ways. It wasn't that he purposely didn't do well, he just didn't try as hard as he could have. This year he was going to change that.
He was going to do his best, Snape be damned.
At least he now understood the reason for Snape's seemingly immediate hatred of him. Sirius had explained the history between Snape and his father in one of the many letters they had exchanged that summer.
Harry, realizing early on that Sirius either couldn't or wouldn't tell him any news about Voldemort, had simply asked Sirius to tell him all about his parents. What followed was an enormous volume of information, long letters arriving every day, Sirius' scrawling handwriting breaking the heavy monotony of days on Privet Drive.
Sirius had endless stories to tell. He told Harry of James' terrible attempts at asking Lily out, their struggles with the Animagus transformation, and how they had all ended up fighting a war just after they'd left school.
In response to one of these letters, Harry had asked if Sirius knew why Snape hated his father so much. The letter Sirius sent back cleared things up for him.
Harry,
Your father did not have a good relationship with Snape in school. Not at all. In fact, they hated each other from the moment they saw each other.
Throughout the years, their rivalry grew worse and worse. It all came to a head after the incident with Moony and the Whomping Willow. I know you heard about this "prank" on the night we met, but I think I need to explain myself.
I never meant to kill Snape. That, I swear to you. Snape had been following us around for quite a while. He wanted to find out what we did on the full moons. You have to understand that, at that time, no one knew Remus was a Werewolf. Had they known, he would have been kicked out of school. That would have destroyed his future.
I knew that Snape knew that Remus was a Werewolf. How could he not? He knew that Remus was ill around the full moon. He'd kept track of Remus' absences, charting them carefully. Anyone with a Lunar Calendar (which Snape used extensively for Potions) and a fair bit of intelligence could have figured it out.
One day, Snape was making all sorts of jokes about Remus' "time of the month" and his "animal side." I lost my temper. I was so angry that I stopped thinking straight. I was thoughtless, and I made a mistake. I told Snape exactly where he could go if he wanted to see for himself what Remus was like at his "time of the month."
As soon as I said it, I regretted it.
That being said, I honestly didn't think he would go. Who in their right mind would try to go near a Werewolf during a full moon?
I underestimated Snape. I don't know what he planned to do when he found Remus, but he went to the Shack that night. Thankfully, your Dad figured out what I had told Snape and managed to stop him in time. Once your Dad understood that Snape already knew that Remus was a Werewolf and came there to catch him out, James lost it. He was so protective of his friends, you see. It brought out this side of him that was a bit terrifying.
James absolutely loathed Snape after that.
I won't lie to you, Harry. We did not behave well. We treated Snape abominably. We felt justified at the time, but we weren't. Azkaban didn't allow me to grow up very much, but after being out for two years, I have perspective on how we acted. We were cruel to Snape. He was cruel back to us, but after the incident with Moony, James and I ganged up on Snape. It wasn't right of us to do that.
Remus, although he was a Prefect, didn't step in when he should have. He was terrified of Snape after the incident, petrified that he would tell. Remus was scared a lot back then. Being a Werewolf is like carrying a curse around with you, never knowing who to trust. It stopped Remus from living a lot of the time, and it stopped him from standing up to us.
I have tried apologizing to Snape. I have tried to make amends. We've all been through so much since then, I figured it was time to move on. I was greatly mistaken to think that his animosity had diminished at all. I guess I should have known considering that he tried to turn me over to the Dementors in your third year.
Your father acted as a bully toward Snape, and that is how Snape remembers him.
I want you to understand something though: for all his flaws, your father was a good man. He was fiercely protective of his friends and firm in his beliefs. He grew up. War changed him for the better. Your mother changed him for the better.
During sixth year, James stopped hexing Snape except in self-defense. He led student efforts to stop the activities of the Junior Death Eaters: he protected Muggle-borns, he stood up for those weaker than himself. It was that change that allowed him to be made Head Boy in his seventh year.
Snape only saw your father at his worst. I saw him at his worst and at his best. He was far better than the boy Snape remembers. I don't want you to think your Dad was a saint because he certainly wasn't. He was flawed, petty, and so damned young when he died.
I can tell you, though, that he had a good heart.
He fought a war. He died for his wife. He died for you. I want you to think of him as human. Don't forget his flaws but don't vilify him either. Everyone makes choices, Harry. James chose to get better. He did get better. He became humbler, more understanding, more loving.
Remember that he made that choice.
As for Snape, I don't know what to tell you. He is on our side, so you can trust him to be loyal to Dumbledore and to the cause. As for him being nice to you, I can make no promises.
He cannot let go of his grudge against the boy who terrorized him. That is his problem, not yours. You have done nothing to him. You are not your father. I know I may have seemed to confuse you in the past, but I see more clearly now. You are neither your mother nor your father. You are just Harry. I love you for that. If Snape is cruel to you, let it roll off your back.
There are people that love you, Harry.
Remember that.
Love,
Snuffles.
That letter had not been easy to read.
His immediate reaction to learning that his father had acted like a bully was disgust. He kept imagining Dudley in place of his father: a leering, jeering, arrogant bastard.
Then, he thought about what Sirius had said, turning the words over and over in his head.
His father had been only a few years out of school when he'd died. He'd changed.
If Dudley changed, would Harry forgive him? Harry thought he would.
After all, he was fourteen right now, and he would hate to be judged by his fourteen-year-old self his whole life.
Maybe it was okay to have dark sides to yourself. Harry himself had them. He had thoughts that were vile. He sometimes wanted to hurt the Dursleys. He sometimes wanted to hurt anyone who had ever called him a liar or a cheat. Sometimes he was cruel, sometimes he was rash, sometimes he was an idiot.
Maybe it was okay to have darkness inside of you, just as long as you made the choice to strive for light.
Now that he understood Snape's hatred of him, Harry resolved to not let it bother him anymore. He would just be the best damned Potion-maker he could be, and Snape could change his attitude or not.
That firm resolve led Harry to discover that he actually quite liked Potions.
Once he learned why ingredients were added, what their properties were, and how they interacted with one another, Potions became a source of pure fascination for Harry.
He was no longer confused by the subject, finally understanding the tricks and subtle differences that had always evaded him.
It was a wonderful feeling to be in control of something, even if it was just his academic life.
Along with his newfound interest in Potions, Harry discovered the wonders of Arithmancy. The magical-based math was the foundation for spell-crafting. SPELL-CRAFTING! He could learn to make his own spells!
Harry spent hours studying Arithmancy, losing himself to the marvels of magical arithmetic. It was the best distraction from his life, allowing him to ignore the images and memories that tugged constantly at his mind.
Sometimes, he even imagined that he could design a spell that would protect those around him, shielding them from the destruction that followed him around.
He was a liability. He needed to learn how not to be.
After the nightmare that had woken him, Harry decided that Arithmancy was the best choice. The numbers and equations always helped him relax, dulling the sharp panic in his chest.
He'd just finished going over Hermione's notes from a lecture on the importance of the numbers three and seven when his aunt unlocked his door.
"You have five minutes," she said shortly, walking quickly away.
Harry bolted up from his chair and raced to the bathroom, moving as quickly as possible to maximize the time he could spend in the shower. Uncle Vernon was very strict about timing, giving Harry barely five minutes.
By the time Harry flung the bathroom door back open, hair dripping, towel wrapped around his waist, Uncle Vernon was standing just outside the door, glaring at him.
His uncle followed him down the hallway, watching Harry sharply as he trudged back toward his bedroom. As soon as he was past the threshold, Uncle Vernon slammed the door, locks clicking into place.
Harry jumped at the noise, heart lurching uncomfortably as he looked wildly about his room, searching for a threat that wasn't there. Seeing nothing, he sighed, allowing the dirty clothes to fall to the floor.
He was going mad. Being locked in this room was making him crazy, shadows becoming demons, dreams turning to nightmares.
Unfortunately, his confinement had started in the first week of the summer holiday, over a month ago, when he'd been foolish enough to try listening to the news while hiding under the living room window.
His aunt and uncle had reacted with an extreme amount of anger, locking him in his room with no hope of escape. Harry was sure that they'd been looking for any excuse to punish him, memories of the Ton-Tongue Toffee still echoing in their heads.
He probably would've ended up in this situation no matter what he did.
It was like the summer before second year all over again. This time, however, no flying car full of redheads was forthcoming.
At least he was allowed to let Hedwig out. Aunt Petunia had convinced Uncle Vernon that it was better for the bird to be out of the house, sparing them all from the racket she made when confined.
Hedwig's freedom meant that he was able to send letters, but it also meant that his truest companion was hardly ever with him.
He was so profoundly alone.
The fear sometimes got to him.
He had moments, often in the early evening when Hedwig had just gone out, when he was just frozen with terror, limbs shaking and lungs constricted. He didn't know what caused it. He would simply feel as if he was back in the graveyard, as if the shadows on the wall were the newly-robed figure of Voldemort rising from a bubbling cauldron.
The books and the letters from Sirius were all that was keeping him sane.
While his trunk and broom lay locked away in the cupboard under the stairs, Harry had his wand and his books stowed safely under a loose floorboard. He was endlessly grateful for the books and letters, knowing that he never would've survived being locked in his room if he had nothing to do but stare at the ceiling and replay Cedric's death.
Moving over to his wardrobe, Harry took a minute to examine the physical effects of this never-ending summer. In only his towel, Harry could see just how thin he'd become. The Dursleys would push small amounts of food through the cat-flap twice a day, but it was not nearly enough for a growing boy of almost fifteen.
To make matters worse, his body, which seemed to share his tendency toward extreme idiocy, had decided that it would be a good idea to grow despite the lack of nutrition. He knew his Dad had been tall, but he could not have chosen a worse time to grow.
Frankly, he looked terrible. His ribs and collarbones were much too obvious, cheekbones straining against the too-tight skin of his face. His thinness, combined with his pallor and the dark circles from nights of disturbed sleep, made him look decidedly ill.
"Some hero you are," Harry muttered at his reflection, quickly pulling on another set of Dudley's hand-me-downs.
A quick glance at his calendar revealed that it was July 30–one day until his fifteenth birthday.
Harry settled down at his desk for yet another long day of study. As he worked, he tried not to think about the birthday he would spend locked in this room.
Alone.