Title: Vindictive Target, chapter two.
Author: Nellie
E-mail: Pyromaniac917@yahoo.com
Summary: Harry learns a lot about the world when Voldemort is around- and what happens to the people around them. Contrary to popular belief, this is *not* an angst piece, nor is it short. I'm approximating about 28 chapters here, although they might get a lot longer than this short chapter here.
Distribution: Give it away! I don't care, as long as you don't change the words or the characters, and you give me credit. I hate plageurism, too, so don't steal my ideas. If there's a fic sort of like this that's already been written, tell me so then I can blush in private.
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter series belongs to JK Rowling, who is a bloody genius. Heeh. I just own the literal books. I bought them. But they're not mine, and neither are the characters and I'm obviously not JK Rowling. *wink*

It seemed dumb to think that he was targeted all the time, but it was true. Everything he had ever done in life always had consequences. Every piece of magic, every word spoken had somehow arranged his bereavement even further, driving Harry into a little hole, only waiting for him to gather his wits, and muster everything he had in him to kick serious arse. He bit his lip in a calm way to not burst out crying. Harry had never felt like crying, really, until this year. It was like his hormones had given him a swift kick in the head, and he couldn't control them even if he had wanted to. And now that the Dursleys were leaving for Majorca, and dumping him at the neighbor's? Was it his fault that he was a wizard, that his parents were wizards, and that their ancestries linked back to powerful magic still coursing in their dead and living veins? No. It wasn't. A year or two ago he wouldn't have even cared if the Dursleys had dumped him off. In a way, he was glad, and then he was sort of infuriated at them.

He had as much right to go with them. Not that he hated Mrs. Figg or anything, (she was all right for an old bird), but she always had the Sewing Circle ladies over, who cooed at Harry constantly and tutted over his hair and his scar and insisted that he wasn't eating enough. That was a dumb excuse, and Harry knew it, but he couldn't explain that even though he hated the Dursleys, that was his only family. "Some is better than none," he thought to himself, trying to snap out of it. His brain and his body fought each other now, and now he felt all weird and temperamental over the simplest things. So most of his thoughts were mumbo-jumbo, and whenever he talked, there seemed to be a slight squeak. Sure, he had gotten that when he was 12, but wasn't puberty supposed to be over by now?

There was another dumb babble. His thoughts jumped all over the place, and Harry could barely concentrate on a simple task. Ever since he had gotten back from Hogwarts, and Fleur and Hermione had kissed him, and the Dursleys had driven him home, and everything at Hogwarts had happened, he'd just been feeling all these out-of-body thoughts. Like he wasn't even the one thinking them. And like he'd thought Fleur's kiss much better than Hermione's, which didn't make any sense at all, besides the fact that she was half-Veela.

He knew most of these were crazy teenaged thoughts, but some of them did make sense. For instance, there was that single lurking thought everytime he went to bed at night; "Voldemort wants you dead. He'll come after you. He'll torture you. Stretch your limbs and insert odd things in your body. You will die, Harry Potter. And no one- no one- not Hermione, not Ron, not Dumbledore- will hear you scream. Because there won't be any screaming."

The fact that even Barty Crouch Jr. could have impersonated anybody- he really didn't even have to impersonate Moody- he could have impersonated any of his friends. Barty could have been Ron and could've been able to kill him so easily.

Harry almost shuddered at that thought. He hated knowing that he was the only person in the wizarding world with this problem. And he knew it was true. Harry was completely weak, and unprepared. The scar-faced boy could only mutter "Expellimarus" to defend himself, let alone pronounce it or spell it. That's how bad things were. And everybody considered him brave, when he knew the facts. He wasn't brave- it was his parents that were brave, not him. Harry would not be able to die until Voldemort and his supporters were gone. Staying alive was his job now- as it was for the people fighting against him.

The shaggy haired boy tried to ignore his thoughts as he continued packing, tossing random and useless things into the trunk. He stopped to inspect his Sneakoscope, which unusually hadn't been whirring as it usually was when he left it at Privet Drive. It was still a shiny silver color- maybe he could even use it this year. An extra precaution to hide his skinny self- not that he wasn't strong, because he was according to Mrs. Weasley, who had reassured him in 3rd year when Madame Pomfrey had tutted at Harry, saying things like, "Such a weak boy. Couldn't handle the dementors at all."

In the third drawer, he found a large series of letters and things sent to him by Hermione, Ron, and Hagrid. He glanced at them for a second, wondering whether or not he should bring them with him- but the horror of the Dursleys coming back and finding them in the drawers would be slightly embarrassing- as he had talked to Ron in a couple of them about his feelings of adoration for a certain Seeker he knew in the 6th year, Cho Chang. After arranging the postcards and letters in a little pile, he tied them all together with a large rubber band, and stuffed them into his trunk, amazed at how much stuff was already in there in such a short amount of time. His wand, map, and invisibility cloak were safely stashed at the bottom of the trunk already.

Then, looking at his watch, it really wasn't a short amount of time. He had spent so much time thinking and looking through stuff that he only had about 30 minutes to say good-bye to everyone, and then he would be in Mrs. Figg's for god knew how long. Hopefully not for too long. The Dursleys were paying her very little, and Harry sort of felt bad for the woman. But she hadn't seemed to notice it as Mrs. Dursley talked to her on the phone, her nasal voice ringing loudly all over the house about "Harry the Juvenile Deliquent." Mrs. Figg was so old, she probably had thought Mrs. Dursley was saying "Larry ate the Vile Banquet" or something odd like that.

Finally, when his trunk was packed of all things he deemed necessary (including his History of Magic essay and the rest of his homework snugly enclosed in a file pocket), he took out several sheets of paper from the last dresser drawer; he had forgotten to write Hagrid and tell him that he was staying at Mrs. Figg's. All he had been telling him was about the Dursleys shopping for riduculous clothes- he had downright forgotten that he wasn't going with them ever. Harry took out a regular Bic pen (A/N- *tee-hee*, always wanted to do that, sorry!) and started writing on the trunk, his wrist perched rather akwardly.

Dear Hagrid,

Just writing to tell you that I'll be staying at the neigbor's house for about 3-4 weeks this summer. The Dursleys couldn't find anybody else and I didn't want to barge in on the Burrow. It's #6 Privet Drive if you were wondering. Hope everything's well with you and "Olympe."

Love,

Harry

He knew it was short, but it would do for the time being. Harry had already written to Sirius four days ago- he was staying at Hogwarts over the summer, checking to see that no wizard had broken in and messed things about- and he was also looking out for Wormtail, which he was sure was "somewhere." Dumbledore, who had gone home for the summer to a small cabin somewhere in England (Harry had seen a picture of it somewhere on his desk), and was paying Sirius to keep an eye out on Hogwarts. Usually, Hagrid would do it (and he still was, along with Sirius, now knowing fully what happened third year because of Dumbledore's trust in him), but he didn't mind sharing it with Sirius that much. After all, he was the Care of Magical Creatures professor now, even though he still liked to putter about the grounds.

The white walls in his room were peeling, and the wooden floor creaked whenever he walked over it. Once, he had even done a rendition of "Anarchy in the UK," which was often remarked as a rather rude song. Peeves the Poltergeist loved to break into that song during feasts, most of the times shocking the first years into silence. The other years just laughed at Peeves, who was a rather short and evil ghost. "Ehn," moaned Harry, reminded of more Hogwarts. He missed his friends, and thinking about Hogwarts just made it worse. Maybe it was just the temperament of the room, so drab and dreary. Not like it'd be any better at Mrs. Figg's, but at least he wouldn't be forced into doing chores. Knitting, yes. But chores, almost never unless Mrs. Figg possibly couldn't do them.

He placed his hand in Hedwig's cage, and gently petted her soft white feathers to wake her up from her deep slumber. Or as deep as an owl could sleep. "Wake up, Hedwig. I've got a letter for Hagrid."

At the mention of Hagrid's name, the owl woke up instantly and stared at Harry with wide yellow eyes, and hooted happily, jumping onto his two middle fingers, being careful to not break the skin or scratch him. Harry tied the letter onto Hedwig's foot, and brought her to the large window. He held his hand out, and Hedwig flew out almost instantly to the rising sun outside. Two stories below, Harry could see the large green hedge that Aunt Petunia loved to stare over, and a large pile of scooters, basketballs, bicycles, and other outdoor games all ment for Dudley, who hardly ever used them. The lawn was neatly trimmed, as were the rose bushes along the other hedge, on the left side. Harry had clipped them all after accidentally dropping Dudley's only low-fat, low-sodium rice cake in the toilet. Aunt Petunia had been furious, yelling at Harry for wasting "styro- er, rice cakes! You should be grateful you have this much!"

Nevertheless, Harry put the rest of the paper he found in the drawer into his trunk, leaving his ballpoint pen on the ugly cot. He fastened all the sliver plated locks on the large trunk, and looked around his room, which was probably only 12 feet by 16 feet, and he could walk across it in exactly 6 medium steps. He wouldn't miss it, that was for sure. He wouldn't miss Dudley, who was scared to death of him by now, he wouldn't miss the shrill Aunt Petunia, nor the tyrant Uncle Vernon.

He peeked at his watch furtively, noticing that he only had 15 minutes to get his trunk out of the house and into Mrs. Figg's. With a slow start, he lugged the weighty trunk to the door, the floorboards squeaking angrily every step he took to get out of his room and out of this damned house. Harry opened the door wide open, and with one last heave of his arms, pulled the trunk out of his room. A loud "clunk" could be heard ringing on the ceilings. Getting it downstairs would definitely be a challenge. To the left of his room was the loo, and next to the loo, Harry could hear moaning sounds coming from Dudley's bedroom, which fortunately was closed.

Harry didn't even want to think about what Dudley was doing- or who he was doing in there. He only wished he could magic his trunk down the stairs with a simple "Wingardium Leviosa," but he was unfortunately an underaged wizard. Harry dragged his trunk along the ivy-green carpet, and winced everytime the trunk clunked on a step. Finally, after much sweating and worry, the boy had made it downstairs without damaging any limbs or attachments. In the kitchen, Aunt Petunia was feverently making whole-weat sandwiches and stuffing them, along with the dreaded rice cakes, in a large picnic bag. She was wielding a very large knife and was chopping up chicken as if her life depended on it. Harry stood in the large entryway, which had many picture of Dudley hung on the walls. He wasn't sure whether to yell good-bye, or a simple "I'm leaving!"

So the gangly boy with the bright green eyes stood in front of the front door akwardly, until Uncle Vernon or somebody would spot him and tell him to leave. Sure, he could just "go" and the Dursleys wouldn't care, but that would be kind of weird. And what if Mrs. Figg wasn't even expecting him? Where would he go? He looked around the house once more, taking note of everything as though this would be his last time here, ever. Harry didn't care, really, but when the people at school asked him about home, he described the setting.

A family portrait of the Dursleys was hanging in the stairwell, Dudley taking up almost so much of the space that Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were almost pushed out of the picture. They all looked extremely irratable. The entryway sort of looked like a cedar closet- it was more of a mudroom than an entryway, really. Dark wooden boards were the choice of walls, and several expensive looking pegs held Dudley's immense navy blue peacoat, and Mrs. Dursley's purple trench coat. A wooden shoe rack (made by Dudley with Love, read the bottom in red paint) held the family's shoes. Harry was not allowed to put his shoes there. The door had some frosted glass design on it, with the letter opening just 2 feet above the bottom, a welcome sign visible outside.

Harry almost laughed at the irony of it. "Welcome?" he muttered under his breath. The mat had blue flowers on it- and a duck, which only caused him to grin wider. The duck was extremely fat, and he was instantly reminded of Dudley, who was upstairs in his expensive room, doing whatever he was doing. He was instantly disgusted, and turned away from the duck, glancing back into the kitchen. He stepped into the living room, which connected the kitchen and the entryway, being careful to not disarray any of the small crystal figurines Aunt Petunia was absolutely obssessed in. In the white-walled kitchen, Harry quietly asked his aunt, "Aunt Petunia?" so to not make her fling her shiny knife at him.

His efforts were in vain. Aunt Petunia gasped loudly, shocked, and accidentally shoved the knife into one of the cherry wood cabinets above her eyes, unfortunately missing the paper towels, which were below them. She looked, horrified at the small tip of the blade inserted in her "beautiful cabinets" and froze, spinning around to see Harry looking a little timid in the doorway. "You... You..." she spat, brushing her hands over a beige summer jumper she was wearing, her arms sticking out of it like a scarescrow's, and her straw colored hair sticking up in disarray.

"You idiot! You ruined my cabinets!" she yelled at him angrily, rushing over to him past the blue tiled island in the middle of the kitchen, with large amounts of food piled upon it. She grabbed his ear angrily, taking him out of the halogen lit kitchen with the sea-foam green refridgerator. The hold on his ear was so tight he was surprised he didn't have a small hole in it. Mrs. Dursley forcefully pushed him to his trunk in the entryway, and pointed at the door. "First, you eat us out of house and home. Then, you terrify poor Dudley to death. Then you tell us that that-that- madman is your godfather. I cannot take this anymore. You. Are. LEAVING!" she screamed, her mouth open wide, and her face red. Her arm was shaking, and she was tapping her foot rather forcefully on the wooden floors. "Don't even think of coming back for Christmas or Easter, because WE WON'T BE HERE! Mrs. Figg was grateful enough to take you in, so go!"

Harry swallowed anxiously. Then, he felt a burst of strength inside himself, and he smiled a little, while opening the door, tugging his heavy black trunk over the carpet. He grinned at Aunt Petunia.

"Why are you smiling?" she asked vehemently, her teeth gritted. Her arms were closed over that sack of the dress, and her eyebrows were raised.

"Well, I was just thinking. You really have no idea what's going on with Dudley, have you?" he asked, leading her on.

"Of course I do. He's my own son- unlike some people I know." Aunt Petunia turned her nose up at him, pursing her lips.

"Well, just go check his bedroom. He's likely to still be up there for a while. Just go in there." Harry had to surpress a grin. Oh, Dudley was going to be in *so* much trouble.

"Go- away! And don't you even think of breaking into this house while we're gone, you lout! Leave!" However, when she said this, Harry could tell she was extremely curious about what Dudley had in his bedroom. Then she gave one final warning as Harry stepped off their front step, about to drag his trunk next door. "And no- funny stuff. Mrs. Figg is old and would probably die if you she saw you doing anything."

Harry shrugged, a feeling of glee bubbling up in his stomach. He never did do anything over the summer like that. Besides that- he knew the minute he was in Mrs. Figg's house, eating her interesting cookies that tasted like cat treats, Mrs. Dursley would bound up those stairs and storm Dudley's door.

This was going to be a great summer.

_________________________________________

Heheh. Thanks for all the reviews, you guys rock. More chapters are ahead soon!