A/n: Sorry it took me this long to get this chapter out. I've been really busy, and forgetful, of course! On top of all that, my computer screwed up and wouldn't let me upload a document onto FF.Net without it being in capitals. It took a while to fix, and I didn't figure anyone wanted to read this in all caps. Very annoying, I know, so I just held off. I hope you like this one. So far, this is my favorite, though I am currently working on chapter four. Anyway, I hope you like it too!
::: 1 :::
Destiny's Beginnings
"Shadows paint the scenes
Where spotlights use to fall
And I'm left wondering:
Is it really worth it all?"
--Matchbox 20
Sweat poured down his face as he yanked the last weed from the garden. The force of pulling it out combined with his exhaustion sent him tumbling backwards onto his back and into the dirt. Gray dust rose in a cloud around him, getting in his mouth and making him cough. When he closed his mouth, he could feel the dust crunching between his teeth. Cold earthen dirt from the roots of the weed scattered onto his shirt and became a darker muddy brown when it touched one of the sweat stains. He gasped for breath as he lay there, but felt relief at the fact he'd finally finished. His throat was dry, scratchy, and parched. He'd had nothing to drink since he'd begun this three hours ago and the hot summer sun had been beating on him mercilessly ever since, weakening him slowly.
Harry Potter forced himself to his feet. He was used to feeling tired and thirsty. He'd learned to take it in his years with the Dursleys-and in his years at Hogwarts. His breathing came in short, ragged pants and he stood still for a moment, allowing his back to stretch out the cramps it had acquired from being bent over for so long. The sun beat down on his already burned face and he turned away from it so it could only hit his back. He turned his eyes to the sky. It was a vibrant azure with only a few ivory clouds moving through it at a leisurely pace. There was no wind, nor the slightest bit of chill. The day was beautiful to most, a day to be spent fishing or biking or playing sports. To Harry, all a day like this meant was heat stroke. However, as he stood there, taking in the combination of blues and whites and greens of trees, he found some small bit of admiration for the day's beauty. It could be worse. They could have made him come out here when it was snowing and far below freezing. It had been known to happen before.
Why? he thought in longing to himself. When are you coming for me, Sirius?
Of course, he got no answer. He'd asked this question to himself at least twice every day since he'd returned from Hogwarts and never once had anyone responded.
It had been his longest summer ever. Though it was not the worst-he still believed that the summer before his second year held that title-it was certainly the most depressing. Never before had he had the tantalizing prospect of leaving this hellhole so near in front of him yet just out of his reach. They'd been sent home from Hogwarts over three months early due to Voldemort's attacks on students. The total rounded out to about five months of summer vacation. It had been three already, the duration of a normal summer. He'd gotten owls from Ron, but apparently Harry could not come to stay with them right then because of all the disorganization being sorted out at the Ministry. They were even lower on money than usual and-much to Ron's embarrassment-could not afford to keep Harry just yet.
Sirius, while acquitted for the murders he'd once been imprisoned and outlawed for, could not take Harry yet. Sirius was helping Dumbledore and the rest of the Order of the Phoenix sort out larger and more secretive manners left over from Voldemort's downfall. Sirius did not yet have a house and was staying with Dumbledore in the sanctuary Harry had visited the year before. While Harry had assured Sirius that he was perfectly comfortable living with them all there, Sirius had been adamant that he not do that. Harry remembered the conversation with distaste.
"But why?" Harry had demanded upon hearing of Sirius's unwillingness to let Harry remain with him.
Sirius had sighed, appearing unhappy at the whole conversation. "Harry, I don't like having to send you away. I'd like nothing more than for you to stay with me here, but I don't feel it's a good idea. You're still recovering from this whole ordeal and being in the middle of a place where we go after side affects of it all . . . it won't do wonders for your recovery. It will take some time away from all these wizarding technicalities, which unfortunately, I'm stuck in the middle of."
Harry let out a frustrated growl. He would not just be shipped off to the Dursleys. Not without trying for an alternative. "You can't honestly think the Dursleys are going to be warm and welcoming? Do you think they're going to support me and help me through it? That's about as realistic as the notion that Snape will start giving out points to Gryffindor. If you want me to recover, I need to be someplace where I know people actually care about me-in other words, not there. They'll just be depressed I'm not dead. Not to mention the fact they'll be livid about having to take me back so early! They'll be worse than usual."
"I know they're awful people, Harry, and I'm terribly sorry at having to send you back to them." Sirius scowled. "I'd like nothing more than to turn them all into small rodents. There's nowhere else to send you to, though! Believe me, I've done everything possible to look. Hogwarts is too dangerous right now. Death Eaters rigged up secret traps and hexes everywhere. You don't know where or when you'll run into one. It's a large part of the reason the school's been shut down for a while. You can't go there. You've spoken to Ron and that's not an option, either. I don't see what else to do."
"There's Hermione."
"No," said Sirius instantly, turning stern. "She may be capable of taking you but I will not allow it. You've been through a horrible ordeal, but she's been through far worse. No offense, I know you went through it together, but I don't believe she wants to be near many people right now. She certainly gave off that impression around most of us. I don't think it's good for either of you to be so close until you've both had some more time."
Harry groaned. He understood what Sirius had said about Hermione. He knew the way she'd been acting since the first day after they'd all gathered in the hospital wing. She'd withdrawn completely, hardly saying a word to anyone. She seemed uncomfortable around Harry too, though she was certainly a bit more open with him than with anyone else. He wouldn't do anything to hurt her more. However, what Sirius was proposing was quite the horrid idea. "You can't leave me at the Dursleys for six months!"
"No, of course not. It's only for a couple of months until we get things calmed down. I'll come for you by the time the long summer's half over. I promise. Can you handle them for that long? I'll keep an eye out for other places you might be able to stay, too."
In the end, Harry had agreed. He grimaced a bit at the conversation, wondering why he'd given in so easily. Why hadn't he tried to find somewhere else to go? He turned away from the sky and the sun and began to cross the lawn to the back door of the Dursleys' home. Honestly, he had tried. He'd thought about other opportunities since the summer had begun, but hadn't come up with anything realistic. He understood why Sirius had sent him here. That didn't make it any easier, though.
He pulled open the door, looking out once more at the sky. The only thing better about the interior of the house was that it wasn't hot. Other than that, he preferred being outside. His eyes scanned the blue expanse above, hoping unrealistically that some owl would come sweeping down upon him from the heavens and drop a note into his hands. One from Sirius perhaps, telling him his stay at the Dursleys was over. Or one from Ron. Or-most unrealistically of all-Hermione.
He hadn't heard from Hermione all summer. He'd owled her once, asking how she was and other casual conversational topics, but his letter had been ignored. Harry had not bothered to try again. She would owl him when she was ready and he had no doubt that the reason she hadn't yet was because she was still recovering from all that had happened to her. Ron had told him in his letters that Hermione hadn't contacted him, either.
He closed the kitchen door on the world outside and on all his grim thoughts. He walked over to the sink and pulled a glass out from the cupboard, filling it with tap water. The water had a slightly bitter taste that all the unfiltered water did, but he didn't mind, draining it in one sip. He filled the tall glass again and drank that quickly too. He was rinsing it out when his momentary peace was disrupted.
Aunt Petunia walked in briskly. Her eyes fell on Harry distastefully and her lips pursed in aggravation as they always did when she looked at him. "You had better be done. I told you not to even ask for water until you were finished," she snapped warningly, eyeing him like a slug that had soiled the bottom of her shoe.
"I'm done," he replied curtly, finishing with the glass. "May I return to my room now?" His tone was sarcastic and angry. He'd had no patience with the Dursleys this summer. He found that they were more frightened of him than ever. While they would snap at him and order him around as they always had, and though he still had to follow their orders, whenever he opposed them verbally, they dared not rise to his challenge. He was well aware of what fuelled this fear. He'd informed them of Sirius's plans to remove him from them forever. He'd also added his own little bit-that if they weren't nice to him, Sirius would kill them all before he left-and they'd been skirting around him ever since. This was not the only force at hand, though.
The news of the events with witches and wizards appearing everywhere had not died out. In fact, it had only increased, with more and more ludicrous, forged stories appearing each night. It was the common Muggle consensus now that it was the work of witchcraft, though no one really had any proof yet. Some Muggles refused to believe it, but most did. Those who did were not happy about it. There were beginning to be violent confrontations. A teenager was practicing for a school play involving a story about witches. He had been walking along the street waving a prop wand and practicing his lines. A gang of guys had seen him and beaten him up so badly he'd been put in the hospital. A man seen on the news preaching peace with "these newcomers to our lands" had been shot. A protest was started outside the news station. They'd televised it. People had been stomping around, yelling and carrying signs with things such as, "Kill the witches!" on them. Harry had been watching Dudley's kitchen television at the time as he ate. The sight had disturbed him terribly.
The Dursleys were not deaf to these protests and attacks. They were terrified that the truth about Harry would leak out and that they would be seen as the people who'd harbored a wizard for almost sixteen years. They kept him locked inside as frequently as they could now, unless it was for a chore in the backyard, or a run to the grocery store. They'd warned him multiple times that he would be out on the street and on his own if he even thought about doing anything that marked him as a wizard. It had always been their greatest fear that the truth would get out, and now it had only been magnified.
Sirius had sent him a letter about it not too long ago. He'd described the pressure coming down on the Ministry about this. The new Minister, an old member of the Ministry named Harold Burns, was planning to speak to the Prime Minister of Britain sometime soon. Find some sort of compromise, allegedly. Ron had been sending him copies of the Daily Prophet, which also reported on it. Ron, however, seemed to think that Burns was a bigger idiot than Fudge-and from what Harry knew, he was in complete agreement. Burns wasn't stupid-quite the contrary. He was a cunning man who would do anything to achieve what he intended to. He had spoken of going to war with the Muggles should they not agree to be peaceful with the wizards. Personally, Harry saw no sense in this. If they were intending on a peaceful compromise, why would they attack the Muggles? However, Burns had enough scattered support to be allowed what he wanted. All Harry could do was pray the Prime Minister agreed to whatever terms Burns may bring up.
Aunt Petunia scowled at Harry. "Watch your lip, boy! No, you can't go to your room. I've got more things for you to do."
Harry, however, was not interested. He'd had many days like this before over the summer, particularly right after he'd arrived. It had been a bad day when it came to memories and musings. When he got to thinking about Voldemort-as he had been off and on during his weeding of the garden-the Dursleys suddenly became quite less imposing. He didn't care what the Dursleys did-he wasn't going to put up with them. He rolled his eyes in Aunt Petunia's general direction and walked out of the kitchen toward the stairs.
"You come back here!" she called shrilly after him.
Harry would dearly loved to have retorted with a rude phrase, but he knew that there were certain things he could not get away with by duress. Insulting Aunt Petunia to her face was one of them.
He climbed the stairs in a weary way, his foot falling loudly with each step. He went into his room and shut the door behind him. He collapsed onto his bed, completely ignoring Hedwig who was hooting at him from the windowsill. He didn't even look in her direction. He stared up at the ceiling, his face blank. It was one of his very bad days. He couldn't seem to refrain from thinking about everything that had happened. He'd gradually learned to shut the memories out for the most part, but two months wasn't long enough to learn it well and locking them away did not heal them. There were days when they would escape to circle over Harry like a cloud throughout the day-this was a day like that.
Hedwig hooted at him in an extremely offended and hurt way. Harry sighed. "Not now, girl," he muttered quietly, not in the mood for company, not even that of his owl. He grabbed a second pillow off of his bed and pressed it hard over his eyes, squeezing out all the sunlight and leaving only blackness to look into. He was exhausted and the prospect of sleep appealed to him greatly. He had not been sleeping well lately. While he'd been having scattered nightmares since he'd returned to the Dursleys, he'd never had them all that frequently. Nightmares were something he wasn't plagued by often, though every now and then one would pass through his defenses to wake him suddenly in the middle of the night. Now it seemed he had no defenses left. Every night for a week he'd had a nightmare. The first time he'd awoken panting in his bed in the middle of the night, he regarded it as normal and tried to return to his slumber only to find more awaiting him. Now, every time one awakened him, he stayed awake.
The oddest thing about these dreams was that it was rare when he was even in them. So far only two had involved him. The rest had to do with Hermione, and on an alternate basis, Voldemort and Lucius and Draco. Harry wished they involved him more. It hurt him more to remember the things involving Hermione. Other odd thing about them was that he always knew he was dreaming-but couldn't seem to wake up until the dream was over. He avoided sleep to the best of his ability, but he was too worn out from the day's work and many sleepless nights. He nearly fell asleep right there and would have had Uncle Vernon not shouted at him angrily up the stairs to come down and eat.
Harry threw the pillow off of his face and looked at the time on his wristwatch. It was five past six, though the sun was still high and hot. His feet drug as he made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen.
Dinner was, as usual, unpleasant. Uncle Vernon read the paper and grunted at the stories, occasionally launching off into some long rant about how idiotic something was. Dudley wolfed down platefuls of food, barely coming up for air in between bites. Aunt Petunia spent her time nodding and agreeing with everything her husband said; asking Dudley if he was sure he had enough to eat ("You're a growing boy who needs nourishment, Dudykins, don't eat like a rabbit!") and helping him pile more food onto his already overflowing plate; and yelling at and criticizing everything Harry said or did. The television, at least, remained off. They'd grown tired of watching news about wizards, a word that frightened them.
Harry picked at his food, not eating much. After about fifteen minutes of moving his food around rather than putting any in his mouth, Dudley reached over with a fork and pried Harry's piece of chicken from his plate. In a few moments, it had disappeared into his endless pit of a stomach. Dudley was worse about his appetite this summer than ever. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had long since stopped attempting to enforce his diet. They bought him custom made uniforms for his school rather than put up with what they considered the school's "nonsense." The Smeltings staff was making Dudley keep to his diet, apparently, and Harry doubted he'd seen his cousin without some kind of food in his hand since his summer holiday had begun.
"May I be excused?" he asked soon afterwards, feeling queasy at the sight of Dudley who still had not stopped inhaling the food.
"Load the dishwasher and clean up the kitchen," barked Uncle Vernon from behind his newspaper. "Then mop the floor."
Harry knew better than to defy Uncle Vernon, who, contrary to Aunt Petunia, wasn't scared enough to let him out of chores. Harry remained in the kitchen, following Uncle Vernon's directions, until long after the others had left. When he was finally done, it was a little after nine and the sun had finally set. Harry did not bother to ask again to go to his room, figuring the Dursleys would only give him more work to do. They wouldn't notice if he was gone as long as the kitchen was clean.
This time Harry did not hesitate before sinking into his bed. He pulled up the covers and let his head fall back onto the pillow, asking his silent question to Sirius once more. Hedwig had perched on Harry's wooden footboard and was dozing peacefully. She barely cracked an eye when he entered before returning to her slumber.
Harry felt his eyes closing and wondered vaguely what horrors awaited him in sleep that night. However, he was too tired to care.
* * *
It was just moments after he'd drifted deep into sleep that he felt himself reawaken in a new world. Here it was gray and gloomy, a place with a distinct lack of any hope. It was a type of a cell. He wondered if it was Azkaban, while at the same time wondering why he'd be dreaming about the wizard prison. His dreams had never been centered there before. He saw Hermione sitting on a cot in the corner and immediately he felt panic rise within him. He'd had enough nightmares now to know this wasn't a good thing. He began to do his best to awaken, but this nightmare was no different from the others, keeping him indefinitely imprisoned in his own private hell.
He could do nothing more than watch. This had been the case in each nightmare. He could stand to the side, watching, but he was no more than a ghost in the dream-unseen and unacknowledged. He watched apprehensively as the door of the cell opened and Lucius Malfoy stepped in.
Hermione said something to him vehemently which Harry could not hear. It was the first time he'd ever been deaf in a nightmare before. Lucius's expression turned ugly and he raised his hand. Harry looked away, his breathing fast and labored, knowing horribly what was happening behind him. He could suddenly hear again, but all he heard was Hermione's screams.
"Stop it!" he yelled, though he knew he would not be heard. "Don't hurt her, please, stop it!" He could not break from the nightmare for another horrible few moments. He refused to look, but he could not help but hear.
* * *
Then he was back in his bed, sitting up and panting, each breath a shaky venture, his hands trembling. This had been, by far, the worst nightmare yet. He held out no hope to the fact that he'd be getting anymore sleep.
A sharp rapping came at his door and Aunt Petunia's shrill voice diffused through the door and into Harry's ears: "You stop making a racket, you wretched boy! If you have woken my Dudley . . ." She trailed off and a moment later Harry heard her footsteps echoing away, to check on Dudley he was sure. Harry had not even known he'd screamed, though that didn't surprise him to any great extent.
He stood up and walked over to his window, which he'd left open. He leaned his arms on the sill and stared out into the dark night, letting the soft breeze whispering through the trees blow his already messy hair about and to tame the shivers left over from the dream. Gradually he relaxed, but he still felt clammy and queasy. He glanced at his watch. It was ten thirty. Why did this happen to him every night? Why were these dreams so strange?
He shook his head and put his eyes into his hands. He'd convinced himself that he was coping with everything that had taken place fairly well. He wasn't dwelling on it all too frequently and was carrying on with life. But perhaps that was a lie, the truth to which was hidden within these odd dreams. Maybe he really was losing it.
* * *
Some distance away, in a quiet, still house in the suburbs of London, the night was pierced by the scream of a teenage girl at the same moment the scream of a boy across the country had punctured his cousin and aunt's sleep.
::: 1 :::
Destiny's Beginnings
"Shadows paint the scenes
Where spotlights use to fall
And I'm left wondering:
Is it really worth it all?"
--Matchbox 20
Sweat poured down his face as he yanked the last weed from the garden. The force of pulling it out combined with his exhaustion sent him tumbling backwards onto his back and into the dirt. Gray dust rose in a cloud around him, getting in his mouth and making him cough. When he closed his mouth, he could feel the dust crunching between his teeth. Cold earthen dirt from the roots of the weed scattered onto his shirt and became a darker muddy brown when it touched one of the sweat stains. He gasped for breath as he lay there, but felt relief at the fact he'd finally finished. His throat was dry, scratchy, and parched. He'd had nothing to drink since he'd begun this three hours ago and the hot summer sun had been beating on him mercilessly ever since, weakening him slowly.
Harry Potter forced himself to his feet. He was used to feeling tired and thirsty. He'd learned to take it in his years with the Dursleys-and in his years at Hogwarts. His breathing came in short, ragged pants and he stood still for a moment, allowing his back to stretch out the cramps it had acquired from being bent over for so long. The sun beat down on his already burned face and he turned away from it so it could only hit his back. He turned his eyes to the sky. It was a vibrant azure with only a few ivory clouds moving through it at a leisurely pace. There was no wind, nor the slightest bit of chill. The day was beautiful to most, a day to be spent fishing or biking or playing sports. To Harry, all a day like this meant was heat stroke. However, as he stood there, taking in the combination of blues and whites and greens of trees, he found some small bit of admiration for the day's beauty. It could be worse. They could have made him come out here when it was snowing and far below freezing. It had been known to happen before.
Why? he thought in longing to himself. When are you coming for me, Sirius?
Of course, he got no answer. He'd asked this question to himself at least twice every day since he'd returned from Hogwarts and never once had anyone responded.
It had been his longest summer ever. Though it was not the worst-he still believed that the summer before his second year held that title-it was certainly the most depressing. Never before had he had the tantalizing prospect of leaving this hellhole so near in front of him yet just out of his reach. They'd been sent home from Hogwarts over three months early due to Voldemort's attacks on students. The total rounded out to about five months of summer vacation. It had been three already, the duration of a normal summer. He'd gotten owls from Ron, but apparently Harry could not come to stay with them right then because of all the disorganization being sorted out at the Ministry. They were even lower on money than usual and-much to Ron's embarrassment-could not afford to keep Harry just yet.
Sirius, while acquitted for the murders he'd once been imprisoned and outlawed for, could not take Harry yet. Sirius was helping Dumbledore and the rest of the Order of the Phoenix sort out larger and more secretive manners left over from Voldemort's downfall. Sirius did not yet have a house and was staying with Dumbledore in the sanctuary Harry had visited the year before. While Harry had assured Sirius that he was perfectly comfortable living with them all there, Sirius had been adamant that he not do that. Harry remembered the conversation with distaste.
"But why?" Harry had demanded upon hearing of Sirius's unwillingness to let Harry remain with him.
Sirius had sighed, appearing unhappy at the whole conversation. "Harry, I don't like having to send you away. I'd like nothing more than for you to stay with me here, but I don't feel it's a good idea. You're still recovering from this whole ordeal and being in the middle of a place where we go after side affects of it all . . . it won't do wonders for your recovery. It will take some time away from all these wizarding technicalities, which unfortunately, I'm stuck in the middle of."
Harry let out a frustrated growl. He would not just be shipped off to the Dursleys. Not without trying for an alternative. "You can't honestly think the Dursleys are going to be warm and welcoming? Do you think they're going to support me and help me through it? That's about as realistic as the notion that Snape will start giving out points to Gryffindor. If you want me to recover, I need to be someplace where I know people actually care about me-in other words, not there. They'll just be depressed I'm not dead. Not to mention the fact they'll be livid about having to take me back so early! They'll be worse than usual."
"I know they're awful people, Harry, and I'm terribly sorry at having to send you back to them." Sirius scowled. "I'd like nothing more than to turn them all into small rodents. There's nowhere else to send you to, though! Believe me, I've done everything possible to look. Hogwarts is too dangerous right now. Death Eaters rigged up secret traps and hexes everywhere. You don't know where or when you'll run into one. It's a large part of the reason the school's been shut down for a while. You can't go there. You've spoken to Ron and that's not an option, either. I don't see what else to do."
"There's Hermione."
"No," said Sirius instantly, turning stern. "She may be capable of taking you but I will not allow it. You've been through a horrible ordeal, but she's been through far worse. No offense, I know you went through it together, but I don't believe she wants to be near many people right now. She certainly gave off that impression around most of us. I don't think it's good for either of you to be so close until you've both had some more time."
Harry groaned. He understood what Sirius had said about Hermione. He knew the way she'd been acting since the first day after they'd all gathered in the hospital wing. She'd withdrawn completely, hardly saying a word to anyone. She seemed uncomfortable around Harry too, though she was certainly a bit more open with him than with anyone else. He wouldn't do anything to hurt her more. However, what Sirius was proposing was quite the horrid idea. "You can't leave me at the Dursleys for six months!"
"No, of course not. It's only for a couple of months until we get things calmed down. I'll come for you by the time the long summer's half over. I promise. Can you handle them for that long? I'll keep an eye out for other places you might be able to stay, too."
In the end, Harry had agreed. He grimaced a bit at the conversation, wondering why he'd given in so easily. Why hadn't he tried to find somewhere else to go? He turned away from the sky and the sun and began to cross the lawn to the back door of the Dursleys' home. Honestly, he had tried. He'd thought about other opportunities since the summer had begun, but hadn't come up with anything realistic. He understood why Sirius had sent him here. That didn't make it any easier, though.
He pulled open the door, looking out once more at the sky. The only thing better about the interior of the house was that it wasn't hot. Other than that, he preferred being outside. His eyes scanned the blue expanse above, hoping unrealistically that some owl would come sweeping down upon him from the heavens and drop a note into his hands. One from Sirius perhaps, telling him his stay at the Dursleys was over. Or one from Ron. Or-most unrealistically of all-Hermione.
He hadn't heard from Hermione all summer. He'd owled her once, asking how she was and other casual conversational topics, but his letter had been ignored. Harry had not bothered to try again. She would owl him when she was ready and he had no doubt that the reason she hadn't yet was because she was still recovering from all that had happened to her. Ron had told him in his letters that Hermione hadn't contacted him, either.
He closed the kitchen door on the world outside and on all his grim thoughts. He walked over to the sink and pulled a glass out from the cupboard, filling it with tap water. The water had a slightly bitter taste that all the unfiltered water did, but he didn't mind, draining it in one sip. He filled the tall glass again and drank that quickly too. He was rinsing it out when his momentary peace was disrupted.
Aunt Petunia walked in briskly. Her eyes fell on Harry distastefully and her lips pursed in aggravation as they always did when she looked at him. "You had better be done. I told you not to even ask for water until you were finished," she snapped warningly, eyeing him like a slug that had soiled the bottom of her shoe.
"I'm done," he replied curtly, finishing with the glass. "May I return to my room now?" His tone was sarcastic and angry. He'd had no patience with the Dursleys this summer. He found that they were more frightened of him than ever. While they would snap at him and order him around as they always had, and though he still had to follow their orders, whenever he opposed them verbally, they dared not rise to his challenge. He was well aware of what fuelled this fear. He'd informed them of Sirius's plans to remove him from them forever. He'd also added his own little bit-that if they weren't nice to him, Sirius would kill them all before he left-and they'd been skirting around him ever since. This was not the only force at hand, though.
The news of the events with witches and wizards appearing everywhere had not died out. In fact, it had only increased, with more and more ludicrous, forged stories appearing each night. It was the common Muggle consensus now that it was the work of witchcraft, though no one really had any proof yet. Some Muggles refused to believe it, but most did. Those who did were not happy about it. There were beginning to be violent confrontations. A teenager was practicing for a school play involving a story about witches. He had been walking along the street waving a prop wand and practicing his lines. A gang of guys had seen him and beaten him up so badly he'd been put in the hospital. A man seen on the news preaching peace with "these newcomers to our lands" had been shot. A protest was started outside the news station. They'd televised it. People had been stomping around, yelling and carrying signs with things such as, "Kill the witches!" on them. Harry had been watching Dudley's kitchen television at the time as he ate. The sight had disturbed him terribly.
The Dursleys were not deaf to these protests and attacks. They were terrified that the truth about Harry would leak out and that they would be seen as the people who'd harbored a wizard for almost sixteen years. They kept him locked inside as frequently as they could now, unless it was for a chore in the backyard, or a run to the grocery store. They'd warned him multiple times that he would be out on the street and on his own if he even thought about doing anything that marked him as a wizard. It had always been their greatest fear that the truth would get out, and now it had only been magnified.
Sirius had sent him a letter about it not too long ago. He'd described the pressure coming down on the Ministry about this. The new Minister, an old member of the Ministry named Harold Burns, was planning to speak to the Prime Minister of Britain sometime soon. Find some sort of compromise, allegedly. Ron had been sending him copies of the Daily Prophet, which also reported on it. Ron, however, seemed to think that Burns was a bigger idiot than Fudge-and from what Harry knew, he was in complete agreement. Burns wasn't stupid-quite the contrary. He was a cunning man who would do anything to achieve what he intended to. He had spoken of going to war with the Muggles should they not agree to be peaceful with the wizards. Personally, Harry saw no sense in this. If they were intending on a peaceful compromise, why would they attack the Muggles? However, Burns had enough scattered support to be allowed what he wanted. All Harry could do was pray the Prime Minister agreed to whatever terms Burns may bring up.
Aunt Petunia scowled at Harry. "Watch your lip, boy! No, you can't go to your room. I've got more things for you to do."
Harry, however, was not interested. He'd had many days like this before over the summer, particularly right after he'd arrived. It had been a bad day when it came to memories and musings. When he got to thinking about Voldemort-as he had been off and on during his weeding of the garden-the Dursleys suddenly became quite less imposing. He didn't care what the Dursleys did-he wasn't going to put up with them. He rolled his eyes in Aunt Petunia's general direction and walked out of the kitchen toward the stairs.
"You come back here!" she called shrilly after him.
Harry would dearly loved to have retorted with a rude phrase, but he knew that there were certain things he could not get away with by duress. Insulting Aunt Petunia to her face was one of them.
He climbed the stairs in a weary way, his foot falling loudly with each step. He went into his room and shut the door behind him. He collapsed onto his bed, completely ignoring Hedwig who was hooting at him from the windowsill. He didn't even look in her direction. He stared up at the ceiling, his face blank. It was one of his very bad days. He couldn't seem to refrain from thinking about everything that had happened. He'd gradually learned to shut the memories out for the most part, but two months wasn't long enough to learn it well and locking them away did not heal them. There were days when they would escape to circle over Harry like a cloud throughout the day-this was a day like that.
Hedwig hooted at him in an extremely offended and hurt way. Harry sighed. "Not now, girl," he muttered quietly, not in the mood for company, not even that of his owl. He grabbed a second pillow off of his bed and pressed it hard over his eyes, squeezing out all the sunlight and leaving only blackness to look into. He was exhausted and the prospect of sleep appealed to him greatly. He had not been sleeping well lately. While he'd been having scattered nightmares since he'd returned to the Dursleys, he'd never had them all that frequently. Nightmares were something he wasn't plagued by often, though every now and then one would pass through his defenses to wake him suddenly in the middle of the night. Now it seemed he had no defenses left. Every night for a week he'd had a nightmare. The first time he'd awoken panting in his bed in the middle of the night, he regarded it as normal and tried to return to his slumber only to find more awaiting him. Now, every time one awakened him, he stayed awake.
The oddest thing about these dreams was that it was rare when he was even in them. So far only two had involved him. The rest had to do with Hermione, and on an alternate basis, Voldemort and Lucius and Draco. Harry wished they involved him more. It hurt him more to remember the things involving Hermione. Other odd thing about them was that he always knew he was dreaming-but couldn't seem to wake up until the dream was over. He avoided sleep to the best of his ability, but he was too worn out from the day's work and many sleepless nights. He nearly fell asleep right there and would have had Uncle Vernon not shouted at him angrily up the stairs to come down and eat.
Harry threw the pillow off of his face and looked at the time on his wristwatch. It was five past six, though the sun was still high and hot. His feet drug as he made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen.
Dinner was, as usual, unpleasant. Uncle Vernon read the paper and grunted at the stories, occasionally launching off into some long rant about how idiotic something was. Dudley wolfed down platefuls of food, barely coming up for air in between bites. Aunt Petunia spent her time nodding and agreeing with everything her husband said; asking Dudley if he was sure he had enough to eat ("You're a growing boy who needs nourishment, Dudykins, don't eat like a rabbit!") and helping him pile more food onto his already overflowing plate; and yelling at and criticizing everything Harry said or did. The television, at least, remained off. They'd grown tired of watching news about wizards, a word that frightened them.
Harry picked at his food, not eating much. After about fifteen minutes of moving his food around rather than putting any in his mouth, Dudley reached over with a fork and pried Harry's piece of chicken from his plate. In a few moments, it had disappeared into his endless pit of a stomach. Dudley was worse about his appetite this summer than ever. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had long since stopped attempting to enforce his diet. They bought him custom made uniforms for his school rather than put up with what they considered the school's "nonsense." The Smeltings staff was making Dudley keep to his diet, apparently, and Harry doubted he'd seen his cousin without some kind of food in his hand since his summer holiday had begun.
"May I be excused?" he asked soon afterwards, feeling queasy at the sight of Dudley who still had not stopped inhaling the food.
"Load the dishwasher and clean up the kitchen," barked Uncle Vernon from behind his newspaper. "Then mop the floor."
Harry knew better than to defy Uncle Vernon, who, contrary to Aunt Petunia, wasn't scared enough to let him out of chores. Harry remained in the kitchen, following Uncle Vernon's directions, until long after the others had left. When he was finally done, it was a little after nine and the sun had finally set. Harry did not bother to ask again to go to his room, figuring the Dursleys would only give him more work to do. They wouldn't notice if he was gone as long as the kitchen was clean.
This time Harry did not hesitate before sinking into his bed. He pulled up the covers and let his head fall back onto the pillow, asking his silent question to Sirius once more. Hedwig had perched on Harry's wooden footboard and was dozing peacefully. She barely cracked an eye when he entered before returning to her slumber.
Harry felt his eyes closing and wondered vaguely what horrors awaited him in sleep that night. However, he was too tired to care.
* * *
It was just moments after he'd drifted deep into sleep that he felt himself reawaken in a new world. Here it was gray and gloomy, a place with a distinct lack of any hope. It was a type of a cell. He wondered if it was Azkaban, while at the same time wondering why he'd be dreaming about the wizard prison. His dreams had never been centered there before. He saw Hermione sitting on a cot in the corner and immediately he felt panic rise within him. He'd had enough nightmares now to know this wasn't a good thing. He began to do his best to awaken, but this nightmare was no different from the others, keeping him indefinitely imprisoned in his own private hell.
He could do nothing more than watch. This had been the case in each nightmare. He could stand to the side, watching, but he was no more than a ghost in the dream-unseen and unacknowledged. He watched apprehensively as the door of the cell opened and Lucius Malfoy stepped in.
Hermione said something to him vehemently which Harry could not hear. It was the first time he'd ever been deaf in a nightmare before. Lucius's expression turned ugly and he raised his hand. Harry looked away, his breathing fast and labored, knowing horribly what was happening behind him. He could suddenly hear again, but all he heard was Hermione's screams.
"Stop it!" he yelled, though he knew he would not be heard. "Don't hurt her, please, stop it!" He could not break from the nightmare for another horrible few moments. He refused to look, but he could not help but hear.
* * *
Then he was back in his bed, sitting up and panting, each breath a shaky venture, his hands trembling. This had been, by far, the worst nightmare yet. He held out no hope to the fact that he'd be getting anymore sleep.
A sharp rapping came at his door and Aunt Petunia's shrill voice diffused through the door and into Harry's ears: "You stop making a racket, you wretched boy! If you have woken my Dudley . . ." She trailed off and a moment later Harry heard her footsteps echoing away, to check on Dudley he was sure. Harry had not even known he'd screamed, though that didn't surprise him to any great extent.
He stood up and walked over to his window, which he'd left open. He leaned his arms on the sill and stared out into the dark night, letting the soft breeze whispering through the trees blow his already messy hair about and to tame the shivers left over from the dream. Gradually he relaxed, but he still felt clammy and queasy. He glanced at his watch. It was ten thirty. Why did this happen to him every night? Why were these dreams so strange?
He shook his head and put his eyes into his hands. He'd convinced himself that he was coping with everything that had taken place fairly well. He wasn't dwelling on it all too frequently and was carrying on with life. But perhaps that was a lie, the truth to which was hidden within these odd dreams. Maybe he really was losing it.
* * *
Some distance away, in a quiet, still house in the suburbs of London, the night was pierced by the scream of a teenage girl at the same moment the scream of a boy across the country had punctured his cousin and aunt's sleep.