It was midnight on Privet Drive. A light fog hung in the air, giving the quiet street an eerie mood. The full moon further added to the mood, trying hopelessly to pierce the fog.
Down the road, at Number 4, the mood of the street outside wasn't on any of the inhabitants minds. Vernon and Petunia Dursley slept in a queer cacophony of snores in the master bedroom. In the next largest bedroom, Dudley Dursley slept with his rump in the air. Around his bed were mounds of toys and gadgets, none of which were broken. All of his broken toys were in the smallest bedroom down the hall. In that room, toys were piled against the wall, many of the parts in separate locations or not present at all. Out of place among the damaged playthings was a bed, nightstand, and a trunk.
The trunk was an odd looking one. It looked to be covered in a dark, aged leather. It had thick leather straps, and dull, bronze clasps. Above the lock was a crest bearing a lion, raven, snake, and badger around a stylized "H".
The nightstand was a normal looking one. It was light, stained wood. But on it were several rolls of yellowish parchment, vials of ink, quills, a long, smooth, wooden stick, and a cage. In this cage, a large, snowy white owl slept with her head underneath her wing.
But the bed was the oddest of all. Sleeping in it was a boy. A sixteen year-old boy. Had you known the Dursley's, you'd never have known he was there, much less sleeping in the house. Sleeping couldn't accurately describe what the boy was doing. He was tossing and turning in his bed, sweat running profusely down his head from his uncontrollable black hair. This boy was Harry Potter. He had been forced to live with his Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon after Voldemort killed his parents.
Harry was having a nightmare. Something very wrong. He could tell Voldemort was up to something. Harry had a special relationship with Voldemort. He could at times sense how Voldemort was feeling, and occasionally, he "peered" into Voldemort's mind while sleeping. But Harry wasn't supposed to. He had been forced to learn how to close his mind to Voldemort during his fifth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The headmaster, Professor Dumbledore, had required him to take Occlumency lessons with his least favorite Professor, Snape. Harry had tried to practice Occlumency all summer, and had some luck. But that night was a rare exception.
Harry jerked forward in his bed. Sweat cascaded down his face and down his chest and back, causing his black T-shirt to stick. Even before wiping the sweat from his brow, Harry shot a hand to the lightning-bolt scar on his forehead. It seared in agony at the moment.
Harry pulled off his shirt and wiped his forehead. Then he tossed it to the corner and sat up to his nightstand. He quickly wrote a letter to Professor Dumbledore explaining the dream and how his scar had hurt. Dumbledore would need to know if Voldemort was up to something, even if Harry didn't completely know what it was. He couldn't talk to the Dursley's about it. Uncle Vernon would yell at him, and Dudley would laugh and call him crazy.
Harry knew something had to be done…