A tall, lanky, sixteen-year-old boy sat staring out of an upstairs window
into the pouring rain. A mess of untamable dark hair obscured his vision,
and he readjusted his oft-broken glasses so that he could see better. He
didn't really know what he was waiting for. Not that he would see Voldemort
traipsing down Privet Drive, when he had been told explicitly that he,
Harry Potter, could not be touched at his aunt's house.
The summer had begun horribly, despite the Dursley's constant fear that their house would suddenly spontaneously combust, or be raided by dark wizards. His cousin now regarded him as a kind of conspiracy, and glanced away whenever Harry caught him looking. He didn't even have the heart to torment his cousin, though he did not no why, last year he would have welcomed the chance, he did welcome the chance.
Oh yes, a traitorous voice inside his head reminded him. You know why you feel as you do. Sirius is dead, and it is all your fault.
"Stop!" Harry whispered aloud, but he knew, no matter what Dumbledore said, that the sick feeling he'd carried all summer was guilt, dread, and the knowledge that Voldemort could share his mind, read his thoughts as simply as he could read a book.
He shoved the thoughts away, and turned to his homework, but, not to his disgust, he found he could not do that either. He let the books fall to the floor with a resounding crash, and waited. Moments later he heard the house beneath him groan as his Aunt and Uncle raced about, fearing the worst had happened, that people of Harry's kind, witches and wizards, had penetrated their home. Hedwig glared at Harry indignantly, but he did not respond, only sat, waiting with infinite patience.
The door flew open, and his Uncle Vernon stood on the threshold, livid with rage and frustration. "ARE YOU MAD? THROWING THINGS AT ALL HOURS OF THE NIGHT? CAUSING YOUR AUNT AND I EVEN MORE INCONVIENENCE?" Harry didn't move, but looked fixedly at the floor, not really caring what happened next. His uncle, bothered by Harry's lack of response all summer to taunts, jabs and snide remarks about people who "got what they had coming to them", had finally snapped. He tore about Harry's room throwing things, stamping on the spell books that lay strewn about the rug, and yelling out insults. Harry glanced up, chancing a peek at the clock on the wall before his uncle reached that and broke it too.
He stood lazily, stretching his arms over his head, and at leisure left the room, followed closely by the Dursleys, all of whom were now present, and all of whom were fixated on their outcast member. Guilt had given way to exercise; the only thing that had managed to take Harry's mind off Sirius' death had been hours of push-ups and crunches. His body was now well- muscled, in prime Quidditch condition. He made his way down the stairs, slowly, because he was tired, and also to prolong the hours in which he would spend in his room, pondering death, life, and several other subjects, one of which was Cho Chang.
You don't care for her now, do you? But why? He asked his own mind. Why don't I? Am I such an insensitive prat that I don't care if I broke her heart? Some heart to break though, the stupid girl. Yes, she was better off gone, done for. But still Harry wondered about girls. Were they all like that? He didn't want one close to him if that was the case. Hermione though, she was different. Not really like a girl, but a comrade, a trusted ally.
Harry realized he was standing in the kitchen, holding a glass of milk. The three Dursleys all stood mutely in the doorway. "Hullo." He said plainly. "Who's Hermione? Your girlfriend?" Dudley asked, tauntingly, but fearfully as well. Did I say that out loud? Harry wondered briefly. And then the thought My girlfriend? Hermione? He laughed aloud, and Dudley jumped. "No, but a friend, more than you'll ever manage. What girl would want to come near you, Dinky-Diddykums?" That was the greatest insult Harry could muster at this moment. He trudged wearily back to his room, and the Dursleys, to his great relief, did not follow. He did not know what he would have done had he been forced to entertain them all night.
He was about to throw himself contemptuously onto the bed when he realized someone was already sleeping on it. He recognized the fire-red hair, and the countless freckles. He shook his guest awake, and started when the figure sat up at once.
"Oh, hello then." Said Ginny Weasly.
The summer had begun horribly, despite the Dursley's constant fear that their house would suddenly spontaneously combust, or be raided by dark wizards. His cousin now regarded him as a kind of conspiracy, and glanced away whenever Harry caught him looking. He didn't even have the heart to torment his cousin, though he did not no why, last year he would have welcomed the chance, he did welcome the chance.
Oh yes, a traitorous voice inside his head reminded him. You know why you feel as you do. Sirius is dead, and it is all your fault.
"Stop!" Harry whispered aloud, but he knew, no matter what Dumbledore said, that the sick feeling he'd carried all summer was guilt, dread, and the knowledge that Voldemort could share his mind, read his thoughts as simply as he could read a book.
He shoved the thoughts away, and turned to his homework, but, not to his disgust, he found he could not do that either. He let the books fall to the floor with a resounding crash, and waited. Moments later he heard the house beneath him groan as his Aunt and Uncle raced about, fearing the worst had happened, that people of Harry's kind, witches and wizards, had penetrated their home. Hedwig glared at Harry indignantly, but he did not respond, only sat, waiting with infinite patience.
The door flew open, and his Uncle Vernon stood on the threshold, livid with rage and frustration. "ARE YOU MAD? THROWING THINGS AT ALL HOURS OF THE NIGHT? CAUSING YOUR AUNT AND I EVEN MORE INCONVIENENCE?" Harry didn't move, but looked fixedly at the floor, not really caring what happened next. His uncle, bothered by Harry's lack of response all summer to taunts, jabs and snide remarks about people who "got what they had coming to them", had finally snapped. He tore about Harry's room throwing things, stamping on the spell books that lay strewn about the rug, and yelling out insults. Harry glanced up, chancing a peek at the clock on the wall before his uncle reached that and broke it too.
He stood lazily, stretching his arms over his head, and at leisure left the room, followed closely by the Dursleys, all of whom were now present, and all of whom were fixated on their outcast member. Guilt had given way to exercise; the only thing that had managed to take Harry's mind off Sirius' death had been hours of push-ups and crunches. His body was now well- muscled, in prime Quidditch condition. He made his way down the stairs, slowly, because he was tired, and also to prolong the hours in which he would spend in his room, pondering death, life, and several other subjects, one of which was Cho Chang.
You don't care for her now, do you? But why? He asked his own mind. Why don't I? Am I such an insensitive prat that I don't care if I broke her heart? Some heart to break though, the stupid girl. Yes, she was better off gone, done for. But still Harry wondered about girls. Were they all like that? He didn't want one close to him if that was the case. Hermione though, she was different. Not really like a girl, but a comrade, a trusted ally.
Harry realized he was standing in the kitchen, holding a glass of milk. The three Dursleys all stood mutely in the doorway. "Hullo." He said plainly. "Who's Hermione? Your girlfriend?" Dudley asked, tauntingly, but fearfully as well. Did I say that out loud? Harry wondered briefly. And then the thought My girlfriend? Hermione? He laughed aloud, and Dudley jumped. "No, but a friend, more than you'll ever manage. What girl would want to come near you, Dinky-Diddykums?" That was the greatest insult Harry could muster at this moment. He trudged wearily back to his room, and the Dursleys, to his great relief, did not follow. He did not know what he would have done had he been forced to entertain them all night.
He was about to throw himself contemptuously onto the bed when he realized someone was already sleeping on it. He recognized the fire-red hair, and the countless freckles. He shook his guest awake, and started when the figure sat up at once.
"Oh, hello then." Said Ginny Weasly.