**Hello again! This chapter is hereby dedicated to Sky Chief and Katharine, who gave me such stunning reviews. See more thanks below!

WARNING: this is a weird one. Well, by my standards, it isn't really, but you have to read it carefully to catch all the hidden jokes.

Disclaimer: forgot about this last time. Well, if Harry Potter were mine I would not be here. Satisfied? **

"We must be missing something really simple!" exclaimed Hermione. "Harry just thought this up on the spur of the moment! It can't be that complicated."

"Well, you were on the felatome, right?" said Ron. Hermione didn't even bother to correct him. "Maybe you spelt something wrong?"

"It's misspelled, Ron, and I can't know if I did. I just wrote down what I thought he said."

"Oh, I dunno," said George in exasperation, throwing down the parchment on which was now written a hundred different versions of Harry's message.

Srab no swodniw… llams oot.

"It just sounds really mixed up to me."

Hermione froze. "Say that again."

"What, about it sounding all mixed up to me?"

"Yes!" Hermione. "It's so simple! They are real words, they're just anagrams!"

"Y'what?" said Ron.

"Honestly Ron," said Hermione, not for the first time. "It means the letters in the words have been mixed up! But Harry couldn't have, I mean, no offence to Harry or anything, but he's not that clever…"

"Meaning you are, I suppose," said Ron. Hermione rolled her eyes at him.

"I know!" said Fred with glee. "They aren't real anagrams either. The words are just backwards. Look at this first one… 'srab' – 'bars'."

"And 'no' is 'on'," said Hermione automatically. "I can't believe we didn't get that one…"

"So 'swodniw', means 'windows'," said Ron slowly, "and llams oot…"

"TOO SMALL!" said everyone together.

For a few moments they all sat together in silence.

"Oh," said George after a while.

"Great," said Fred.

"Really big help, Harry," said Ron.

"Well, at least now we know why he wasn't replying to our letters," said Hermione.

"Yeah, but how much does that help us?"

"Well what were you hoping for, Ron?" I did only ask him the one question!"   

Every day was the same. Every single day. Only they were getting worse.

It had been three weeks since Hermione's telephone call. It seemed like an eternity. Only one more week until school started. That seemed even longer away.

Harry had no idea how he was going to get all his school things this year. This year there was no Hagrid, no Weasleys, no Aunt Marge and no World Cup to help him get them. This year, he was all alone.

What really struck him was that he was alone by choice. Why on earth hadn't he agreed with Sirius and Remus when they arrived? Harry thought he knew why. He couldn't stand the shame.

And it was true, what he had said, wasn't it? Dumbledore wanted Harry with the Dursleys to keep others safe. If Voldemort wasn't actively looking for Harry, there would be a lot less deaths, and a lot less suffering. Harry had to stay.

That was what he believed. And he was paying for it.

Harry had come to dread turning a corner and seeing his Uncle waiting for him there, huge old leather belt in his sausage like fingers.

He now had marks from each and every member of his loving family. Welts and cuts lined his back.

His face was covered in bruises from Dudley, and he had various burns on his hands where Aunt Petunia had 'accidentally' jogged the ironing board so that the scorching hot iron caught his bare skin.

**Ouch! I know how much that hurts, believe me…**

He was allowed to eat only when he got so hungry that he was actually sick. It made the food taste foul.

Every night Harry was forced to watch defenceless parents and children killed. At least the men went out with a fight, as did many of the women who had no babies in their hands that they had to protect. The children never stood a chance.

But if Harry had thought that it couldn't get any worse, he was wrong.

His back was still searing with pain, effects of the last beating. He tried not to show it as he edged around the crowd outside the grocers, three heavy bags over each arm.

It had been a bad day from the start. He had had no breakfast, or in fact any food at all for a week, except the occasional apple from the tree of Mrs. Figg's that leant it's branches over the Dursley's fence. Harry made an attempt to grab one every time he had garden chores. They kept him alive.

Maybe one day, thought Harry. Like, whenever I actually get a chance to go to Gringotts and exchange some Galleons for pounds, I'll pay her back.

There was no chance of him taking his pick of the groceries that he carried, Aunt Petunia had thought long and hard about that. She had the price of everything in 'Kings and Parkers', written down on a list taped to the fridge, next to Dudley's diet sheet, which was being neglected.

Harry would come back with the exact foods, and the exact change, or he'd be sorry. The change was at this minute inside one of the grocery bags. Harry no longer trusted his pockets.

Just the other day, a biscuit that would have fed him for two days had leaked a trail of crumbs out of his jeans pocket from the kitchen to his room.

Ouch.

Harry ducked under someone's arm and almost dropped the bags as his back sent a river of pain shooting up his spine.

"You all right, sonny?"

Harry gasped as cold hands helped him up. He felt the bulging grocery bags get plucked from the grasp of his left hand.

"God boy, these weigh a ton!"

Harry almost had a heart attack when he saw who had helped him. It was a policeman. A Bobby. The law.

He was dressed in traditional street walk Bobby costume, blue suit and helmet with silver buttons. He looked a little out of place in the busy street full of modern buildings.

"I'm fine," said Harry, straightening up as well as he could. He held out his hand for the bag. The Bobby didn't give them to him. He was looking at Harry's face in a strange way. Harry thought that he might be looking at his scar.

"You got a few bruises there, young man…"

Harry's heart dropped out of his stomach.

**Not quite literally, but you know the feeling. **

He had cast a wandless charm on his face to stop people from seeing the marks. So far, Uncle Vernon hadn't said anything, but Harry renewed the spell every morning just in case.

This particular morning, he had forgotten. Dudley had wanted Harry to tidy his room. It usually wasn't smart to argue with Dudley. The dark bruises on his face must be beginning to show.

"It's nothing - " said Harry quickly. "Honest. I bashed into a cupboard the other day, see."

"How old are you?"

Nosy Parker. "Fifteen."

"You're awfully small for your age."

Harry stood up straight as if insulted. All he wanted to do was to get away, fast.

"Do you mind?" he asked, and held out his arm again for the grocery bags. This time, he received them.

As soon as he was fully loaded, Harry turned to continue walking, but the policeman stopped him.

"Listen," he said, very seriously. "I suspect that you're not telling the truth, which you may well be, but if there is something you're worried about, you call this number, right?"

He scribbled on a page from his Bobby's pad, ripped the page out and tucked it into Harry's shirt pocket. With his arms full, he couldn't refuse it.

"You really don't have to worry…" Harry called after the Bobby as he walked away, but he didn't look back, just wandered into the crowd until he disappeared.

Muttering to himself, Harry wandered back up the street towards Privet Drive.

Hermione frowned to herself. It had been three whole weeks since she and the Weasleys had spent hours over that stupid message that hadn't helped in the slightest.

On that same day, she had received an owl from Professor Lupin telling her what had taken place at the Dursley household.

Harry was being clumsy. She could believe that. It was possible that he was still in shock from the events that had taken place at the end of the previous school year.

Then why was she still worried?

It was perhaps, Harry's own fault, seeing as he wasn't looking where he was going.

But that was only because he had been concentrating on walking.

He had to, because he would have fallen if he hadn't.

The bags were too heavy on his injured shoulders and arms.

His aunt and uncle had done that.

He wouldn't be living with his aunt and uncle, if it hadn't been for…

Voldemort. Harry often played that game. Every single misfortune in his life seemed to come down to Voldemort. Or himself. He brought some things upon himself.

Would you rather freeze to death…?

"Hey! Wadda ya know? It's Harry Potter!"

Harry nearly walked headfirst into Malcolm Partridge. "Hey! Dudley! Look what I found! Someone's dog went in the street!"

Dudley, Piers and Dennis turned one corner. Gordon and Jarvis, the new addition to the little band, (the only qualification you needed was to go to Smeltings, be big and stupid and good at hitting people, or holding people), turned another.

Dudley smiled his stupid smile; the one that meant something small in glasses was going to be decorating the pavement in a matter of seconds.

"Dudley - " started Harry.

"You call me Master Dudley," said Dudley with awful glee.

Harry gritted his teeth. "Master Dudley. These are Aunt Petunia's groceries. She'll get…"

"We all saw him do it, didn't we boys?" said Dudley to his gang, who looked nonplussed. "We saw him mess up the shopping, didn't we?"

Then they all caught on. Even in this dangerous situation, Harry couldn't help thinking how much they reminded him of the Death Eaters.

"Oh, right. Yeah."

"Definitely."

"Of course we did."

"Dropped them and stomped on them, didn't he?"

"Oh, yeah Dennis. And then…"

Dudley grabbed the bag nearest to him and fished out the fiver.

"He got this and walked off, didn't he?"

"Had to stop him…" grinned Piers, cottoning on.

"Danger to the com… com…"

"Nah, Jarvis. It's the comu… the comuni…"

"It doesn't matter what the hell he is! Get him!"

Harry dropped the bags. He would never have saved them. It turned out he couldn't even save himself.

First, they wrestled him to the ground, which wasn't hard. Then came the friendly kicks on his already broken ribs. Harry endured it. He tried not to scream. He didn't know how far away that Bobby had gone. He'd be in worse trouble if he landed Dudley in prison.

"Impedimenta!" Piers froze. Harry wriggled out of his grip, looking frantically around for whatever idiot had just cast that spell.

"Stupify!" Gordon fell over. This was getting out of control. The other boys didn't seem to have noticed their stunned and temporarily paralysed companions.

"Terantalagra! Oh bother, Stupify!" the first curse had missed. The second sent Jarvis toppling on top of Dudley and then lying still on the ground.

Dennis screamed. Dudley jumped up and whirled around, leaving only Malcolm to hold Harry by the collar. He managed, however.

Harry found his glasses underneath his hand and put them on, ignoring his captor. One of the lenses was cracked, the other showed…

Oh no. No way.

There stood Dudley, face sweaty, eyes wide. And there, facing him, was Hermione. And a wand.

"That's better," said Hermione, her tone icy. "Now let him go."

Dudley was usually terrified of wizards of all shapes and sizes. His summer spent with a broken Harry, however, seemed to have softened his fear.

He motioned to Malcolm, who stood up, keeping a tight hold on Harry's right arm, which was bleeding from some old wound, which had opened. Dudley strolled over and grabbed Harry's other arm. Before Hermione could open her mouth to stun him (or worse) Dudley had whipped out his Britannia penknife and placed the blade at his cousin's throat.

  

"Make a move," he told Hermione. "And I kill him."

Hermione shook a little, but kept her wand level. All Harry could think was, 'what the hell is she doing here?'

"You wouldn't," said Hermione. No one missed the uncertainty in her voice. "He's your own flesh and blood."

"I've killed before, you know," said Dudley playfully. "Mice and birds. Cats sometimes. Small dogs. He's one of you. That makes him an animal. Why shouldn't I just… put him to sleep…?"

Harry yelped as the knife made a shallow cut across his neck. He didn't realize his eyes were pleading.

Slowly, defeated, Hermione lowered her wand. Dudley nodded to his stunned friends. "Wake them up."

With a tiny sob that no one could hear, Hermione raised the wand again.

"Enervate." All four boys sat up slowly.

"Come on," said Dudley. His gang followed him down the street, Harry still being towed along by Malcolm, leaving Aunt Petunia's food behind and laughing back at the defeated girl, a stick of useless wood in her hand.

Hermione stood still. She couldn't believe what had happened. She'd been beaten by a pack of Muggle hooligans, and Harry was going to get hurt…

Why was she standing there? She had to get help. She had to do something. She had to reach Dumbledore, Sirius, anyone.

But wouldn't that take too long?

She stared in sorrow at the split carrier bags; their contents sprawled over the street. She was going to get an owl any second. An official warning for using magic…

Hermione suddenly noticed a piece of paper among the squashed oranges. She picked it up and unfolded it. Thankfully only one side had been soiled by the fruit.

She stared at what was written there. She glanced up the street. There was a telephone box just twenty paces away. Suddenly she didn't care whose that paper was or how it had got there.

If someone had happened to be standing outside the red telephone box just up the street from a pile of squashed groceries five minutes later, they would have heard a fifteen year old girl say:

"Hello…

Hermione Granger.

No, you don't get it. It's not for me, it's my friend, Harry…"

And if someone had just happened to go into that telephone box after the young woman had left it, they might have seen a scrap of paper from a Bobby's notebook with two things written on it abandoned on top of the Yellow Pages.

_____________

Childline:

0800 11 11

_____________

** What a great place to end a chapter! **Backs away from angry mob** Ok, OK! I'll carry on! **

Mr. W. J. Y. A. S. Anderson lived in the tiniest cottage imaginable, on top of a hill somewhere in Huntingdon. There are of course, not many hills left in Huntingdon, green ones anyway,

**I should know, I live there, **

but Mr. Anderson lived on one, all the same. It was a mystery to many people how Mr. Anderson kept the Government off his land, but to Norman Sickle, it was just good luck to him and may the good Lord keep him safe.

Norman Sickle thought about everyone this way. As long as the Lord kept them safe, they were good people in his eyes. And of course, the Bible says that the Lord keeps everyone safe, so Norman's eyes needed to hold an awful lot of people.

His family had soon grown tired of his constant preaching, they weren't incredibly religious people apart from his Grandpappy, but many of his friends had advised him to become a vicar.

But Norman was not quite a vicar. He was the village postman, and was known around the town as Norman.

The wheels of Norman's bike always squeaked when they rode up Anderson's hill. He whistled 'Onward Christian Soldiers' along with the noise they made.

He was glad in a way that Mr. Anderson's house was the last on his round. It gave the poor bike a chance to warm up. It sometimes puzzled him why Mr. Anderson never received any mail other than newspapers, but it lightened the load. It was the way of Norman to find the good of every situation.

**Does this seem really random to you or what? **

Once at the top of the hill, Norman approached the cottage and knocked loudly on the door.

He heard the sounds of breaking glass, and then a curse. Norman made a cross on his chest at the language, but the next second the door had been whisked open by Mr. Anderson himself.

"Morning Norman," he said briskly. "Newspapers as usual?"

"Of course sir," said Norman, "a Mail and a Times, just like always," and he handed over the papers.

"Thank you Norman. Good day. Bit of a crisis inside, I'm afraid."

"Oh, no worries sir. May God be with you."

"Yes, yes," said Mr. Anderson vaguely, and shut the door.

Norman rode away, thinking vaguely of his shepherd's pie waiting for him at home.  

When Mr. Anderson ran back into the workshop, the rug was smoking. Impatiently he stamped it out with his foot. He grabbed a well-used dustpan and brush from the side and swept up the remains of the potion bottle.

He cursed himself for leaving his wand upstairs for the fifth time that day. His rheumatic legs forbade him to make that climb more than twice a day. Or maybe he was just lazy.

Mr. Anderson made a living by receiving Muggle newspapers and forwarding them. One Albus Dumbledore paid him handsomely for this. Anderson didn't know what he saw in them, the news was so boring, but it kept him occupied until his 'big chance' came, when he would sell a potion that actually worked.

"Look at yourself, Willie," he would often say. "That big chance'll come soon, you see if it doesn't. But you have to make it come soon. You don't have that much time."

With a sigh, William Anderson retrieved the papers and tied them to his owl Griddle's leg. He didn't bother to undo the wrapping. He turned away as Griddle soared off into the sunset with the newspaper, not caring about the odd looks the villagers gave William's house when they saw him.

Everything you have just read is important.

Albus Dumbledore had not eaten for a while. He didn't feel particularly hungry, which was unlike him. He sat as his desk, resisting the urge to chew his quill in case one of the staff came in.

Surely there was a letter he'd forgotten to send or something…?

An owl swooped into the room by the open window. It carried a Daily Prophet in its claws. Dumbledore thanked the owl politely, paid it, and sent it on its way again. Glad of something to do at last, he settled down to read the paper.

His frown increased as he read. The news had not changed. The ferocity of the Death Eater attacks had increased, but none of the papers ever even hinted that the Dark Lord himself might be leading the attacks. Not one.

Albus closed the paper with a sigh. They would catch on soon, and then not even Fudge would be able to keep them quiet…

It appeared to be his lucky hour. Here came another owl, silent and smooth over the forest. Dumbledore recognised this owl.

"Ah, Griddle. How is good old William, eh?"

Griddle hooted softly and extended his leg. Griddle hated Sundays. The paper was three times as heavy as usual.

**Where do they find all the stuff to put in those? **

Albus set about undoing the paper wrapping that Muggles insisted on tying round the news, and Griddle flew off.

Leaning back in his chair, he opened the paper to the front page, and leapt up again in shock at what he saw.

Mrs. Figg, of number 4, Civet Drive, whose apples had been steadily feeding Harry for the last few days, had not had a chance to glance at the paper that morning.

First, she had tended all her beloved trees, including the one that leant over the Dursley's back fence. Then she had scattered crumbs all over the grass to attract the birds, which she loved watching. Then she had completed her household chores, and taken a few moments to answer a letter to her daughter.

At last, she poured the steaming hot water from the kettle into a pot full of tealeaves, and then poured that and rather a lot of milk into her favourite, apple decorated Mug.

Picking up the Daily mail from the table, she shook it open and took a sip of her tea.

Then she screamed and dropped the mug onto the floor, where it smashed into five large pieces.

Hermione picked at her breakfast, ignoring her mother's chiding. She didn't know that her daughter had taken a little trip to Little Whinging the previous day.

The man on the phone had told Hermione to go home and not to worry.

Guess what? She was still worried.

She hadn't told anyone about it yet. It had been dark when she got home. Her mother thought she'd gone to visit Ron by train this time. She felt guilty, however, because she knew deep down that she was really putting it off.

Mrs. Granger started to get up from her seat when the post flap on the front door rattled, but Hermione shook her head and walked out of the kitchen, leaving the soggy cornflakes behind.

Yawning, she picked up the paper from the doormat and glanced at it. Her scream brought her mother running into the hall.

Remus Lupin was carrying two carrier bags almost as heavy as Harry's had been. They would have been heavier, but he was slowly running out of cash again.

Sirius had no money. He had promised to pay Remus back, and had even gone so far as to suggest he go and stay with Mundungus for a while (their old friend now knew of Sirius, but it had taken quite a long, dangerous time to persuade him) but Remus was having nothing of it.

Once school had re-started, both of them would be staying at Hogwarts for at least a term. Dumbledore would need their help.

The newsagents was just down the road. Remus felt a bit like visiting Greg Foster, the man who owned the place and was friends with Lupin merely due to the amount of money he received from him, so he sauntered up there, shifting the bags under his arms.

He paused to look at the new sign outside the shop. There was a new one every week.

Life getting you down? World's affairs too confusing for you? Come to our weekly discussion in the town hall this Friday. This week's topic: Stress caused by Global events.

In reading this, Remus' eyes happened to slide onto the headline in the Mirror.

Young Boy Viciously Abused

Remus picked the paper up, interested. The shopping slipped from his other hand as he saw the main picture that emblazoned the front page.

It was a picture of Harry. He wasn't wearing his glasses, but it was unmistakeably Harry, from the untidy hair, to expressionless face, to dangerously skinny bare chest covered in scars, to the tattered jeans and scuffed trainers.

Inset was another picture of Harry, but this time it showed his back, covered in even more welts and scars than the front. His left foot was tucked behind his right leg, as if he was ashamed.

Remus' eyes widened in shock as he scanned the first paragraph.

This was the scene which shocked Childline health authorities yesterday, as Mr. Harry Potter, 15, was rescued first hand from a group of teenagers, who fled as soon as officials approached.

It is rumoured that a young woman, whose name inspectors withheld, rang the hotline number moments after witnessing these youths carry out a severe beating on Potter.

The scars however, which riddle the young man's body, were sometimes weeks old, and are believed to have been acquired from Potter's guardians, who he claims are not his immediate parents…

Remus skipped the rest. He turned to page 7, where the horrific story was continued. The words only told of Harry's denial of the aforementioned statement.

There was a picture of Harry's glasses, smashed. Another close up of a cut that could have been an inch deep.

The last paragraph caught his eye.

An inspector told reporters that last night he was muttering in his fevered sleep 'leave them alone, they've done nothing wrong, wait, no!'

If anyone knows anything about this case or can give information as to the whereabouts of Harry's guardians, please call Childline on 0800 11 11 or speak to a representative of your local policeman.

Still in shock, Remus purchased the paper, not speaking a word to Greg, and hurried back home.

Sirius would not like this.

**Man, that took a long time. Here be thanks.

VampireLover, Carey Miles, Lauren, Beezer, Lokapavani, RadientMoonWolf, The infamous drunk, Liaset (he, he he…), kyra uku riddle, melockerty, Lady Fox Fire, Lei Dumbledore, stardust summersun, skahducky, katie, AllAboutMe (I'm so flattered, especially coming from you), Kim, Amber and Lil Lupin (what cliffie?)

Katherine: I hope you notice this is dedicated to you. You rock.

Ronsspawn: Harry is being uncourageous because

i) he doesn't want anyone to know tha the can defeat Voldie but bot his guardians,

ii) he thinks he has to stay at the Dursleys to keep his pals safe. No biggie.

Sky Chief: I can't stand those either. Glad you didn't miss the humour, it does tend to be overlooked **boo hoo!** Your name is also at the top in case you hadn't noticed.

Littleginblossom: I'm sure you're not mean really…

Dy: You're back! I am a one for cliffies, aren't I?

Nableelah: Arggh! I don't want to die!

Bumblebee Bucy: I know it's the best one yet. The others seem childish by comparison, don't they? Glad you are reading.

See you next chappie and don't forget to review! Feed my addiction…

Luv ~Laterose~. **