Disclaimer: Yeah, right.

AN: Umm...I had the urge to write Harry Potter and this was the result. It's very...shall we say, interesting. Takes place the summer after fifth year.

Heat

Harry Potter stares at the ceiling in his bedroom, ignoring the useless air the fan is blowing about, trying to count all the small plaster dots. Three days before the air conditioning had given out, and after bellowing into the phone for an hour, Uncle Vernon had finally received a promise that it would be fixed within a week.

Until then, the Dursleys and Harry were left to ignore the heat creeping through the house.

It isn't natural, Harry decides. He lives in England, surely it should have rained by now. Surely clouds would gather at his bequest, because the next day is his birthday and that is his wish. Cool air to distract him from the humid hot stickiness that is invading, leaving his limbs heavy with tiredness.

Air that creeps around him as he sleeps, and causes him to wake up in nightmarish terror, sweat creating pools in his collarbone and spots on his shirt. Taunting him with memories that he would rather not have.

Because it is much easier to blame everything on the heat. Easier to say he is having hallucinations, that the sun baking the top of his head is cooking his brain.

Better than admitting that Sirius is gone.

"Aaaaaaaah...did you love him, little baby Potter?"

Sickness builds up in his stomach when he wakes up. Sometimes he heaves dryly, other times he ventures shakily to the toilet. Other times he buries his face miserably into his pillow and tries to ignore the sweat prickling the back of his neck, trailing into the blankets.

Ron writes, Hermione writes, Ron and Hermione write together. Their words cross each other's on the papers, blotting out certain words, Ron crossing out certain passages that Hermione writes claiming them, Too smart. Too Hermione. It's rubbish, mate. Other times, neat lines crossing out Ron's scrawl declaring him, immature and uncaring. He can't quite figure out if arguing on paper is mature.

Lupin sent him a letter. It was long, and emotional, and Harry could hardly dare to open it, to read it. He keeps it tucked under the floor, and sometimes reads it at night. Lets the words wash over him. A security blanket. A guarantee. He isn't alone.

He had written back a note three lines long, saying thank you then free me from my relations in the last two. That was two days ago, before the heat and invaded his mind, pleading to keep his sanity.

"You!" Harry awakes with a gasp. The laughing face of Bellatrix is burned into his mind. She's mocking him again. Did you love him, little baby Potter?

Ron has images in his own head. He writes Harry about them sometimes, but the topic is touchy. Harry wants to write and ask if he would take on one more image. It drives Harry insane when he closes his eyes.

The fifth day without cold air, Harry can't sleep. He paces the room, not sure of himself, not sure of the heat. His ears prick, a rivulet of sweat making its way down his forehead.

Did you love him, little baby Potter?

Yes, yes I did.

I turned sixteen yesterday.

Ron can't rid of the woman in the kitchen. Why won't she stop crying?

Hermione cares. She frowns too often.

He sits in a chair. The warm wood presses cloth to his skin, making it stick. Harry's hair is plastered hopelessly to his forehead, his glasses slipping down his nose. He puts his forehead against the desk, the fan blowing the wet strands on the back of his head to and fro.

Somewhere, faintly, a click sounds, followed by an almighty bellow.

Harry lifts his head, ventures towards the window, resting his hands at the sill, and looks for the source of the noise. There is nothing, save the tree, the sun causing it to glare at Harry. He glares back.

Cool air pushes against his hands.