DISCLAIMER: The settings in this fic don't belong to me, and the wonderful characters within those settings I unfortunately cannot claim, either -- they all belong to JKR and her amazing imagination. I only get to provide them with further adventures. :)

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So It Begins - Chapter 2: A Sighting and a Dream

After a quarter of an hour, Harry had finished his reply, and he leaned back into his desk's chair with a sigh. In truth, it wasn't very long -- certainly not the substantial amount for fifteen minutes of careful thinking and writing -- but after all, he did have the entire day and evening, now that he'd been ordered to "remain indoors". The owl that had delivered the instruction sat patiently on his desk, a wearied look in its eye; Harry knew it wanted to do nothing more than rest.

"Yes, I do have to use you," said Harry, quickly signing his name at the bottom of his message. "Lupin's other owl's injured and I've been told not to use Hedwig too often."

It hooted in response and held out its leg.

"Wait a minute, I want to check it." From a recent letter that Moody had sent him, he was extremely conscious of the fact that proof-reading was absolutely necessary for anything he sent by owl. 'One can never be too careful,' Moody had written; 'a small slip of the hand and the Dark Lord could have all the information he wants passed onto him…'

Professor,

Something bad is going on and I want to know what. And yes, I know you'll be able to tell me when you get me out of here, but I want to know when "when" actually is (but, of course, I know you can't tell me that either).

Don't worry, I'll be a good boy and follow Dumbledore's order. But I can't stop my family. They wouldn't listen to me even if I tried and in the case of my uncle it's too late anyway. They wouldn't understand the danger, whatever the danger is.

I'm really sorry about this, but my uncle was in a very bad temper earlier on and I think your owl (the first one) is hurt. Its wing looks injured. I don't know what to do about this myself and I don't think it can fly very well. I think I'd better take care of it here until you arrive to pick me up.

Please try and tell me some of what's happening.

Hope to see you all soon –

Harry

Yes, that would do. Of course, there was a whole lot more he wished to say -- enough to outrun one of Hermione's Potions essays in length, in fact -- but he knew he had to be exceptionally wary, in case the letter was intercepted. He'd grown accustomed to this by now… even the lack of information in his friends' letters had not angered him this summer, because he could now understand their caution with words. It was difficult, it was frustrating, but he could well guess the consequences, if the messages were to fall into the wrong hands. Consequences he didn't even want to consider.

Harry folded the letter neatly and tied it to the owl's clawed foot.

"Now, take this to wherever Lupin's staying," he ordered, "but if he's elsewhere right now, wait for him to get back."

The owl hooted shrilly in understanding, ruffling its feathers and spreading its wings. Harry had never before considered the intelligence of wizarding owls, but now he thought about it, they really were quite clever to comprehend specific instructions as such. Harry opened the window and the owl took off, swooping smoothly through the gap… and soon it had disappeared into the misty grey sky.

Misty grey sky… For a moment or two, held by a strange curiosity, Harry peered at it intently. It was indeed a grim morning in Surrey -- definitely not an upcoming day you'd choose for sunbathing -- but that was nothing new, as the weather had been dull throughout the entire summer. It was the clouds that struck him. He blinked a few times to be certain he was not seeing things. Up above, a great vortex of clouds consisting of various colours -- grey, blue, black, violet, light pink, cream -- whirled, driven in a tight circular motion by an invisible force. One would assume that the small area of Little Whinging was a luring magnet: the centre of the moving spiral of clouds was thick and dark, but as Harry's eyes moved away from the middle he noticed the thin, white wisps drawing nearer and nearer towards it, as if being sucked in. He'd never seen anything like this before, and he did not like it in the slightest.

Hurriedly, he withdrew his head from the open air and slammed the window shut. Then he drew the curtains across. Why should he pay attention to the weather? Didn't he have more important things to worry about? They were only clouds, after all, and there was probably a scientific muggle explanation for it -- nothing major. He tried to forget about it as he looked around in search of what he should do with his confinement to the house. He supposed he should make a start on his Transfiguration essay, in which he was supposed to explain the difference between transfiguring a kettle and transfiguring a crow. After all, Hermione's probably finished hers by now, Harry thought to himself gloomily.

Reluctantly, he settled at his desk once more, and opened his textbook. It was 5:20 in the morning.

The black cloaked figure clasped the human's bare forearms, its foul, rotten hands allowing the cowering man no escape… not this time. It had waited too long. Its harsh rattling, the rattling of cold breath, became louder as the Dementor bowed its head.

"No, please -- don't, don't," the wizard whispered. He tried to call for aid, but his vocal chords supplied only a harsh croak.

Its long, vile fingers embedded more deeply in the ashen skin.

"No," wailed the man, "I'll do anything. Please."

But the Dementor had now lowered its hood. Slowly it leaned forward, as if drawn… Its mouth made contact with the wizard's, and sucked, inhaled forcefully… The desperate wailing had stopped… The man was…

"SIRIUS!"

Harry's eyes flew open in terror and he immediately clapped a hand over his mouth. A nightmare… that's all it had been… just a nightmare. Wildly he scanned the room: no dementor, no Sirius… well of course no Sirius, Sirius was already dead. It was impossible for the Dead to have their souls sucked out.

Harry clenched his eye-lids together and covered his face with his hands. No… not again…

All of a sudden the door opened; Harry didn't even register who it was.

"What are you shouting for now?" sneered a voice. A gruff, taunting voice. Dudley.

Gathering himself together somewhat, Harry looked at his cousin and willed himself to stop shuddering.

"I was… asleep. What… what d'you mean, now?"

Dudley smirked, enjoying Harry's state of weakness. "You're always calling out someone's name," he said, "I've heard you. Last year it was… what's his name, that other guy -- Cedric. Yeah. And now it's 'Sirius'. Running through your boyfriends a bit fast, aren't you, Potter?"

"Don't be such a pathetic bastard, Dudley!" Harry hissed.

"Watch your mouth, Potter," said Dudley; "after all, you're the one without the father, not me."

"Get out," said Harry in a low, dangerous voice. "Get out -- now!"

Dudley raised his hands and smirked, but made no move backwards. Harry saw that he wore his red boxing gloves.

"GET OUT!" Harry yelled suddenly. And he lunged forward and rammed into Dudley so hard that Dudley was pushed back to the wall behind. This was actually a big achievement for Harry, who had never forced 'Big D' to do anything through his own physical force before.

Dudley, too, was shocked, and Harry took advantage of this. As his cousin winced at the contact with the wall, he turned around and slammed the door to his room shut once he was inside. He searched for the lock on the door -- how had Dudley entered when the door had been locked? -- but found that Dudley had put his Boxing skills into good use. The door had been punched open.

Wanting to do nothing but scream in fury, and cry in despair, Harry collapsed on his bed and pulled the duvet over himself. He was already sick of this. There was nothing in the world that he hated more than the Dursleys… besides Voldemort, and Peter Pettigrew, who were the reasons for the absence of his parents. But the Dursleys were the only blood relatives he had left and he despised them all so much that it burned inside. Life in Number Four Privet Drive was unbearable.

And these nightmares did not aid anything. Ever since Sirius had fallen through the Veil, but more so since he'd returned here from Hogwarts, nearly every night had been plagued with horrific dreams… nightmares. It was always the same. Sirius would suffer a terrible fate, and Harry could do absolutely nothing about it. The images shown to him in his sleep provided nothing but torment.

And because of this, Harry suffered -- in more ways than one. He was frightened of falling asleep because of what he would see there, so every evening he did everything in his power to remain awake, to resist slumber. This had worked well, at first... but now he was so exhausted from lack of rest that his eyes were sore and heavy; it was becoming harder to keep them open after dark. But he had to… there was no other way to escape.

He didn't care what Dumbledore had told him, on the morning following that eventful night -- it was Harry's fault that Sirius had died… How could he have been so stupid? So utterly damn stupid! Voldemort had taken him for the fool that he was, and he had just played along with it… how could he have thought to go to the Department of Mysteries, to rescue his Godfather, without realising that something was strange? After all, he'd been dreaming about the door, the dark corridor, for months… he should have seen. He should have, and he hadn't… and he felt so worthless because of it.

Sirius. How Harry longed to be with him again, to laugh with him and grin at his words; to play Chess and Exploding Snap with such passion that they would both do nothing else for hours on end; to talk about James and to have Sirius relive their former adventures at school; to have someone there for him constantly, reassuring and advising, encouraging; to sit in companionable silence and feel completely comfortable; to feel his godfather's secure arms around him again. To feel Sirius' warm presence again.

Only three times Sirius had ever hugged him, as he could recall: all at Grimmauld Place, in the holidays. But he remembered the feeling of each embrace as clearly as he remembered leaving the Dursleys to come to Hogwarts… each was special, and he only wished there had been more to follow. So many times this summer he had pleaded with thin air to allow Sirius to materialise before him -- just so he could fling himself into his arms and tell him the pain he felt -- just so he could pretend to have a father figure again.

The impossibility of this desire ripped his insides into tiny, inflamed pieces -- to the point where he felt numb and utterly hollow. The one person who could banish some of his grief was the reason for his grief. Nothing could help now. Nothing. And nothing else mattered.

Suddenly, Harry jolted up in his bed, having found his heavy eyes closed. He felt drowsy, and he knew that given another minute or two he would have fallen asleep for a second time, which he definitely didn't want right now. Pushing the warm duvet away from his body, he got out of bed and stretched. Well, the day had started -- glancing at his clock he saw that it was now nearly 9 o'clock -- so he might as well start with it for a second time.

He reached the battered old wardrobe in three paces and, after pulling out faded jeans and a T-shirt, quickly dressed. Then he opened the door, preparing to venture downstairs.