Disclaimer: I do not take credit for the invention or the story of Harry Potter, it's world of characters.
As another day came and went and the moon's pale rays lit the green leafed trees of Privet Drive, the weather was changing. It changed to fit the stormy terrified hearts of wizards everywhere. For as the summer returned so did their deepest fear: Lord Voldemort. Try as they might, the wizarding world could not fight the truth any longer. Lord Voldemort was back. Sirius Black was an innocent man. Peter Pettigrew still lived. The dementors had revolted. Yes, hide is as much as they may dare, but Voldemort was back, and with him an evil so powerful it could destroy their world and the muggle world as they know it.
But even as the wizarding world began coping with a year old truth, a scrawny bespectacled boy with untidy hair, was preparing for it. Why the bedraggled boy from number four Privet Drive could hardly walk down the street without his hand tucked firmly in his pocket. This boy's habit had become so prevalent that the nosy neighbors of number four found themselves in regular conversation about it.
"I think it's drugs! You've seen the way he looks. Scraggly and downtrodden, like a common beggar. It'd be no shock to me if they caught him peddling off illegal goods!" Number seven declared, sticking up her wrinkled and freckle marked finger as if this final movement settled the matter.
"Yes, yes," nodded number ten in agreement. "all the signs are there, Lois. The glossy eyes, the pale skin…. It fits perfectly!"
"Maybe, Dill, but I disagree," gossiped number twelve as she sipped her tea. "You know where that boy goes to school," she continued thinking of St. Brutus'. "Why his look is of nothing more than pure insanity! And what's more, I'll bet that thing in his pocket is a weapon of some sort!"
Well number twelve was half right. The boy, Harry Potter to be exact, was carrying a weapon, but not of the muggle sort. No, it wasn't a knife or a gun Harry Potter was carrying in the sagging pockets of Dudley Dursley's old and derelict jeans. It was a wand.
However as the sun kissed the world goodnight and the sprinklers of Privet Drive went to sleep, Harry Potter was nowhere to be seen. Only his snowy owl Hedwig knew where to find him as she hooted dolefully down at him from atop his bedroom dresser.
Now, this boy's room was like any other teenager's at a quick glance, but further inquiry would prove different. A book of flying men and women lay open on his desk next to books with strange titles such as "The How-To's of Potion Making" by Markus Fiddlestix, and "Charm Your Way To Success" by Libetta Oddfink. A trunk lay open at the foot of his bed revealing several more odd books, a large cauldron and a broomstick. Yes, at second glance, Harry Potter's room was no ordinary room at all.
But Harry Potter was no ordinary boy, and as he lay there staring listlessly at his ceiling a wave of emotions threatened to sweep him away. His birthday was in a matter of hours, and for the first time in three years, he was sad about it. Never again would he receive another Happy Birthday from Sirius. Never another smile, pat or hug. And it was all his, Harry's, fault.
Guilt burned in his stomach and threatened with every breath to break loose. Harry turned over and lay face down in his pillow. He wanted to scream. Sirius gone, and it was all his fault. And what about the prophecy? How long could he go on ignoring his fate?
Voldemort certainly wasn't ignoring it. Harry could bet anything that Voldemort was planning his destruction at this very minute. Yes, Voldemort did not know the whole prophecy, but Harry was sure it was only a matter of time until he found out. And would it even matter if he did? He'd been trying to kill Harry even before he regained his body, when he finds out the prophecy, wouldn't he just be assured he was on the right track?
Harry punched his pillow and pushed himself out of bed. He hadn't showered in two days, his clothes where beginning to smell of sweat and body odor, his face was pale and clammy, but, Harry decided, he was going out for a walk after all. Maybe he would see Dudley on his travels and have a little fun….
The Dursley's had taken to their usual business of life without much notice to Harry. Uncle Vernon shot him dirty looks with his beady eyes every time Harry appeared in the same room (which wasn't often), and Aunt Petunia gave him even smaller portions than ever before as she fidgeted about the ever growing Dudley, who surprisingly had also taken to ignoring his cousin. Harry still preferred to remain in his little room. There no one glared at him or grunted in disgust as he walked in the room. Only Hedwig stared at him with her sad night eyes.
"Where do you think you're going at this hour, boy?" A gruff voice said from the kitchen. Harry didn't answer, but grabbed his dilapidated sneakers from the foyer and began to slide them on.
"I said, where do you think you re going, boy?" Uncle Vernon growled, now behind Harry. He could move surprisingly fast for such a large man. He glowered down upon Harry with an expression of complete loathing. Harry looked back, glaring.
"Out," he said coolly and reached for the door. "You don't want to do that," he said over his shoulder in a deadly calm voice as Uncle Vernon's meaty hands reached for his shoulder. Uncle Vernon pulled away, fear and outrage in his eyes.
"You leave that door, don't think about coming back."
"Right."
The night was warm, the sky clear and littered with stars. Had he been in a better mood, Harry would have noticed how beautiful the night was, like a midnight blue blanket encrusted with many sparkling diamonds. But instead, he had his head down, his thoughts on the past, the painful future and revenge.