Disclaimer: Obviously, I didn't write the Harry Potter series. J.K. Rowling is responsible for those masterpieces, and I will always worship her for it. Please don't sue me. I'm already poor and all you'd get from me is a fifteen year-old TV, a futon and some clothes that fit me better than you. The only way you would get my computer is by prying it from my cold, dead fingers.

A/N: Okay, I'm done making promises and estimates on updates because I really hate letting people down. The muses are really just not very fond of me AT ALL. About half of this chapter was very easy to write, but the other half was terribly tedious. Hopefully it's not enough of a letdown to make you give up on me completely! Now, on with the review responses. The reason I put these at the beginning is so that people can tell how much of this is author's notes and how much is actually the chapter. Be warned: I skipped these last chapter so they'll be very long this chapter.

Phat Paul: Yes, Justin's role is a bit bigger in this story than in canon. Thanks for the encouragement!

Wind Whisperer: This is only a summer after fifth year fic. There will be a sequel, but I seem to be running on J.K.'s clock right now, so it will be awhile before I get to it. I want to do a lot more planning for the next one, because I feel there are a lot of errors in this fic do to the fact that I'm kind of just winging it. Fear not, Harry and Justin will talk more!

Wiccan PussyKat: You were right about Mark Evans, yes. Thanks for the advice with Britishisms, although I was hoping more for slang terms and things like that. Pretty please? Anyway, my take on Justin is that he's grown a lot in the last few years (as teenagers tend to do) and is ashamed of being a prat in the past. As for the Sorting Hat, personally I think that it's impossible to categorize people so easily. No one is only brave, or only clever, or only cunning…Part of the beauty of being human is that we have incredibly complex personalities and annoyingly contradictory emotions. Harry happens to be brave and a bit rebellious on top of his many other characteristics. Justin is hardworking and devoted to his friends, but is also sneaky in that he'll do a lot to be with his friends. If you stick around another ten years for my sequel, I have an idea for the Sorting Hat. Okay, ch. 15 review: Sorry to disappoint, but Death Eaters haven't breached the wards…doesn't mean they can't, though…well at least I think they might be able to…hmmm…My original Harry/Remus talk was actually much longer and had a lot more anger on Harry's part, but it seemed out of place so I chopped it.

Chipper1: Ooooh, I like you! Your favorite parts to read are my favorite parts to write! Sorry for the complete lack of Ron and the Weasleys so far, I know letters just don't do it. That's why I'm working Ron into chapter 17, whether it makes sense or not! Just kidding, it will make sense. Sorry about the review that didn't send—that's happened to me before, and it makes me just want to rip my hair out and throw the computer out the window…I have violent tendencies…

Ootp-rules: Someone who knows the difference between their, there and they're! Your kind are few and far between! I can't believe I did that—I must have been really tired. And did I really put "wonderfull" somewhere? You have a sharp eye…Would you consider being a beta for my sequel? So true about Justin being a good candidate for Slytherin because of his suspicious tendencies, by the way! And I really don't deserve those brownies you offered.

Von: Good! Another sadist, like me! Hope the fight between Harry and Big D's gang satisfied, and I hope you enjoyed your Wheatbix.

Goldilocks31890: I find a lot of stories through my favorite authors' picks too. Glad you like this story. I would really like to send Harry to a party, too, but it would probably be too unrealistic and I doubt he would enjoy it much. Maybe I'll do a cookie on it someday; it would be fun to get him totally smashed, I think. I'm also glad you like Heather—I'm pretty inexperienced with developing my own characters so that's nice to hear.

Lizliterarius: I loved your thoughts on J.K.'s spells pinpointing the "nature of our beings". Very well put! J.K. is such a genius. My guess for the Half Blood Prince is that the title is referring to Godric Gryffindor. We don't know much about him, and he's the only person we know of that I can think of who literally could have been a prince. Gryffindor wasn't a pureblood, was he? I can't remember if J.K. said or not…You're right about ice cream feeding the muses; I've been dieting and unable to eat it, so the muses abandoned me!

Thanks to Kaya1, ChicLoCCa, Sweet Sakura Curls, Dzeytoun (Heather's mostly for comic relief. Harry is definitely not a normal teen, and this is certainly not canon, but if I didn't give Harry a chance to at least pretend to be normal, the grief he is trying to deal with would probably just swallow him up. What use would he be to my plans for him them?winkwink), volleypickle16, curiousity killed the rat, Omagic, cintishortstop, Kjkit, Mooncinder (sorry! Blame the muses! As for the gang, Harry's safer just staying out of their way), Jarvey (Harry appreciated your enthusiasm!), Adenara Yatman (Mark Evans will not be related to Harry, but he will play a part), Otaku freak (more anti-Dumbledoreness coming up!), LunaLovegood61, tansy1354 (Harry and Justin hardly ever talk in canon, but I figured with he and Harry being the only wizards around, they'd become a little closer), angel74, Siriuslyfun19212, jbfritz, gaul1, Lady Phoenix Slytherin, MissPanther, hazardous, spiffycool, JD22, Lilrebelgirl, DiggaDigga, LunaShadows (I like the suspicion, but it really was Remus), DeathWynd (you deserve a lot more than I give you!), stephnaie, Rhiane Raine, and tristhe. I hope you all enjoy this chapter! Once again, apologies for the terribly long wait.

Chapter 16: Warning Sign

Distractus.

Jab, swish, jab. A spell to create sparks, smoke puffs, and other distractions to impair an attacker's judgment.

Labora momenta.

Aim, circular swish, jab. A difficult but effective jinx to significantly reduce the power of opponent's spells.

Tegoprotectus.

Zig-zag line, wand wave over entire body. A defensive spell to create an invisible blanket of protection that could absorb the shock of many curses and jinxes, although it usually only lasted a short time.

Corrosis argentum.

Twist, jab, flick of the wrist. This was a spell Harry had been practicing so long he didn't need to recite its purpose in his head. Largely forgotten due to the variety of its use, the only reason he knew about it was because he had spent many hours searching for a special spell to use on a certain someone with a silver hand. When he stumbled across corrosis argentum in one of his books, he knew it would be the perfect way to combat Peter Pettigrew. The way the spell worked was to conjure an acid that corroded and ate away at silver. Although not originally designed for use against a silver hand gifted by a Dark Lord, Harry fervently hoped it would not only eliminate Pettigrew's greatest strength, but hurt a great deal as well. He had done all he could short of actually casting the spell to assure himself he would be capable of performing it if—or when, if he could arrange it—the time came.

Harry had been studying his books and practicing a variety of curses, jinxes, and defense spells several hours a day since he was again alone on Privet Drive. The Aurors from the Ministry had asked that Justin stay away from the area since the attack, for his own safety of course. It didn't seem to make any difference that the Death Eater had gone after Justin and Tonks outside the Privet Drive wards, as the Hufflepuff had angrily remarked to Harry over the phone, explaining why he could not visit again. Realistically, Harry knew Justin would be safer if he spent all his time within the protection of the wards rather than his own home. It was no use trying to argue the matter with the Ministry, however, given their history of stubbornly refusing to listen to reason, as well as having Fudge as their leader. It reminded him of a quote he had heard once; "Never underestimate the power of stupid people in large groups."It was perhaps a little harsh, but honestly—any Auror with an ounce of common sense was or would eventually be working for the Order of the Phoenix, anyway.

Going to Heather's house was also not an option for the time being. Her family had left on an impromptu vacation two days after his and Justin's visit. The ten day sightseeing trip to Scotland was supposedly all Mr. Gaines' idea. Heather insisted "the wrinkled, cold-hearted tyrant" was trying to decimate her social life and keep her from any contact with the opposite sex. The whole time Harry had been nodding sympathetically in agreement, he was really trying to hold back his irrational anger at her for being so shallow. He would have given anything—well, almost anything, he thought, picturing the Dark Mark burning on his arm—to have his parents around, even if they were overprotective to the point of being smothering. Naturally, he felt bad immediately afterward for thinking badly of the person whose company had kept him sane that summer. Besides, maybe he would feel the same way as Heather if their situations were reversed. What did he know about families and the ways they expressed love?

Life with the Dursleys certainly hadn't taught him about the love of a family. The only emotions they had to spare on him were hatred and resentment; they wasted all their love on the unresponsive leech that was Dudley. Despite his propensity to break down into tears at a moments notice, the crying fits were obviously faked and only served to get him what he wanted. Harry couldn't remember any instance from the near past that his cousin had shown any sort of gratitude or care for either of his parents.

As a child, it had baffled him that Dudley squirmed and fought to escape kisses and hugs from his parents. As someone who couldn't recall ever receiving such a token of affection, hugs and kisses had more value than all of Dudley's expensive toys in his young mind. Every night, staring into the wispy cobwebs in the corner of his cupboard, he had wished and occasionally prayed for someone to love him. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon didn't seem likely candidates, but at the time he had still hoped that they would someday realize what a well-behaved, good boy he was compared to Dudley.

That hope had been extinguished one day when he had made the grave mistake of trying to comfort Petunia. He had been four years old when he had wandered by the living room and noticed her crying softly into her hands. Aside from the fact that no one ever comforted him when he was sad, he had seen his aunt and uncle hug Dudley when he threw his bawling fits, and sometimes it helped. In his naïve mind, it had made sense to hug Aunt Petunia since he was the only person around to do it. Quietly crawling onto the couch to reach her, he had wrapped his small arms around her long, thin neck and said, "It's okay, Aunt P'tunia."

He could still remember the shock, embarrassment, and inferiority he felt when she had shoved him roughly to the floor. "Don't touch me!" she had shrieked. "You aren't my son! You're nothing but a curse upon my family to make us miserable! The least you can do is stay out of my way and keep your filthy hands to yourself!" That experience was all it took to forever wipe away any hope he ever had of being a part of the Dursley family. Petunia had made their opinion of him very clear, and made sure to reinforce it daily in both cruel words and hurtful actions.

Speak of the devil, Harry thought as he heard the door slam downstairs, announcing Petunia and Dudley's return from his "meeting". The Dursleys insisted upon calling the twice-a-week, mandatory anger management classes "meetings". The classes were part of Dudley's punishment for assaulting Mark Evans, as well as two months probation and one hundred hours of community service. Although Harry enjoyed the thought of his cousin enduring the torture of hours of picking rubbish off the streets and sharing his non-existent feelings with a group of strangers, he didn't see how it would solve Dudley's real problem. His cousin didn't beat up helpless kids for because he was angry—he did it because of the sense of power and control it gave him. At least Voldemort has the excuse of a screwed up childhood.

Boredom really was taking hold if he was passing the time drawing comparisons between his cousin and Voldemort. It was either that or staring at the empty walls of his room feeling sorry for himself. Walks around the neighborhood had lost their appeal now that his guards were so cautious they trailed so closely behind him that they occasionally tread right on his heels—literally. He could always study more, but he had been reading so long that he thought he could actually feel his brain hurting.

"Harry!" yelled Aunt Petunia, her voice so shrill it sounded like she was screaming in his ear rather than at the bottom of the stairs.

Wondering why she had used his given name instead of his more common label of 'Boy', he shouted, "What?"

"You have a phone call!" she snapped back.

That explained the relative politeness; Petunia wouldn't want word spreading that he was being treated unsatisfactorily. As far as she knew, if whoever was on the phone suspected anything, they might tell Dumbledore and she would lose her payment for 'caring' for him.

The bed creaked dangerously as he jumped up and bolted out the door. He felt a little lightheaded as he descended the stairs two at a time; it was the first exercise he'd had in days. The thought that Dudley hadn't had that much exercise in years made him feel a little better about his recent slacking in the physical activity department.

Petunia was waiting for him in the kitchen, looking extremely put out at being inconvenienced by his caller in the beginning of making dinner.

"Who is it?" he asked as he took the phone from her.

"How should I know?" she snarled, as if offended he would think anyone who called for him mattered to her. Harry sent her a scathing glare as he put the phone to his ear. Petunia sneered back, looking uncannily like Professor Snape, before turning around to check the stew simmering on the stove. Maybe if she had been a witch, she would have been a Potions professor.

"Hello?" He lowered his voice, noticing his aunt looked intent on remaining in the room. She was either more interested in his friends than she let on, or she wanted to make sure he didn't poison the dinner.

"Well, it's about time!" teased a female voice. "Your aunt lied, by the way. I gave her my name—I think she was just disappointed because she thought I was calling for Dudley."

"Hermione! You're back!"

She let out a small laugh that made Harry smile even wider. At that point, Petunia must have decided seeing him on her phone and happy to boot was too much to bear. Donning a pair of kitchen mitts, she took the stew off the stove and walked primly to the dining room.

"I'm back. You did get my letter, didn't you? I said I'd be home on the twenty-third…"

"Yeah, I got it. I suppose I just lost track of time." Was it really the twenty-third already? In the past week he had spent living like a hermit, the hours had melted together. "Anyway, it's so good to hear from you! I didn't know you had my phone number! How was your trip?"

"You gave it to me after second year, remember? And my trip was fantastic, thanks. I have so much to tell you and Ron! Going to China was like stepping into another world! Everything was so different—the architecture, language, fashions—not to mention the magical community…I'll wait to tell you about it all when Ron's with us, though, so I don't bore you with the same stories twice. Oh, and I can't wait to give you your birthday present! I got it in Hong Kong. I hope you'll like it."

"I'm sure it's great, Hermione." And he was. Even if the present was bottled Hong Kong air, it would beat any gift the Dursleys had ever given him hands down. Fresh misery welled up in him at the thought of turning sixteen in a week with the Dursleys and without Sirius. Too bad he couldn't leave with Remus a few days early; the last birthday he would ever spend with his relatives would probably be the worst as well.

"Well, enough about me. How are you doing, Harry?" Hermione asked meaningfully. He could tell by her tone that she was asking about more than his health.

"I'm g—" He had begun to say 'good', but remembered that Hermione was much too perceptive to believe that lie. "I'm alright," he modified. It wasn't quite a lie; he was alright most of the time. The times that he felt so sad, furious, and cheated that he wanted to tear apart Dumbledore's office all over again were slowly becoming fewer and farther between.

Hermione remained silent, but Harry could imagine her at the other end of the line, frowning and chewing her lip as she debated the best way to approach the subject of Sirius. When she finally spoke again, he could hear her hesitation.

"If you ever need to talk about it—er, him, I'm here. I can't imagine how you feel right now, but I'll try my best to understand."

Grimly, Harry replied, "I hope you never have to understand. I don't really want to talk about it right now—" or ever, "but it really helps to, er, know you're there. So, er, thanks," he added bashfully, but with complete sincerity. He never would have thought that it could be so hard just to talk about talking about Sirius.

As was usual for him when thinking about Sirius, a familiar numbness flowed through him. Even though he was beginning to accept his death, he had the feeling he would always feel a bit of the rage and pain associated with it. It was strange, though, how he could feel so senseless and lonely missing his godfather, but at the same time be so comforted and hopeful talking to Hermione and knowing she would be there for him come hell or high water.

"Oh Harry, you don't have to thank me for that." Her voice cracked, and Harry prayed that she wouldn't cry. Luckily, she cleared her throat a few seconds later and he could practically hear her composing herself.

"So, what have you been doing to keep busy this summer?" she asked with a sniffle.

Harry was thankful for the change in subject. He ended up telling her all about meeting Heather, some of the new spells he had learned, and Dudley's encounter with the law. He even told her a little about Sirius' will, despite the lump that formed in his throat bringing it up, at which point Hermione jumped in.

"That reminds me! Sirius actually left me something, also. I didn't find out about it until this morning."

"Mind if I ask what it is?" He was a little surprised, but oddly pleased, to hear that Sirius had thought of Hermione in his will.

"Well, that's the thing—I don't actually know what it is. All I received was a scroll with a short note from Sirius and a password for some sort of safe. It's supposed to be in his old room at Grimmauld Place. Do you think Remus would let you go with me to pick it up before we leave for Hogwarts?"

"Sure, I don't see why not. Who do you suppose Sirius left Grimmauld Place to?" Harry wondered aloud.

"My guess would be Dumbledore. He hated the place, and I don't think he would've wanted you to inherit a house that held so many of his bad memories. It's so dark and decrepit, anyway—about all it's good for is Order meetings. Of course, they'll have to find a way to control Kreacher before the meetings will be secure," Hermione mused.

At the mention of the traitorous house elf, Harry's eyes narrowed and his grip on the phone tightened unconsciously. "I can think of plenty of ways to control Kreacher. Strangling, drowning, beheading—"

"Harry," Hermione growled.

"—poisoning, Dementor's kiss—"

"That last one would be sort of difficult to arrange, considering the Dementors won't take orders from us," Hermione interjected.

Harry laughed. Leave it to Hermione to seriously consider everything. "Well, I'm sure we could bribe Fudge to order one for us," he joked.

"You're kidding, right?"

"Well, as much as I wish I could get Kreacher kissed, I really don't think Fudge would accept any bribes from me considering our history," he said sarcastically.

"Oh, Harry! How could you not know? I heard about it three days ago, and I was still in China!" she cried.

Now he was confused. "Not know what? What happened?"

"It's been in wizarding papers all over the world! The Dementors abandoned Azkaban on July 19th, and eighty-seven prisoners disappeared with them. All that was left were the bodies of the five wizards that were on watch and the prisoners who were too stark-raving mad to escape!"

"I suppose Lucius Malfoy and the other Death Eaters from the Department of Mysteries escaped?" he asked, although he already knew the answer.

"Of course," Hermione answered with a hint of anger in her voice.

The shame of getting his friends hurt and getting Sirius killed bore down on him even more heavily now that absolutely nothing good had been accomplished in the act. The captured Death Eaters were free, the Dementors had turned, and Voldemort was ready to strike…At least the world knew that he was back now. That was the one positive in the whole mess, and Harry clung to it.

Although Dumbledore had predicted that Voldemort would eventually call upon the Dementors to rejoin his ranks, the news still stunned him. Assuming all the escaped prisoners were now working for the Voldemort, his army was probably strong enough to rival the Ministry and the Order of the Phoenix combined. The Dementors probably tipped the scales in the Dark Lord's favor.

What was really frightening was the fact that the wizard components of the Azkaban guard had been unable to stop the break. They should have been extra prepared and cautious since they had Dumbledore's warning. On that train of thought, there should have been more than just five human guards. Unless Fudge was true to character and continued to ignore Dumbledore's advice…

Dreading the response he might get, Harry asked, "Did Fudge happen to make any comments in the article?"

Hermione let out an unladylike snort and confirmed Harry's fears. "Like he could bear to stay out of the spotlight. He said that it was completely unexpected that the Dementors would desert Azkaban and stop taking orders. However, he has a solution that sounds simply brilliant in the works…"

"What is it?" Harry groaned.

"The Ministry plans to send out fliers by owl that explain the Patronus charm and tips to defend against Dementors," she said in a way that conveyed exactly how ludicrous she thought the idea was. "As if anyone could learn to conjure a Patronus just by reading a piece of parchment. And even if they could, what good does that do a muggle who can't use a wand or even see them?"

"Well surely Dumbledore said something?" With the Minister still acting like an idiot, surely the head of the Order would step up with some advice that was actually useful.

"The only comment Dumbledore made in the article was that the breakout was a very unfortunate and unexpected incident, but people should remain calm and vigilant."

"But Dumbledore told Fudge this would happen! Why would he say it was unexpected?" Harry exclaimed.

Hermione sighed wearily. "I suppose he thinks that it's better that people be allowed to believe that Fudge knows what he's doing. Can you imagine the panic if they found out there was more he could have done to prepare and didn't?"

"That panic is probably nothing compared to what will happen when the prat gets his soul sucked out because of his stupid pride," he retorted, although it was far more likely the innocent would be the first to suffer for the Minister's mistakes.

The conversation only lasted a few minutes longer when Hermione's parents called her away for dinner. The Dursleys were nearly done with their own meal, and unsurprisingly, they hadn't saved any for Harry. He didn't have much of an appetite anyway, so he just grabbed a hunk of cheese out of the refrigerator and an apple to eat in his room. Although it was still slightly early in the evening to go to bed, the news Hermione had delivered somehow made him feel very tired. As he drifted off to sleep, he wondered how long it would be before victims of the Dementors' kiss began showing up in the Daily Prophet.

…

The residents of Privet Drive were shouting, screaming, and crying as they were burned out of their houses and rounded up like cattle to be slaughtered by the Death Eaters. Whatever Harry had known them to be before this night—rich or poor, kind or selfish—now they were all united in their helplessness. He watched with increasing dread as the dark figures raised their wands in preparation.

Although having no way of knowing the wooden sticks were about to end their lives, the muggles seemed to sense the danger of being on the receiving end of one. Parents grasped their sobbing children to them tightly, trying to shield them from whatever was about to happen. Others seemed to realize that resistance was futile as they stood before their burning homes, looking into the masked faces of an enemy they hadn't known they had. There was no defiance among the doomed; they seemed to accept there was no way to fight a foe capable of destroying a building with a single word. Harry could tell, as their eyes darted wildly around, that they were waiting for the police, a hero, someone to show up and save the day. No one was coming.

There was not a single word spoken to the muggles. It was as if the Death Eaters only considered wizards human enough even for taunting. The people lined up before them were on the same level as cockroaches in Voldemort's and their eyes; filthy infestations to be exterminated quickly and efficiently.

Two words sent dozens of lifeless bodies falling gracelessly to the ground. Mothers, fathers, children, even infants were cleanly slaughtered in the blink of an eye. Harry tried to turn away or even just close his eyes, but he had no control in this nightmare. He tried Occlumency to no effect; whether it was because he simply could not concentrate or because Voldemort was not responsible for the dream he did not know. What he did know was that looking at all the corpses much longer would make him sick.

Not wasting a moment to contemplate the horror of the acts they had committed, the Death Eaters moved onto the next houses. Muggles were already trying to flee before they were forced to succumb to the same fate as their neighbors, but stunners shot them quickly off their feet.

As the Death Eaters continued their massacre, Harry found himself able to move freely again. Spinning full circle, he was suddenly in view of a familiar house. Number Four was engulfed in flames, looking ready to crumble any second. Three charred bodies, two very large and one smaller, lay side by side in the yard.

Without needing to think about it, Harry turned and ran. It seemed only seconds later he was watching fire devour Heather's home. She and her parents were kneeling before another Death Eater, looking panicked and disbelieving. Harry was once again inexplicably stuck in place, forced to do nothing but watch. Heather looked up at him, the tear tracks on her cheeks the only parts of her face clear of soot.

"Help us," she whimpered hopefully, a millisecond before a green flash of light struck her square in the chest.

A strangled cry from his own throat was drowned out by the anguished screams of Heather's parents. Heroics were the last thing on his mind as he watched twin jets of light whisk the life right out of Mr. and Mrs. Gaines. Their empty bodies crumpled in place, arms still wrapped around their daughter and faces frozen not in surprise, but incomprehensible grief.

"It's all for you, you know," stated a cruel voice, matter-of-factly. Sharp fingernails bit into his shoulder and wrenched him around so that he was facing the penetrating, red-eyed gaze of his lifelong adversary. With the image of Heather and her family's last moments stuck in his head, his mind was devoid of witty comebacks or plans of escape. He began to feel light-headed, the pain of his now burning scar minor compared to the knives slicing into his stomach and the building nausea. Blackness began to hedge his field of vision, and he felt like he was about to pass out.

"Before you go, know that your mudblood and muggle-loving friends are already dead," he heard Voldemort say as he felt himself falling. "And believe me when I say their demises were far from the painless deaths I so graciously bestowed upon these fools."

...

The moment Harry hit the ground in his dream, he was shocked awake by the imaginary impact. Consciousness had not taken away his nausea or the sickening images of corpses littering the burning neighborhood, however. Holding a hand tightly over his mouth, he made a mad dash for the bathroom, gagging the whole way.

The instant he reached the toilet, he began heaving the entirety of his stomach contents. Luckily, all there was to lose was the meager supper of an apple and cheese. More painful than his burning throat and clenching stomach were the terrifying images from the nightmare that were now imprinted in his mind. As he collapsed in dry heaves, he had to force himself to stop the tears streaming from his tightly-shut eyes.

Just a dream. He repeated the words over in his head like a mantra, but still couldn't make them sink in. He knew it was stupid, but he was afraid if he looked out the bathroom window the world would be on fire like it was in the nightmare. Stupid or not, he had to know.

Pushing himself tiredly to his feet, he forced his shaky legs to carry him to the window. Number Two and Number Six looked perfectly normal; no flames bursting from the windows, no dead bodies lying limp on the nicely landscaped lawn. The reassurance that the neighborhood was not under attack did not loosen the tension Harry felt. Something about the dream was still nagging at him…

"It's all for you, you know." Bile rose in his throat, and it took an incredible effort to fight the urge to vomit again. He wanted so badly to forget the whole nightmare, but there was something important in it, he was sure of it.

"Before you go, know that your mudblood and muggle-loving friends are already dead."

That was it. Voldemort wouldn't just kill him straight off when he could make him suffer through losing the last people he cared about in the world first—he had to help them. But what if it was just another one of Voldemort's tricks? Privet Drive wasn't under attack like it was in the dream, so it was likely nothing else in it was true either.

The timing was too perfect, though. Hermione had just gotten home, and probably made a much easier target there. He thought he remembered Remus saying something about the Weasleys moving back into the Burrow, which was much more vulnerable than Grimmauld Place.

Harry didn't know what to do. Dumbledore would want to know about the dream immediately, but Ron and Hermione might not have that much time. If Voldemort was telling the truth, it was already too late. That possibility, however, was unacceptable.

Images of the Weasleys and Hermione being tortured and killed flashed through his mind, and the decision was made. Smart move or no, his friends came first. Now he just had to figure out how to reach them.

...

A/N: So there it is: another cliffy. Sorry! Had to try to make it interesting, or else people will decide I'm simply not worth the wait. Who am I kidding—I'm not worth the wait, but I'm enjoying writing this so I'll keep going anyway!