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Harry awoke the next day unusually stiff. He rubbed the back of his aching neck as he yawned and stretched, his muscles complaining at the movement. The dreams last night hadn't been so bad, Harry reflected. He'd been expecting an all-out attack on his senses, as had been happening for the last week or so, but had instead experienced nothing of the sort. In fact, he was fairly sure that he'd never experienced anything like the dream he'd had last night before.

It had been filled with…light, which was strange. His dreams had always been so dark; the very presence of light in one of his dreams was unprecedented. And this hadn't been just any pale, weak light; he'd been floating in gold, filled up by it, the light spreading throughout his body…

He shook his head. It had been a very weird dream.

Harry stood up, and sat immediately back down again as pain hissed through every inch of his body, concentrating just above his heart. The pain subsided as instantly as it had arrived, and when he tried to stand again there was no pain at all, and his muscles felt completely normal – in fact, probably better than they usually did. This was getting stranger by the second.

It didn't help Harry's sense that something very odd was happening when Aunt Petunia took one look at him at breakfast, gave a little half-scream and vanished into the sitting room, where she remained until he had finished his toast and gone back to his room. When Harry got back, the first thing that he noticed was that Hedwig had returned. She was standing on his desk, and Harry recognised the parchment that the letter was written on as the same that the Order used for every single bloody letter they'd ever written him. With a sinking heart, he took the scroll from the owl's leg and unfurled it.

Dear Harry,

We hope you are well. This letter is obviously to check up on you, but we also need to inform you of the plans that have been made for your accommodation for the rest of the duration of the holidays. You will need to remain with your family for a further two weeks, at the end of which you will travel to the Headquarters for the remaining week of holiday. Please reply to this letter so that we can ensure that it has reached you safely before sending further details.

Yours sincerely,

The Order

Harry gritted his teeth as he scrunched the letter into a ball. How dare they organise his life like that? He hadn't even been asked his opinion, he was simply ordered and expected to obey without complaint. A wave of anger swept through him, as intense as ever. Knowing it was pointless, ineffective, childish even, he threw the letter at Dudley's empty wardrobe.

No one was more surprised than Harry, therefore, when an arc of flame leapt from his outstretched fingertips and incinerated the wardrobe, leaving a pile of gently swirling ash.

Harry sat down with a bump, staring at his fingers in utter shock. Where the hell had that come from? He'd just…thrown the paper, that was all. And then…where had the fire come from? Had he created that without realising?

As far as Harry was concerned, this really was the cherry on the icing on top of a really bad day. Somehow…he wasn't clear on the details…he'd managed to burn an entire wardrobe. Actually, vaporize was nearer the mark. And the really scary thing was, he'd done it without his wand. This wasn't normal, not even going by his twisted standards of normality.

He picked up a quill, reached for some parchment and paused. An evil little voice had just suggested something to him; What if you don't tell them? They delight in keeping you in the dark…let's see how they like it. But then a new thought occurred to him, one that banished the previous one completely from Harry's mind. What if this – thing – was something to do with Voldemort? That settled it; the Order had to know. He sat down and dashed off a quick note.

Dear Order,

Thankyou for your letter and your kind attendance to my wishes (he couldn't help a small edge of sarcasm creeping in). However, something very strange has just happened. Somehow I've just cast a very powerful Incendio spell by accident. I know this shouldn't happen any more, but it just did. That, however, was not the odd part. I did it without using my wand. I am obviously concerned about the origins of this – power, and would appreciate it if you would get in touch with me. I'm aware that there are a few of you guarding the house, so it really shouldn't be too hard for at least one of you to speak to me.

Yours,

Harry

Harry smiled thinly. Perfect; told the facts without giving too much away. He knew he should probably have told them about the dream, but quite frankly he hadn't been able to resist not telling them every tiny detail as they seemed to expect.

He sent Hedwig off with the letter, with instructions to fly quickly and only to return with a reply.

Meanwhile, he settled down to see what, if anything, else he could do. He discovered that he was, in fact, pretty much able to do anything. By picturing the action in his mind, he had managed to levitate several objects, including his bed, to summon a few things, and to shatter and repair a glass that had been standing on his desk. It was halfway through levitating this glass that Harry remembered the Ministry.

Bugger.

His concentration broken, the glass fell, smashing into weirdly shaped splinters. Without thinking, he repaired it, the glass re-forming as though he was watching a film being played in reverse. The casual way in which he did this frightened him, and he reminded himself that he still didn't know where this power had come from or what it was, and that he really shouldn't use it until he knew.

His thoughts returned to the Ministry. Without stopping to consider what he'd been doing, he'd been practising magic for the last hour. The Ministry would be down on him like a ton of bricks this time, that was certain. Harry groaned; why, why, why didn't he stop to think before blindly acting?

Hang on, though, said his mind. You've been doing magic for the last hour. The Ministry's owls usually get here in about fifteen minutes. Does that mean…

"That they don't know?" he whispered.

Far from reassuring him, that was the idea that scared him the most. If the Ministry couldn't trace the power he'd been using…what the hell was it? Was it really, could it be, related to Voldemort? Voldemort, using the mental connection they shared to act through him, force him to do things, make him a tool…

He was distracted from these thoughts by a tapping on his window. Hedwig had returned.

"Bloody hell, that was quick," he muttered, taking the scroll from the leg that she was holding out to him.

The note was brief and to the point.

Harry –

Don't leave the house. We'll be round to get you in 10 minutes. Make sure all your stuff is packed, you'll need to take it with you. We'll explain when we get there.

Order

Ten minutes…that meant he'd have to hurry. He felt a surge of resentment at the Order simply instructing him in this way, but then reminded himself why they felt the need to come; his strange and disturbing new power. He finished packing hurriedly, resisting the urge to just sweep a hand over the lot and get it to pack itself.

When the doorbell rang, Uncle Vernon was the first to reach it. There was a moment of shocked silence, then…

"BOY!"

Vernon's bellow echoed throughout the house. Harry hammered down the stairs, dragging his suitcase behind him. A glance through the open door showed Mr. Weasley and Remus Lupin.

"Harry – thank goodness – come on, quick – the Portkey will be off soon…"

"WHAT – IS – THE – MEANING – OF – THIS – OUTRAGE?!" spluttered Uncle Vernon, his face rapidly darkening to a fetching shade of purple.

"No time to explain, Uncle, sorry," gasped Harry, who lugged his case and broomstick out of the house and grabbed onto the deflated football that Lupin and Mr. Weasley were holding between them. "See you next summer."

The last thing Harry saw before the jerk behind his navel pulled him off his feet was the look of sheer outrage on his uncle's face. Then he was gone, flying through a whirl of howling colour, his case beside him.