Chapter One

Emerald green eyes opened as a boy with a head full of messy, jet-black hair rubbed his forehead and sat up.

"Stupid scar…" he muttered, collapsing back into his pillow.

Sixteen-year-old Harry Potter lay in his bed in the hateful house of the Dursleys, staring up at the ceiling. His twinging scar had awaked him so many times that week, all after the same nightmare. He'd dreamed that he and his best friend, Ron Weasley, had been fighting the most powerful and feared dark wizard in the world: Lord Voldemort. Harry had escaped him several times already, the most recent last year. In his dream, Voldemort had turned into Sirius when Ron cast the Disarming spell, and then Sirius had attacked Ron, who'd turned into Hermione…it was all such a great big mess. Then his scar would burn, waking him up. He'd find himself twisted and tangled in his covers, his mop of hair wet with sweat.

But what was there to do? Harry couldn't control what he dreamed of when he slept; without means of magic, that is. And he wasn't allowed to do magic in the Muggle World. One more incident and he'd be expelled from Hogwarts for sure. That was the last thing Harry wanted. That would mean he'd be stuck at the Dursleys for the rest of his life. Harry groaned at the miserable thought.

Voldemort wasn't the only thing that had been on his mind that summer. Cho kept drifting in and out of his mind, haunting him with memories of her tears. Harry instantly felt guilty; he realized he really hadn't been sympathetic at all. If anything, he'd been terrible, and wasn't quite sure how Cho had managed to stay with him that long. Harry knew he had to apologize; but he didn't quite want anything to do with her; or any girl anymore. It had been quite the experience; not an experience he wanted to go through again. Well, anytime soon, that is.

Harry looked at the luminous clock on his bedside table. It read five o'clock. Five in the morning…it was so early. Harry shut his eyes, trying to fall asleep again. He was rather unsuccessful, and ended up pushing his glasses onto his nose and going over to his table to work on a terrible Potions essay Professor Snape had assigned over summer break. Professor Snape was Harry's least favorite teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Harry's father had gone to school with Snape, and the two had loathed each other. Now that James Potter was gone, Snape turned his hate onto Harry.

Dipping his quill into a bottle of scarlet ink, Harry scratched away, pausing here and there to think before he wrote anything else down. He knew it was a load of old tosh; he'd have to send it to Hermione Granger when he was done so she could look over it. Hermione was a good friend of his. Even though she was a muggle, she was the smartest witch in their year at Hogwarts. Many people were jealous of her; how could a common muggle be better at magic than a pureblood? That was answered easily. It was rare to see Hermione without her nose buried in a book of some sort.

Hearing a grunt from, no doubt, Uncle Vernon in the next room, Harry lifted his quill mid-word and held his breath, hoping sincerely his uncle didn't come barging into his room. Hearing loud snores, Harry let his breath out and continued writing. He glanced over to Hedwig, who was in her cage, her head under her wing. She was sleeping peacefully, undisturbed by terrible nightmares. Harry sighed, and went back to writing his essay.

Only a few minutes later, he ran out of things to put in the essay. There were only so many things you could write about potions! Harry ran a hand through his messy hair, putting his quill down. He still had five inches to write; how did Hermione manage it? She could go over the page requirement, even with her tin, neat handwriting. Harry wrote rather largely, not unlike Ron's, and even then, he wasn't able to get at all close to the requirement. Giving up, he rolled the scroll up, added a quick note to Hermione asking her to look it over, and tied it up. He'd send it as soon as Hedwig woke up.

His eye caught a leather-bound book. Harry remembered it as the photo album Hagrid had given him in his first year. At once, Harry opened it to the picture showing his parent's wedding day. There was Sirius, laughing as usual. Harry's scar burned for a moment, causing him to flinch. Sirius…Harry still felt it was his fault that his godfather was dead. If only he hadn't been so thick…but there wasn't anything he could do. He'd just have to cope…but that was the last thing he wanted to do.

A barn owl tapped on his window at six in the morning. Yawning, Harry stood up from his seat and threw the window open. Taking the Daily Prophet, the daily wizards newspaper from the owl, he dropped a few strange-shaped coins into the bag tied to the owl's foot. It flew up, leaving Harry with the newspaper. Opening it up, Harry scanned the headlines. It didn't look like Voldemort had done anything, but several of his death eaters had gone into action. They hadn't killed anyone yet, but they had tortured a great number of people, wizards and muggles alike. Not wanting to read any further, Harry rolled the newspaper up and threw it in a corner. The thump woke Hedwig, who screeched irritably. Surely the screech carried to his Aunt and Uncle's room…by no means would Harry want his relatives awake. In his opinion, asleep was the way he liked them best.

Unfortunately, they had awoken, half an hour before their alarm clock would go off. Grumpily, Uncle Vernon thumped towards Harry's room. Quickly, Harry threw his glasses onto his bedside table, switched the lights off, and jumped into bed. Two seconds later, Uncle Vernon opened the door of Harry's room.

"Can't you keep that blasted owl silent?" Uncle Vernon shouted, his face already tomato red. "It's woken me at six in the morning three times this week with it's bloody screams!" He continued raging, his face changing color from purple to puke green in the time span of less than a second. Harry shut his eyes tight, not wanting to hear a thing his Uncle said. "Do you hear me, boy? Keep that owl quiet or I'll have to throw her out!"

"Empty threat. Remember the end of last year, at King's Cross? Remember the wiz- I mean, people who told you I ought to be allowed to do as I please? That includes my owl," Harry said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes, as if he'd just awoken. "Or I'll write to them."

Uncle Vernon's face turned an ugly puce color as he sputtered for words. Not finding any, he let out a cry of frustration and stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him. Harry heard him go into the bathroom, and heard the tap run. Closing his eyes, he heard his uncle trample down the stairs and make his coffee. Sighing, he turned over in his bed.