Phoenix Falling
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and its respective universe belong to J.K. Rowling.
Chapter Two
Summer had always been Harry's least favourite season. What could be worse than quality time with the Dursleys, he thought?
But this summer was even worse. He wasn't ridiculed, his aunt and uncle left him alone, and Dudley was positively frightened of him after Mad-Eye Moody's threat.
The only problem with his summer, and the worst of it, was that Sirius was gone. Harry would never have his godfather back, no matter what. He was gone forever; dead, never to return. Never again would Sirius offer advice to Harry. What was he going to do without him?
Harry had never been one to brood; sure, he'd had his share of angst moments, but there was always something to keep him occupied and away from his depression. Now, however, there was nothing to keep him from his sorrows. He was bored, utterly bored, and not even the stack of letters from Grimmauld Place would cheer him. They contained mostly messages of consolation, trying to convince Harry that Sirius's death wasn't his fault. Harry had long since given this idea up, after Dumbledore talked to him last June. The messages, however, made him start to think that it was, in fact, his fault.
His thoughts swarmed around his head, and the heat of the day dizzied him until his eyes finally closed and he drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
Harry woke a few hours later, his scar burning again. It had been tingling all summer, and most of last year, but it was worse that time. Absentmindedly rubbing his forehead, Harry peered out his window, wondering if Hedwig was coming soon. His last letter had been rather bland: I'm all right, the Dursleys are ignoring me, I'm bored out of my mind and I want to get out of here. It wasn't the first time his letter had consisted of that message, and Harry was sure it wasn't going to be the last. Still, his spirits lifted a little bit as a snowy owl made her way to his room, several bits of parchment tied to her leg. Harry opened his window to let her in and took the letters. One was from his best friend Ron Weasley, one from his other best friend Hermione Granger, and one from the people at Grimmauld Place.
Ron's letter was an attempt to be lighthearted- he told Harry that his brothers were letting him work in their joke shop over the summer to earn a little extra gold. Ron apparently enjoyed working there with his brothers. The shop was very casual, and the Weasley twins seemed to enjoy trying out their products on customers.
Hermione's letter described a surprise her parents had given her as a treat after a stressful Fifth Year. They'd found out about S.P.E.W. and taken her to the World House-Elf Activists Convention, where she discovered that she wasn't the only one worried about Elfin welfare. Harry was amazed that such a thing existed, and that there were enough people to make such an organization.
The last letter, from Grimmauld Place, was the most surprising of the notes.
Dear Harry, it read, We're coming for you. Get your things together and come to the park at nine o'clock this evening. We'll be waiting for you. Sincerely, Your Friends.
Harry's spirits soared. He was going back! Immediately he rolled off his bed and began to pack his belongings into his trunk, without really thinking about what he was doing. The end result was about as neat as it had been last summer, when Tonks had tried to pack for him by magic. It only took him about ten minutes this time, and when he was finished he realized that the clock by his bed told him that it was only six thirty.
Finally, it was time. Sort of; it was seven thirty, but Harry was getting impatient. He wanted to leave now, and he was sick of waiting. He grabbed his things, threw his Invisibility Cloak over them (it would be rather awkward to be seen at the park with a trunk filled with spellbooks and a broomstick) and headed towards the meeting place.
It seemed to take forever for the Order to arrive, but arrive they did. It was just beginning to get chilly when a group of about seven cloaked figures on broomsticks dropped out of the sky to land in front of him. Immediately two of them charmed his trunk to make it lighter and tied it to their brooms; Harry grabbed his broomstick and grinned at the people who were, at long last, going to bring him back where he belonged. He wasn't even worried why they suddenly decided to take him back; all he cared about was that they were.
As it turned out, the people who had come for him were more or less the same as the ones who had come for him last time. Each face was a familiar one, and one he was delighted to see. It was refreshing to be in the presence of people like him, especially after what happened last spring.
Harry didn't remember much of the flight there; he was too ecstatic. Before he knew it, they had landed right in front of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place- and it was exactly as he remembered it.