On a secluded, quaint little street called Privet Drive, the smells of the overabundant flowers caused by the summer heat, wafted through the open windows of number 4.
The boy who lived in number 4, awoke with a sudden start. The lightning bolt scar atop his head was aching in pain. He tried to remember his dream as best he could. Tom had been there. So had Lestrange, Wormtail, and Malfoy along with dozens of others.
'They got Karkaroff, they killed him!' Harry thought. They were talking about him too. They wanted him dead. Well of course they did. He had trounced them all and ran from Voldemort's clutches twice in the last three years, five in the last six years as well. Of course those past years had not been escapable without loss. Cedric. Sirius. Bertha. His friends had gotten hurt last month because he had blindly and stupidly led them into a battle they would not have come out of, if the Order hadn't showed up. That's when Sirius had fallen…in battle with Bellatrix, his own cousin.
'Who is going to get killed next?' Harry asked himself. He needed as much help as he could get. His friends and his surrogate family would go to the ends of the Earth to help him. But he didn't want them to get caught in the crossfire. Attempts on his friends' lives had already been made this summer.
Hermione, while in Minsk, was almost kidnapped before Remus could do anything, as he was undercover. His cover might have been blown but he saved the day and they had got out safe. Ron was being closely watched by Moody after the attempted attack in Diagon Alley.
Harry didn't know what had been going on after that. They had Hermione in hiding; to protect her from anything at the moment, until school started back up. The same went for Ron as well.
Harry constantly worried about his friends. He was always thinking about distancing himself from them somehow. He knew he couldn't do that though. The entire magical world was in jeopardy, and they were only as good as they were united, for if divided, the world would be taken over by Voldemort. It felt odd to be one of very few that could say his name without tripping all over themselves, scared shitless. He should be the one scared like that, having his parents and godfather ripped from him so violently. A fellow student was killed just two years ago. He was the one that had to be Voldemort's downfall. He was the one that had to worry about everyone and sometimes over-react to certain clues or situations because he knew that no one else would.
After thinking a minute about his dream, he decided what he must do. Tell Dumbledore. He wanted to know everything that was happening, and when. He quickly wrote the whole dream down, signed his name, tied it to his owl, Hedwig, and let the snowy white blur out of the window.
This was the first correspondence he had over his first two weeks of break. He had been too depressed by Sirius's death to ask anyone how they were doing. He only knew that Dumbledore wanted to keep on top of everything, and he would have no way to know this. He didn't plan on writing anymore now, so he slumped back onto his bed and let the depression take him, lying on top of many letters of sympathy from his friends he hadn't bothered to reply to.