The night was dark upon Grimmauld Place, and the only light that was evident in the green room was given off by the feeble glow of the stars outside the window to the east, and from the minor flicker of the waning fire in the stone place. Harry lay awake, staring at the peeling wallpaper, unable to sleep. It was an unusually cold night for this late in summer, and the fire in the guest room was growing damp. He had a thought to get up to turn over the logs, but decided against it as he pulled his covers about him.

Tonks and the men had returned, within reasonable timing, too, time that was soon enough to quench Molly's worries that something awful had happened. While Mrs. Weasley may have been at ease, even going on to reassure Harry that his forehead pains had been nothing more than a coincidence- Harry couldn't be so sure. The last time his scar had burned nearly as bad as that, he reasoned, somewhat unwillingly, Voldemort had been mere feet away, the twisted look of murder playing across his face. But then, he had been there with him, bound together by destiny, ready for either life or death, upon the will of Dumbledore. And for them, he had chosen life.

So, on this very night, had something not occured to the most formidable degree? He had gone all summer without any willing thoughts of the enemy, but he knew- anytime he could feel his wound burn, anytime he could hear those voices...that snake-like poisonous tongue speak in his mind...all was not so well.

The log in the fire toppled on its side, giving off a strong sizzle before extinguishing itself. An instant chill swept across the boy as he rolled over, got up, and turned it back over, prodding it until the flames again started to sear. He would let it burn the whole night through, oblivious to the possibility of danger that may arise. He would sleep soundly for now, and not think on it until the morning shook him and brought reality to peak.