Author's Notes: Now I remember why I stopped posting here. I hate the effing editing system...

All right, this is where it all goes wrong for our hero. It's also the setting in motion of several events that'll lead to different aspects of the storyline. And a great old roadtrip to merry old London.

I want to ask readers to do something. Instead of just saying, "omfg wow this stry rox0rs me kthxbye", I'd like some criticism or details about what I wrote that made it work. Thanks.

Without further ado, chapter two.

Chapter Two
A Whisper From Nowhere

Perhaps it was the fact she was the first female he'd seen that summer, other than Aunt Petunia, that made Harry's stomach jolt when he opened the front door of 4 Privet Drive to find Nymphadora Tonks beaming up at him. Perhaps it was because hers was the first friendly (and pretty for that matter) face he'd seen in over a month. Maybe it was the fact that she was a witch, and could associate with Harry in ways the Dursleys would dread.

All he knew was that the moment he recognized her through her new look (long black and red hair, black clothes and a smile that belonged nowhere on this sort of look), his stomach gave a funny jolt. He didn't realize at the time that this feeling had been previously reserved for one other, a girl named Cho, from Hogwarts. Harry brushed the feeling aside – in fact, he had to – when Tonks said, "Wotcher Harry!" in her trademark style, and pulled him into a tight hug.

"T-Tonks? What're you doing here? … Um, I—can't breathe."

Tonks let go and put Harry at arms length to examine him. "Hmm. Not looking too shabby Harry. I was expecting to find you thinner than a twig and paler than the Bloody Baron. Looks like them Muggles are treatin' you well."

"I guess," he muttered. He was glad he was wearing such baggy clothes, or she would have noticed how thin he had become, though not as bad as she had imagined. Still, cinching a belt more than three inches past its last notch wasn't healthy. He invited Tonks inside and closed the door behind them.

"Blimey, don't they ever redecorate this place?" Tonks asked after a brief sweep of the lounge, which hadn't changed in the slightest since her last visit here the previous summer.

"What? You expect my uncle to change his living room around when it's immaculate as it is?"

"In my household, we're lucky to go a week without a redecoration disaster."

"My uncle's so Muggle that anything that doesn't fit a time schedule disturbs him," he explained. Tonks sniggered.

Harry was fortunate that the Dursleys were out for the entire day – some stupid Grunnings-related event, no doubt – so he had no fear of being punished for associating with Tonks. Had Vernon and Petunia known that Tonks, a witch, was standing within a mile of their home (or in their kitchen, for that matter), Harry would've been padlocked in the downstairs closet faster than he could say "Crucio".

This thought twisted his stomach. Harry frantically set his mind in the other direction.

"What're you doing here Tonks?" he asked. He pulled her hand back before she could prod the coffee grinder with her wand.

"Checking up on you, of course," she explained with a shrug. "Arthur said that you'd been a bit short with him on the fellytone—"

"Telephone," Harry corrected.

"—Whatever. Anyway, we were a bit concerned, and I so I decided to pop down to see you."

Blushing more from annoyance than embarrassment, Harry asked, "The Order were a bit concerned because I was short with Mr. Weasley, who was once again treating me like a child? What else do you folk worry about, Communism in the East and the Women's vote?"

"Har har, Harry. It was mostly Remus. He'd kill me if he knew I was—" Tonks coughed and grinned rather timorously. Her eyes avoided Harry's, and she changed the subject. "Hey, how about a walk, huh? Stretch your legs a bit? Old Figg down the street's said that you've been out of the house no more than twice since you got here."

Harry forced down another complaint about his constantly being monitored and diffidently said, "Sure. I need some air."

Not that he didn't want to leave the house. His worries matched those of the Order's: that a Death Eater would be waiting in ambush for him, and that his efforts to stay alive and alert through the summer would be wasted. But being in the company of Tonks, an Auror and a good friend, was more comfort than the paranoia could handle.

They left Privet Drive and wandered down the street.

Harry noticed that they were heading away from Arabella Figg's place

"I know that you hate being watched," Tonks said, noticing Harry's expectant glance down the street. "You need to relax Harry. You're safe with me."

He let himself calm down a bit.

As they walked, Harry told Tonks about his new friendships with Luna Lovegood and Neville Longbotton respectively. He supposed that the Order would take this as a good sign and ease up on their worry over them. Tonks seemed to.

"Although I'm not as worried about you as Molly or Remus are," she assured him. "You're made of stronger stuff than most. I've told them that, but they just don't listen. Even Kinglsey and Arthur say you don't need this coddling. At the same time, we don't want you to close up on us.

"That's one of the reasons I think a companion like Sirius is good for you."

Stunned, Harry stopped in his tracks, but Tonks merely walked on.

"How did—"

"Oh, we all knew you'd name him Sirius," Tonks said. She threw him a shrewd grin over her shoulder… only to destroy the charade of grace and dignity as she stumbled over the curb.

"Why do you think Sirius is good for me?" he asked once Tonks had composed herself.

"Because Sirius won't nag you or ask you if you're all right every five minutes," She explained. "And I know that's exactly the sort of thing you don't need. You're too independent for that."

Harry remember asking her about becoming a Metamorphmagus once, and her accurate assumption that he'd like the power to hide his scar from public sight.

"Having people suffocate you with good wishes and constant worry does more damage than helping," she was saying. "You've needed space since the Triwizard Tournament, maybe even before that, but you've also needed something to keep you from turning completely inward. So I suggested to Lupin and Moody that maybe a friend without such mollycoddling affection would be the trick."

"I thought that he was an Order spy when you lot first sent him," Harry admitted with a small grin.

Tonks let loose a musical laugh; whimsical and giddy and infectious. Harry chuckled too; this escalated into full-blown mirth, and he soon found himself choking on his own voice.

Been long enough since you've done that, remarked that annoying inner voice.

Tonks left Harry a small gift before she departed: three bottles of Butterbeer, the Hogwarts' drink of choice among student. Harry hid these beneath the floorboards in his bedroom with a few gifts he'd received for his birthday (Ron and the twins' small box of Wheezes; Hermione's tome How To Conquer Your NEWTS (Without The Mess); Hagrid's rock cake and treacle fudge; and Mrs. Weasley's sweet pasties). Then he pulled out one of his school books, so that he could continue on with his homework.

Despite the fact that the OWL's that had brutalized the fifth years' confidence in their abilities, the professors at Hogwarts had assigned their usual avalanche of summer work onto their students, sparing nobody. As it was just past the beginning of August, Harry was impressed by his progress through his school work this summer. He'd finished about ten percent of it so far, which was a damn sight more than any year (save the third year summer, in which he'd had a month to do all the work he wanted to). He had a lot of essays to write, but figured that with a month to go, he'd be able to squeeze them into his thus far empty schedule.

This week he'd been working on his History Of Magic work, which threatened to bore him to death every evening. But he'd braved it so far and his efforts would be rewarded. Tonight was his last night on the horrid subject.

Tomorrow he'd begin his Potions' work.

Maybe he'd let the History of Magic work drag out another week.

Turning his attention to his essay, Harry tried not to think about Potions. Or more specifically, Professor Snape, the most dreaded (and dreadful) person staffed at Hogwarts, whose only contender was the vicious school caretaker, Argus Filch. Severus Snape, who had been at Hogwarts with Harry's father and mother, and their friends, had not let a generation end his hatred for the name Potter. He fed off the torment of not just Harry, but all students not in his house of Slytherin.

The fact that he was a former Death Eater didn't help much either.

Nor the fact that he was an expert in the art of Occlumency, which allowed him to view Harry's most secret and private memories, likely more horrible than the last.

Harry was sure, even now, that he had added the last straw to the mule's back when he had fallen into Snape's pensieve and relived his professor's worst memory – being tormented at the hands of Harry's father and godfather. While almost all the rest of the student body watched with hidden or obvious glee. Harry feared being in the same country as the greasy Potions Master.

However, it was only August. For now, all he had to worry about was spelling Tortin Beeblebrox's name correctly.

He'd just finished his History Of Magic essay on the various Warlocks' Conventions of the last millenium when he heard a whisper from behind him.

"Stolen…"

Harry whirled around in his seat as goosebumps broke out over his arms and neck. It felt as if the temperature in his room had just plummeted several degrees. He knew that voice, he knew it from somewhere.

"Who said that?" he asked in a low voice.

But the silence did not waver.

It must be the scar, he thought. It's making my mind play tricks on itself.

But it wasn't. In fact, he couldn't feel his scar. The burning that had been plaguing him for so long had gone. Harry ran a finger over the ancient scar, and his breath hitched.

Nothing. It's not burning.

Harry turned back to the room behind him, wondering if the whisper he had heard had done this.

But the longer he stared at the empty wall, the more he was filled with unease.

He phoned Mr. Weasley and told him about the incident.

Arthur listened without a word until Harry was finished. Then, he simply told Harry that he would phone him back the next day after consulting with Dumbledore, then hung up abruptly. Harry stared at the receiver for a moment before replacing it, a bit miffed, but also heartened that Mr. Weasley hadn't started up the same routine as he usually did. Still fazed, Harry decided to put his homework away and get some sleep. Or food. Whichever agreed with him better.

The latter prevailed, and soon Harry had a hearty sandwich prepared, in hand, and devoured. This was a change, as Harry hadn't had much appetite since May, perhaps. He wolfed down a second sandwich, then returned to his room.

Even as he had eaten his meal, Harry's mind had been focused on the whisper he'd heard earlier, trying to place the voice with all those he'd heard since he'd begun at Hogwarts.

It was definitely a man's voice, it was too deep to be a fellow student's. And the tone, from what he could reckon, was a bit stern, not at all a drawl, like that of the Malfoy's. Not high pitched like Voldemort's eerie tone (which had pushed the thought of another vision from Harry's mind). No, this was definitely a friendly voice, only more strained, perhaps stressed.

He kept playing the moment in his mind, over and over, for at least an hour before he climbed into his bed. He stared up at the ceiling, shifted onto his side and stared at the desk, where he'd been sitting when the voice had intruded his thoughts.

On the desk was a box that had only been opened once since Harry had gotten it. Inside was a mirror given to him by Sirius before his murder. The mirror was the one thing that Harry knew could have prevented Sirius' demise. If only he had trusted Sirius more, when he'd given Harry the package. He had told himself that using whatever the contents of the box turned out to be would be a way to lure Sirius away from his manor and into the danger of the wizard world, where he was hunted by Death Eaters and Aurors alike. But had Harry used the mirror to speak to Sirius before falling for Kreacher's treacherous deception, Sirius would still be alive and safe.

Harry had only discovered that the package was a two-way mirror after Sirius had died, and in his self-rage, he'd smashed the last gift that Sirius had given him.

Harry let out a sob.

No, Sirius' last gift to you was your life.

Harry straighened up and felt revelation spread through him. It was a warm feeling, an enlightening feeling.

Sirius sacrificed himself for you. For the wizarding world. If you hadn't gone to the Ministry, then Voldemort would have recovered the Prophecy for himself.

It was as if a huge weight had lifted off of Harry's shoulders. His head swam with a buzzing giddiness that told him that the idiot voice inside his head was right. Sirius had, unintentionally no doubt, saved Harry's life, as well as those of every last witch, wizard and Muggle on the planet.

It was a bittersweet thought that let to another chilling revelation.

Sirius.

Harry sat up in his bed, literally gasping for air.

The whisper.

It had been Sirius.

Harry avoided the Dursleys the next day by locking himself in his room. He was waiting mostly for the telephone to ring, which it did just before noon. Harry picked up on the first ring.

"Mr. Weasley, I have to tell you something."

"I'd love to hear it," said the voice on the end of the line, "but I think you'd be disappointed when I claim to have no clue what you're talking about."

"Tonks?"

"Wotcher Harry." She giggled over the line.

"Where's about Mr. Weasley?"

"Whassamatter, don't want to chit-chat with your pal Tonks?"

Harry rolled his eyes, but all the same let himself smirk. "Sure Nymphadora. Why not."

"Grr! Don't. Call. Me. That… Potter."

Harry chuckled. "What's new? How'd you get my number?"

Tonks would have shrugged, he pictured. "I'm at the Manor (Harry knew she was referring to 12 Grimmauld Place). Arthur told me I could call you if I wanted, since it seems that nobody else has time to."

"What do you mean?"

"Well Ron, Hermione, Ginny and the twins are all busy between school work, setting up shop in Diagon Alley and trying to keep an ear out for word on Voldemort. Frankly, I think they've forgotten that the telephone exists."

"Does Mr. Weasley have anything to tell me about last night?"

"I don't know," she grumbled, "he hasn't let on a word about it to anyone aside from Dumbledore. Not even Moody knows what you said."

"No sense in keeping it quiet," Harry said. "I'd tell Ron and Hermione if I could…" Probably not, the Nag pointed out. You're a bit miffed, aren't you? "…but they aren't keeping in contact…"

Reminds me of last summer, he thought glumly.

"What did happen?" Tonks pressed.

Harry told her about the whisper, and then told her about his realization the previous night. He thought that she would be skeptical, but was pleasently surprised by her acceptance.

"You knew Sirius well, you treated him like a brother or a father even," Harry couldn't miss the trace of sadness in Tonks – Sirius had been a cousin through blood and marriage, as she'd been the daughter of his cousin Andromeda Black – and his heart gripped coldly for a moment. "I'm sure that if you thought you heard his voice, then you bloodly likely did."

"I know it was," Harry murmured.

Neither of them spoke for several moments. Then Tonks said, "Look, Arthur isn't back from Hogwarts yet, but I'll pass on what you told me if you'd like."

"All right," he said. He didn't want to hang up now, not when he was able to talk to someone other than Sirius or the back of Dudley's fat head. So he asked, "Tonks, do you think that you could drop by again sometime? Keep me company?"

There was a pause before Tonks replied, "Of course." Harry probably imagined the pleasure in her voice. "How about I drop by this afternoon?"

"All right," Harry said with a wide smile. Where had that come from?

"See you Harry!" Tonks said brightly.

"This afternoon," he confirmed. "Bye." And he hung up.

There was a hitch.

"You what?" Uncle Vernon asked in a voice so soft, so calm, Harry wondered if perhaps he should be standing behind bullet proof glass.

Vernon only spoke like this when he was ready to destroy something.

Or someone.

"I've invited a friend over. For the afternoon. Just a few hours."

Vernon's purple face was registering a deep crimson. It was starting to moisten under the heat of his contained fury.

"And just what, pray tell," his uncle started in that same, even voice, "makes you think that I'll allow anyone who lets you call them your… friend—" He had to force the word out, "—into my house?" There was a definate twitch in his right eye, but he composed his still reddening face into the mask of polite inquiry.

"It's Tonks," he said, as if stating a well known fact. "You saw her at King's Cross earlier this summer. The pink-haired girl—" Vernon glowered "—with Ron's dad, and the others. You know," and Harry failed to stop himself from savoring the next two words, "the Order."

Albert Enstein would have been impressed with the blue shift in Vernon Dursley's face. Harry would have timed the change from deep red through green to sickly white at no more than three seconds. He wondered for a moment if it was healthy, but merely stared at his uncle's pallid face.

The silence was too thick to cut with a knife, let alone a chainsaw. It lasted at least two minutes, while Vernon suffered an aneurysm, recovered, suffered a mild stroke, recovered, then finally gave the first indication of his utter, incredible rage. He took a deep breath, and Harry momentarily feared that a verbal (and perhaps physical) thrashing was about to be unleashed.

But all Vernon could say was, "Bluh."

It escaped him with his breath. Like air escaping a balloon. A sigh, even. It seemed to die before it could even start.

Harry stared.

Vernon stared back.

"U-uncle… Vernon?"

Vernon's eyes bulged, and Harry was sure that it was coming this time.

"Bluh."

And with that, Vernon dragged himself out of the room, looking utterly defeated.

And all Harry could do was stare.

I think I broke his brain, he thought incrediously.

He didn't make much more of his uncle's reaction than utter defeat. Harry was too thrilled, and frankly, surprised by the lackluster response on his uncle's behalf to care what had happened. He spent the rest of the morning in his room, waiting for Tonks' arrival, passing the time by adding notes to his Potions essay and playing with Sirius.

A brutal screech from the downstairs tore Harry away from tug-of-war with his Crup. Frantically, Harry pried the floorboard beneath his bed up and grabbed his wand from its hiding place before stepping out into the hallway. Another screech, this one louder than the first, told Harry that Aunt Petunia had stumbled upon something most unnatural.

Namely, her husband's state.

"VERNON! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?"

Harry sniggered when he heard a feeble "Bluh," in response.

"WHAT IS IT VERNON? SPEAK TO ME!"

"… Bluh."

Harry braced himself, quite smartly.

"BOY!"

Dudley was cowering at the landing of the stairs, and yelped at the sight of Harry coming down. Shame he scurried off, but Harry supposed it would be better that way. He needed to deal with this on his own.

"WHAT IN THE NAME OF ALL THINGS GOOD AND CLEAN DID YOU DO TO YOUR UNCLE?" Petunia shrieked madly.

"Nothing! I swear."

Vernon sprang from his seat, pointing to Harry as if to make an accusation, which came out sounding like this: "Bluh-uh." Diminished, defeated, he sat again, eyes furiously locked on his nephew.

"I didn't do anything, honest! If I'd used magic, you'd know!"

"THEN WHAT HAPPENED?"

Harry shrugged and suggested, "Maybe he blew a neuron?"

He could not have made it worse for himself.

There went a candlestick, missing him by mere centimeters. Next came the Complete, Unabridged Works of William Shakespeare that missed him by meters and smashed through the wall to Harry's right. He ducked to avoid a glass vase that exploded just behind him.

"GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT!"

Another vase exploded above his head, showering him in glass, and was joined by a large framed family portrait, which grazed Harry's head.

"LEAVE AND NEVER BRING YOUR MOTHER'S FILTHY BLOOD—"

He found his wand in his hand, pointed directly at his raving aunt. Frozen, her eyes widened, which had been the desired effect. Harry had a word formed in his mind, and his throat when, to his left, the front door opened.

"Wotcher Dursl—holy hellhound!"

Just to answer some questions from the reviews:

uni2617 - Well, considering my last attempt at a post-novel fic (Harry Potter And The Pupil Of Redemption, self-insertion and such), I decided that I wanted to try and keep the JK feel alive while using my own style to write. We've got the disastrous exit from the Dursleys in this chapter, a new teacher in Defence Against The Dark Arts (although I took liberties with this one), an unpleasant Snape that does not grow to like Harry, and, of course, the incorrigible Gred and Forge.

Strawberry Pancakes - I hope this chapter gave you some insight on Sirius the Crup and his character.

Spezlee - I can't imagine either one of them betraying Harry, because their characters contradict that possibility. And they won't be drifiting completely, just making changes to their friendships.

SiriusLeeBlack09 - Actually, I haven't read Fantastic Creatures. But when I had the idea for Harry to get a new pet when I started writing this I checked the Harry Potter Lexicon and read about Crups. I was more interested in Kneazles because of Crookshanks, but read about Crups and fell in love with the idea. Besides, I decided that because Hermione already had Crookshanks, a Kneazle, Harry should be allowed his own domestic, magical friendly companion type pet. And besides, Sirius' Animagus form? Come on, can you top a dog?