Disclaimer: All characters, descriptions, and inspiration belong to Ms. Rowling. No profit (except for my craving for HP being sated) is reaped from this attempt.

A/N: First fanfic ever submitted—but this has been brewing in my little head for some time. The events in this story follow along pretty much what is foreshadowed in The Half-Blood Prince, and I have done some research as well. Based on the information in the recent books and Ms. Rowling's interviews, I have managed to piece together some theories. I probably won't wander too much away from what is expected.

By the way, Hermione will NOT be a lovesick girly-girl in this one, and Ron will be slightly smarter and less hormonallydriven.

A thin young man with a trunk, and curiously, an owl in a cage, appeared suddenly at the corner of Privet Drive. A closer look revealed rumpled black hair that prodded into the back of his collar and a stooped look about him, as if he had carried a great burden a long distance. The sunlight glinting off his round glasses made an oddly blank expression appear on his face. His eyes were hidden anonymously under the shining lenses, but a wry sort of smile emerged.

Harry Potter walked briskly up the drive of number four, but paused at the front steps. He cautiously set down his luggage and ran his fingers through his hair, wondering how to approach the Dursleys after a year of absolutely no contact. Of course, they never corresponded regularly with him any way, but to Harry that year seemed like a decade. A decade, he reasoned, would be enough to make the Dursleys shrug off his existence.

Normally his uncle Vernon would have grudgingly picked him up from the King's Cross station after a school year, but Harry had foregone the train trip altogether. His best friend's parents had appeared at the front gate of Hogwarts on the last day of term.

Mr. Weasley had ventured an explanation (although quite a bit later; Mrs. Weasley took an extraordinary amount of time smothering Harry and Ron and fussing over their robes).

"We know that your uncle usually takes you home. But I—we—" he gestured vaguely at his teary-eyed wife—"thought it would be best for you to stay with the wizarding community for now."

He gazed apologetically at Harry, Mrs. Weasley now silently sobbing into his shoulders. "We know that Dumbledore wishes—wished . . ." Here his voice cracked and diminished to a pained whisper.

"—for me to return toPrivet Drivefor a while. Before I came of age. I know," Harry finished.

"But you can do that anytime before your birthday. For now, it's just too dangerous for you to run around with Muggles, especially . . . well, especially with the likes of them."

Their concern was understandable. After all, the Dursleys would probably refuse to acknowledge the fact that they were in danger, even if the Death Eaters came knocking at their door. They would have no way of protecting themselves, and would most likely turn on Harry if he tried to.

Harry, Ron, and Ginny returned to the Burrow after a few, hurried words with Professor McGonagall. Headmistress, now, Harry reminded himself. She agreed with the Weasleys' notion that he should be kept within range of magic. Two weeks of recovery followed; Hermione joined them in one, having told her parents that it was imperative for all wizards to stay close together, especially for Muggle-borns such as her. How very different this visit was. Mrs. Weasley took down her clock and buried it somewhere, brushing tears off of the corners of her eyes.

"I just can't stand to see everyone hanging in 'mortal peril,'" she had whispered, hands shaking as she stowed the faithful clock away.

A hush fell every morning with the owl post. An agonizing tension hovered, very much like the mist of the dementors that shrouded the area, until the front page of the Daily Prophet was perused silently in the kitchen. Most times, a guarded relief broke the air, but other times Mr. Weasley would look away in dismay. The untimely death of Dumbledore was met with renewed activity from the Death Eaters.

So Harry had spent a couple of—not exactly blissful, but more bearable, weeks with the Weasleys. A few weeks before July 31st, he realized that he needed to fulfill his promise to Dumbledore. The search for the Horcruxes would have to wait. He packed with regret, wishing that he could bring someone along to face the Dursleys with him. Ginny, predictably, demanded to leave with Harry, but he had adamantly refused.

Harry focused his eyes again, forcing himself out of a reverie involving Ginny and he zooming away on his Firebolt into the clouds . . . he knocked, apprehensively, at the door.

A few minutes passed without any reply, so he knocked again. Hedwig hooted in a reassuring manner, although her annoyance at being shipped once more to a place where she was so hated was apparent on their journey. This time, he heard a sharp voice on the other side of the door.

"Who is it?" Aunt Petunia's piercing soprano cut swiftly through the barrier. "We don't want any lawn-mowers or free estimates on new windows, so if you're planning on—"

"It's Harry, Aunt Petunia," he said heavily. "So please, open up."

A stunned silence met his words. He imagined the Dursleys exchanging frantic glances, and hoped that they would open the door.

"I hope you remember Dumbledore's wish," he explained. "I need to stay for a while. At least, only up to my birthday."

If they remembered his birthday. He had no doubt, however, that their last meeting with Dumbledore was fresh in their memory; glass goblets nudging at one's forehead from mid-air would do that to most people. Unfortunately, the Dursleys were notfolks who would recall such an event with much good feeling.

He heard the lock slowly slide open and watched as Aunt Petunia's long neck turned to look at him. She stared in distaste for a while. Dudley seemed to be looking at something behind Harry.

"He's not staying, is he?" Aunt Petunia muttered. "I won't have that half-crazed old man shedding his beard all over the house."

A fury sped by sorrow welled up to his chest, and threatened to shoot out of his mouth. But he kept calm, willing himself to think of the promise. Only a little while more with them here. Only a few more days. Only a few more days, and I can hex them to oblivion—no, no, no hexing . . . only a few more days and I'll never have to come back.

"You mean Dumbledore?" he asked quietly. He saw Dudley bring his hand up to his temples; perhaps his last encounter with the great wizard was especially traumatic. "Dumbledore . . . he's gone. Dead."

"Dead?"

"Yes." Several moments passed, and the door cracked open slightly wider. Uncle Vernon had joined them, toes tapping on the wooden floor and a rolled-up newspaper tucked under his arm. "So let me in."

Harry thrust his trunk and Hedwig into the hallway, not waiting for a response from the Dursleys. Aunt Petunia looked shocked. Dudley had returned to his punching bag. Uncle Vernon, however, swelled with satisfaction.

"Kicked the bucket, did he? Well, there's one less fool to deal with in this world." He chortled. "I suppose one of those spell-thingies backfired, eh?"

Aunt Petunia snapped out of her momentary trance. "NO, Vernon."

Uncle Vernon stopped laughing and focused a confused expression on his wife. "What, Petunia?"

"I said, NO."

Harry looked up in surprise at his aunt. "What do you mean?"

She suddenly grasped his shoulder. "You're lying, aren't you? Tell me the truth: you're only saying that to make us pity you!"

Her nostrils flared, breathing harshly. Harry shook off her fingers. "Why would I lie about something like that?" He watched in astonishment as she clapped a horrified palm over her mouth.

"What's wrong?" Uncle Vernon turned toward Harry and bellowed: "What did you do to her?"

Before Harry could fling out his wand or his uncle could grab his collar, Aunt Petunia collapsed in a chair conveniently located near her. She leaned on her elbow on the armrest and curled her legs underneath herself. Harry assumed that this was the closest thing to a fetal position that a bony, full-grown woman with an elongated neck and equine features could attempt. Dudley appeared in the doorway, gazing confusedly at her.

"Mum?"

She shook her head, and closed her eyes. Uncle Vernon, Harry, and Dudley stood awkwardly around her chair, each glancing furtively at each other but avoiding eye contact. Hedwig flapped her wings nervously in her cage, alarmed by the silence. Uncle Vernon slowly moved toward Aunt Petunia.

"Look here," he began, his jaws sagging (and adding to his double chin), "I don't know what the ruddy hell is going on. No warning, nothing."

Aunt Petunia lowered her legs and squared her shoulders at this, patting down her hair brusquely. She stood up and walked off quite calmly to the kitchen, leaving her husband, son, and Harry looking aghast at her.

"I'll . . . I'll go put my stuff away, then," Harry said finally. He found a better grip on his trunk handle and swiftly ran upstairs. He did not want to be around for his uncle's explosion, especially because his presence would probably agitate him even more. What in Merlin's beard was that all about? He nudged open the bedroom door with his toes and threw himself on the bed.

A ceiling fan twirled lazily above him, emitting a breeze neither cool nor cooling. The summer months were usually hot in Little Whinging, Surrey, but the heavy fog cast by the dementors were thwarting the sunlight and bewildering meteorologists. Harry remained motionless on the bed for a while, trying to keep in mind that only three more weeks had to be suffered in this house. A nagging thought always accompanied this self-imposed reminder: Where will I go?

The immediate answer was glaringly certain to Harry. He had resolved to go to Godric's Hollow as soon as he came of age and could apparate. There was something aching in a bittersweet way inside, something that constantly accompanied him and assuaged only slightly even with Ron's, Hermione's, or Ginny's comfort. This pang throbbed harder since Dumbledore's death, and beat painfully more so at night, when the darkness closed in and he hung in the balance of wakefulness and unconsciousness. It was not unlike loneliness, but Harry knew with experience that loneliness did not always fill one's heart like this feeling. Godric's Hollow kept on tugging and beckoning his soul.

Afterwards, however, he would have to find a place to stay. He was determined to avoid Hogwarts, even if it reopened, because he would be a danger to the other students. Dumbledore, Snape, Draco, and now he would leave, and there would be no more incentive for Voldemort to come knocking at the doors (at least, no more than anywhere else magical). The Weasleys would, of course, hurriedly offer the Burrow, but Harry couldn't ask so much of them. Well—there was Bill's wedding to look forward to, he thought with faint amusement. And Ron's face when Fleur gives up her availability.

Harry rolled onto his side to face the closed door. Godric's Hollow and the Burrow withered away in the face of his extreme curiosity; in all of his years with the Dursleys, the only time he had ever seen his aunt act so peculiarly was her reaction to Hagrid's revelation to Harry. Any mention of the wizarding world usually brought on a rabid shriek or a sullen glare from his aunt and uncle, but prolonged conversation elicited strange responses from Aunt Petunia. He long had a suspicion Aunt Petunia knew and felt a lot more than she let on.

Straining his ears, he tried to hear if anything unusual was taking place downstairs. He could only make out the muffled sounds of Dudley slamming his fists (and sometimes his entire body, if he was really frustrated) into the punching bag and the distinct snap of Uncle Vernon's newspaper being shuffled and folded as he read the pages. Out of the kitchen he heard nothing except dishes being washed and clinked together—perhaps more roughly than normal, he wondered pensively.

Why would the news of Dumbledore dying be so jarring to his aunt? Why would she care? Dumbfounded, questions whirled around in Harry's head as the sky outside gradually darkened. He kicked off his shoes and placed his glasses on top of the nightstand, gently massaging the corners of his eyes. The room was very dark now. I thought she hated him, like all other aspects of the supernatural. She—she can't be guilty about hating him, can she? She's a Dursley, for goodness sakes'! But . . . why . . .

The dim light from a lamp somewhere far off flickered; or was it his own eyelids? The ceiling fan slowly lost momentum, but the night was getting chilly any way. Hedwig's feathers ruffled as she put her head under her wings. So you're sleepy too, huh . . .?

His bones felt waterlogged, and the bed seemed to soak him in. The streetlight flashed on, making his eyes twitch for a second. They closed altogether, refusing to recover. The familiar ache slowly crept in, but Harry was too far gone to care . . .

CRASH!