The week that Harry had to wait before he could get to number 12 Grimauld Place must have been the longest he could ever remember experiencing--even longer than the week of detentions with Delores Umbridge. Harry did everything that he could think of to pass the time, to urge it on. He would go to the park, he would read, he would polish his firebolt, he would pace the room up and down until his uncle yelled at him to stop, he even tried to find Dudley to scare out of his wits.

Nothing worked. Time still passed in its inexorable way, sluggish and at times it even seemed to stop.

Harry finally lay down on his bed with a plop, admitting defeat and letting time pass on its own. He closed his eyes and he intended to let sleep take over, but even that didn't work for him. He glanced over at the alarm clock, only to see that it had been ten minutes since he had last checked the time. He looked at his calendar, only to see that two days had passed since he'd last checked. There were only five more days until he was going to number 12 Grimauld Place. Suddenly an idea came to him and he jumped off of his bed, over to his desk.

He nearly upset his inkbottle as he grabbed a fresh sheet of parchment and he ruffled his quill in his haste to grab it. If nothing else would work, then he'd send a reply to Lupin, after all, Lupin had asked him to reply to his letter. He felt an old bond rekindling as his quill flew across the page, one that he'd left behind in his third year. It felt good to talk to his old Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor again, even if it was only a letter. He remembered with a shudder the Dementors and how Lupin had taught him the advanced spell, the Patronus, to repel them, since they brought back horrors from his past that few others had.

Dear Lupin:

I got your letter, thanks.

Harry.

Harry glared at his short response before scribbling it out, trying again.

Lupin,

I got your letter and it got me thinking properly again. Thanks for that.

I guess that I should talk to someone about him and the Dursley's aren't the most compatible people around. But I don't think that he's dead. At least--I don't want him to be. I don't really know anymore if that's what I think or if that's what I want. I know that I heard something behind that veil and I think it was people--dead people.

I was told once that I have a bond with Peter Pettigrew because I saved his life. I don't want to have anything to do with him though. He's the reason why my parents are dead. He doesn't seem like the kind of person to stand up and repay the debt. He already cut me, using my blood to bring back Voldemort--if he didn't let me go then will he ever?

Sirius was the one relation that I had, living, that I liked and I used to think that I'd get to go off and live with him, leaving the Dursley's behind. He wasn't even blood-wise related to me but I was closer to him then I'll ever be to the Dursley's. Mrs. Weasley seemed to think that he only cared about me so much because I look like my father. Is that true?

Sorry for bugging you with this reply. I guess I just wanted to tell someone all of that stuff. And I guess that I just wanted to ask some questions, hoping for answers… Thanks, Lupin.

Harry.

Harry supposed that it was good enough. He rolled it up and he gave it to Hedwig.

"Hey, girl." Harry stroked Hedwig's feathers, feeling the downy softness. "I need you to send another letter. To Lupin." He stroked her some more.

She cocked her head at him; her amber eyes looked at him, almost seeming to understand why he needed her to send so many letters. She seemed to nod before taking off with the letter.

He walked across the floor and his eyes reached the cat-flap, still installed in the door. He remembered the summer when he had nearly starved, after his uncle discovered that he was not allowed to perform magic outside of school. He shivered, remembering his wild thoughts of escape. His imagination didn't prove wild enough though because the Weasley's seemed to have thought up of something first. He still remembered the blue flying ford anglier, now wild in the school's forest.

A sharp pain suddenly went up his foot and he let out a little gasp, before lifting his foot up again to see what he had stepped on. It was a tiny shard of glass. Then he remembered how he'd thrown the two-way mirror against the wall in his frustration of having lost Sirius. His frustration that even this hadn't worked. His frustration that he hadn't just used this instead of Delores Umbridge's fire. He kicked it away from his foot, a small smear of blood appeared on the carpet, and he felt angry at how even the things in his bedroom seemed to be teaming up on him to make his life even more difficult after Sirius had die--disappeared. It was mostly under his desk, though, so it wasn't a real wonder as to why he hadn't stepped on it before. He shuddered, remembering how The Monster Book of Monsters had once scuttled under it, a thirteenth birthday present from the Hogwarts Game Keeper--Hagrid.

Surprisingly enough, with his head swirling with thoughts, the day passed with fair speed and Harry found himself, at last, marking off a day on his makeshift calendar. He quickly dressed in his pyjamas and he lay down under his covers in his bed, removed his glasses, and in next to no time he was yawning, rolling over, and falling fast asleep. The last thought that passed through his head was: Four more days until Grimauld Place. And with that, he clutched the time-turner even tighter in his hand.