For disclaimer see first chapter.

oooooo

The summer had turned suckier, at least in Harry's opinion. The last week had been pouring down with rain, Harry swore that he'd seen a school of fish swim by his window, and he had been stuck inside. Neither his aunt nor his uncle wanted to spend money on buying him waterproofed clothing so Harry hadn't been forced outside. Apparently it would have been deemed 'freaky' to leave the house without at least a coat. The downside was that even though he hid in 'his' room he'd been forced to interact with his relatives far too often. The inactivity seemed to annoy his uncle as much as it did him. That was not a good combination. He'd dealt with it the usual way, kept his head down and his mouth shut and so far nothing more drastic than a couple of cuffs over his ear had happened. Harry was suddenly less averse to gardening than he'd been in years. He longed to be outside, to do anything but to sit inside with only his thoughts for company.

His thoughts, yes. They'd focused even more on Sirius when the weather turned bad. Was it really so that the weather could dictate our moods or was it simply so that it had really caught up with him? No more Sirius. No more letters arriving by strange birds. No more snuffles. No more godfather. No more Sirius.

A meaty hand rustling his doorknob brought him out of his reverie.

"It has stopped raining, boy. Your aunt's flowers need preening." The boards in the stairs creaked as Vernon descended. Harry sighed and rose from the bed he'd been perched on. No time like the present. He was rather glad, to be honest, to have been given something to do.

The constant rain had almost turned the flowerbeds into ponds but Harry soon began to correct that by digging miniature trenches. It was heavy and dirty to work with the sodden soil and soon he was too tired to think of anything but what he was doing. Where to next put the shovel, to move and to again use the shovel. When he'd finished it was almost dark, strange considering they usually called him to make dinner. He tried to enter the house but his aunt was soon there to stop him.

"You can't get into my newly cleaned house looking like that, boy!" She screeched. Maybe it was her house but it was Harry who'd done the cleaning. He did make any fuss, though, he was too tired to.

"But aunt Petunia, the shower's in there." He said and pointed into the house.

"I know that boy. You'll can use the hose." Said hose only had cold water. A little belatedly Harry got angry. Who were they to treat him like a dog who'd been playing in the mud? On their orders, by the way. The question answered itself, though. They were his relatives who he needed for the blood protection they offered. The defiance Harry'd previously felt bled away. He hung his head and moved to do what his aunt had told him to. It wasn't the end of the world, once he'd gotten clean he could hurry upstairs and take a long, hot shower.

That night Harry was again hunted by nightmares, not the usual kind, in which Sirius had started featuring frequently, but the other kind, the one connected to his scar. He found himself in a circle of Voldemort's followers, more commonly known as Death Eaters. They were all bowing, showing their deference for their lord. A lord that now entered the circle.

Harry decided to look around since he didn't particularly want to see everyone kissing the hem of Voldemort's robe. They were all standing on a windswept hill, tall grass whipped around the figures. The tall grass should have meant that it wasn't visited all that often but here and there paths had been made and the grass was trampled in more than one place. Despite being more airy than Voldemort's usual meeting places, it still filled Harry with a sense of dread. The sky was clear overhead, the gibbous moon shone amongst the stars. Harry couldn't help but to feel that the weather should have been bad, if it wasn't for the dark shapes this place could have been beautiful.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see that Voldemort was ready to speak. That mostly meant that someone would be crucioed soon and Harry would have a hard time explaining to his uncle why he was screaming loud enough to wake most of the neighbourhood. Before that could happen another figure wandered into view. At first Harry thought that it was just a muggle who was really in the wrong place at the wrong time but after initially being startled by Voldemort pointing a wand at him he seemed to gain confidence. One, two steps forward and the man stopped. At least Harry thought that it was a male, though it might as well have been a female, it wasn't possible to tell when, whomever it was, was wearing such a long cloak and with a hood. It should have been very similar to the Death Eater uniform but it wasn't, somehow the garment looked different. More classy, somehow, as if it were the Malfoy of clothing. Harry brought his thoughts to an abrupt halt as soon as he realised he'd thought Malfoy.

"I came as you bid, lord." The stranger said and bowed low. He was wearing a robe with a hood so Harry couldn't see who it was but he didn't recognise the voice at all.

"Our guest of the evening have arrived. Armin, if you please." Voldemort said with that sibilant hiss that makes his voice match his looks. The Death Eaters had risen and was now nervously hovering behind their lord, who hadn't deemed it fit to inform them of why they were gathering today. Harry was more interested in the newcomer, though. Hopefully he'd lest something slip, something that Harry could tell Dumbledore, anything at all.

Armin, which was the newcomer's name, silently followed the gesture Voldemort had made and ended up quite close to the man in question. Voldemort reached over and with pale, spidery hands removed the hood. The face that appeared underneath was Slavic, to go with his name, of course. There was nothing remarkable about it at all, except for the utter lack of distinguishing features. He did appear to be a tad bit nervous, despite the confidence, but not many people doesn't get unnerved in the presence of a man who's face looks like the result of genetic manipulation gone horribly wrong. Armin's dark eyes flitted from Voldemort to his followers and back again. He was expecting something to happen, perhaps?

"How did it go, were you able to establish contact?" Voldemort asked.

"I left them your message and they said they would have an answer within two weeks time, lord."

"Good, definitely good, and you're sure that the offer will tempt them?"

"Of course, lord, I was, after all, a part of them for a long time." Ah, Harry thought, a traitor. He didn't know anyone in the order by the name of Armin but it was now really important that he contacted Dumbledore. This might be a constructed dream but doubting one of the members wouldn't hurt the order, would it? But by the sound of it Armin had already left the order. Harry hadn't heard of anyone having left the order but it was of less importance. If the could find Armin they could use Veritaserum or something on him to make him tell the truth. The edges of Harry's vision started to blur, the dream was slipping away from him. For once, he wanted to stay with the dream, he tried to but it slipped away faster and faster until all he saw was the ceiling of his bedroom.

He hurried to get his glasses on, which only made him push them to the floor and for a few frantic moments he was on all fours trying to find them again. He stumbled towards the desk where he kept some parchment hidden some miscellaneous items to keep his relatives from finding it. It wasn't until he snubbed his toe in the desk that he calmed down.

Taking a few deep breaths Harry realised that his hurried fumbling only led to everything taking more time rather than less. He listened intently for a second or so, just checking that his relatives hadn't woken up by the noise he'd created. Before going back to his bed and, bending down, fishing the flashlight out from under it. He went to the desk again and this time he actually found the parchment he had been looking for. In the light of the flashlight he composed a letter to Dumbledore telling of what he'd learnt in his dream. He even took the time to read it over again to check so it didn't sound to desperate or hurried. Harry badly wanted to appear as if he'd thought before he acted, especially after what happened at the ministry.

He made his way over to Hedwig's cage and carefully roused the sleeping owl. Her only response was a soft hoot, maybe she'd understood the importance of keeping quiet. He carefully tied the letter to her leg and asked her to hurry on her trip to find the headmaster. She gave him a look that clearly stated that she was a high-class bird and she'd never do something so crass as not to hurry. Harry apologised to Hedwig and hoped that she wouldn't voice her complaint out loud. Thankfully she didn't but the nib she gave his nose as goodbye was a tad bit harder than the usual ones.

Harry looked at his watch and when he noticed it was only half past two in the morning. He decided to go back to bed where he spent another hour tossing and turning trying to figure out who the Armin character was and what he wanted. And why he'd turned to Voldemort only to become a traitor. What drove anyone to betray what they held dear, their family and their beliefs? A traitor was one of the bad guys, he or she had to be since they'd broken the trust someone had put in them. Wouldn't that mean that Snape was one of the bad guys, though. He was spying for the light, Harry amended, but if all traitors were bad, as he'd first concluded, it would mean that it was better to keep being bad than to turn to the light. Snape had been part of what killed Sirius. He couldn't be both a bad guy and a good guy, he was either or. Somehow his arguments didn't fit, somewhere, something was off. He fell asleep before he could figure it out, though.

The next morning dawned and despite the rude wakeup call, courtesy of his aunt, he couldn't help but to feel a little bit better, a little bit happier than the day before. He didn't even notice that he was humming when he prepared breakfast until Vernon, rather rudely, yelled at him to shut up. Quiet but still light at heart Harry served breakfast and did the dishes afterwards. It wasn't hard work, only time-consuming. Dudley was still, officially, on a diet though unofficially this was not the case. Petunia couldn't understand how a person, a professional nurse nonetheless, couldn't see the difference between a fat person and her healthy, though big boned, baby boy. Of course, there was also what every good parent knew, dieting was bad for growing children, they were to have plenty of food. This is why Dudley once again ate bacon for breakfast. Harry only thought that it was cruel to force Dudley to become a cannibal, he was a pig look-alike, after all.

Harry was forced out into the garden, again, and spent most of his day there. Only for a short while, in the middle of the day, was he allowed inside for a glass of water. The rest of the family had left to have lunch in London with one of Vernon's business partners. There was even locks on the fridge and the cupboards put there by Petunia to be sure that their freak of a nephew wouldn't ruin their food. The mood that Harry had woken up with had dissipated by the time his relatives returned.

The following two weeks that led to Harry's birthday were conducted much in the same way, work and little food. Every third day he dutifully composed letters to the order though they were getting shorter and shorter. At this point they mainly said 'I'm ok' and nothing more. He was still waiting for a reply from Dumbledore but none seemed forthcoming. Harry'd decided that one letter was enough and that if Dumbledore didn't reply to it he would accept that. Tonight was Harry's last night as a 15 year old.

Having sent Hedwig off earlier with his letter to the order Harry prepared himself for the wake he traditionally sat until the stroke of midnight, signalling his birthday. This year the wait was worse than usual, not going to sleep wasn't hard, the hard part was not to think of what'd happened during the year.

Had he dared he would have done some homework had he dared to, but the first thing Vernon had done when they'd come home from King's Cross was to throw all Harry's things, except for Hedwig, in the cupboard under the stairs. He'd proceeded to lock the door with several newly added locks. Harry'd early on decided that the tentative peace that now existed between him and his relatives wasn't worth arguing over his books. The knowledge that he couldn't procrastinate his homework forever hadn't exactly made him feel better. It was a trouble better left off for a later time, and preferably, when it was earlier in the day. He looked at the watch again, one and a half hour to go.

He was turning 16. 16 used to be counted as adult, many years ago. What differed now from then? Well, people lived longer, does that mean that you're young longer or is there any other reason 16 is now looked down upon as 'young'. It is halfway through the teens. If 16 year olds could be mature than Harry would try to be too. There was a lot he was supposed to do, after all. He was the only one that could kill Voldemort, the dark lord. He promised himself that he was going to do it, he had to, but he knew that the times he'd fought Voldemort before were purely won by luck. Harry realised that he'd have to work to be able to win. He didn't have to like it, though. Neither did he have to like the fact that he had to fight Voldemort. No one had ever asked him whether he wanted to or not. He would, of course, do it, because it's the right thing to do. Fighting the bad guys, that's what the good guys do.

The clock ticked closer to the awaited midnight mark. Only five minutes to go now, five very long minutes but still only minutes. Harry got up and opened the window as quietly as he could. Judging from his experience from earlier years it was better this way. Now the owls could fly straight in instead of knocking on the window. Anything that reduced the chance of waking his relatives up was a good idea. He looked out through the window but he couldn't see anything. He knew that his dark-vision was bad, people with glasses often have that problem, but shouldn't he at least be able to pick out owls? There were only a couple of minutes left.

When the numbers on his digital clock changed to 00:00 there was still an absence of owls. One minute, two, three ticked by and still there wasn't any owls. Worried, confused and a bit angry Harry went back to bed, though he didn't close the window. Maybe he clock was just running fast. A quarter past a small tawny owl makes an appearance. Harry sat up straighter as the bird made its way through the room. Well safely landed on the mattress next to Harry it extends its leg. Harry carefully untied the small piece of string that kept the scrap of parchment tied to the owl's leg.

Dear Harry,

Since Voldemort has started recruiting new followers we've felt the need to do everything in our power to keep you hidden. You must understand that it is only for your own safety I've made you unable to receive owls, all except this one. I've also chosen not to give you your Hogwart's letter since you won't be able to go shopping in Diagon Alley, it's simply too dangerous. Don't worry, your gifts, and what literature you need for the upcoming year, will be waiting for you when you return to Hogwarts.

Signed

Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster.

How could he have done something like this? Didn't the headmaster understand what it meant not to have any contact with his friends? What had he done to deserve this? Sure, he had a madman out for his blood but it couldn't be as bad as the Headmaster made it sound, could it? He hadn't heard about any strange occurrences on the news or in the papers, when he'd gotten the chance to read or watch them that is. Harry didn't get the Daily Prophet but according to Dumbledore's letter he wouldn't have gotten it anyways, but still, the muggles ought to have picked up on something. The whole situation was just strange. He offered the owl to stay for a while but it soon disappeared out the window. Harry got up and closed it before going to bed. No matter what'd happened, or not, tonight there was still another day tomorrow and neither Aunt Petunia nor Uncle Vernon would care if it was his birthday or not. He'd be forced into doing chores anways.

Harry attacked the next weed with such frenzy that he wasn't even sure what it had before he got his hands on it. He just hoped that it wasn't one of his aunts prized flowers, that could have proven to be disastrous. He hurried to hide the little that was left of the evidence. Soon the last pieces of the shredded plant ended up with the rest of the garden compost. A shadow suddenly fell over his crouched form. This was very strange since he could usually hear when His relatives closed in on him, it wasn't as if they were the most graceful of people. When he turned around he realised that it was not anyone he knew. Actually it was, when he thought a bit he recognised the woman standing on the grass. It was Alexis, the woman who'd gotten lost some weeks ago and she'd talked to him on the swings.

Today she was escorted by a shorter, but stockier blond, and a black haired man that seemed to be very tall. It was a bit hard to judge from the ground, though. Harry carefully straightened up and held out his hand.

"Nice to meet you again, Harry." She said while she shook his hand. The Blond that had accompanied her almost cringed at the action but Harry didn't pay any attention to it. He must have gotten the sun in his eye or something. The darker man, with green eyes just like himself, Harry was startled to discover, only smiled good-naturedly.

"This might sound like an odd question, Harry, but do you know anyone called Voldemort?" Harry almost flinched at the question. Not because of the name, no he was smarter than to be frightened by a name, but what the question meant, in it self. Alexis obviously had no idea who Voldemort was, or even what the magical world was. Where had she heard the name?

"Why do you want to know?" She watched him closely. Obviously she wasn't someone easy to trick.

"Someone contacted us a while ago and wanted us to join with 'lord Voldemort'. I did recognise your name in the missive, though, he wants our help to kill you, if you're the Harry Potter he mentions. And I thought, who needs help to kill an adolescent boy?" When she'd said that much he almost felt compelled to tell her at least a little in return.

"Yes I know of Voldemort, and I'm also the Harry Potter." He hesitated for a bit, not sure how to proceed. He'd never met anyone involved that didn't know the story. "Voldemort is a Dark Lord, he wants to take over the magical world and kill all muggles…er, non-magical people. I'm supposedly his arch-nemesis." He stopped talking for a heartbeat or two before launching the question, which had been rearing its ugly head. "What was your reply, to the missive I mean?"

"No. Though the offer was tempting, we knew there was something off about it. Especially since the sender couldn't even kill a teenager by himself." She snorted at the thought. Harry didn't know whether to be grateful or put out. Grateful for at least not getting even more enemies but it was a little annoying to be dissed so completely just because he happened to be young. After all, wasn't he the only one who'd ever survived the killing curse? He'd also stood up to Voldemort several times, and gotten away alive. And he wasn't that bad a wizard, all in all. Considering that the woman was just a muggle, what right had she to look down on him like that? He was just about to speak up again when the black haired man spoke.

"We've got company." And Harry saw that they did. A female clad in ratty clothing of dark pants and what had been a white t-shirt. There was something crazed in her eyes, though, something Harry definitely didn't want to come in close contact with.

"Ermina." The same man said though Alexis nodded in agreement.

"So it's true." She said. "At least some of the rogues have joined Voldemort. We can't not act, we have to tell Him." Her voice was suddenly cold and hard, a far cry from the open persona she'd shown earlier. For some reason her right hand was drawn to her left wrist. Although she'd told Harry that they weren't Death Eaters he couldn't help but to worry.