A sixteen year-old Harry awoke to find someone sitting in front of him. Unable to make out the persons' identity without his glasses, he reached to his right and as he placed the circular framed lenses over his eyes, he saw Sirius appear in front of him, looking down at him. Upon first glance, one would have thought they'd seen a skeleton, as Sirius' bones were clearly evident under his sallow skin. Harry noticed that his eyes looked bloodshot and tired, and contained no spark, as would usually be found. Staring at him, Harry couldn't think of a time when his Godfather had looked worse. The two remained staring at one another, and Harry, in disbelief of his neglect to make conversation with his Godfather sooner, jumped at the chance. He quickly opened his mouth to speak but Sirius interrupted, shaking his head. Harry was confused. He had wanted to talk his Godfather for so long, to ask him questions, just to have some form of contact. His mind was buzzing with questions and the fact that he was sitting just opposite him and wasn't allowed to talk to his Godfather disturbed and confused him. He felt angry. Again he tried to talk, but Sirius placed a hand over his mouth, and Harry knew it was futile to try again. It shocked him however, when Sirius himself spoke.
"Harry, you can't blame yourself for this." Silence greeted these words, and Harry wasn't taking in a word of it. Of course it was his fault. If he hadn't tried to be the hero yet again, Sirius would still be alive. Lost in these thoughts, Harry was brought back by Sirius' voice once more.
"I came on my own will, you didn't make me come."
But I did, Harry thought. You came to protect me… his thoughts trailed off as the walls of the room in Grimmauld Place began to melt away, as did the pitiful form of Sirius.
Harry woke suddenly, hearing the floorboards creak in the room next door. He sat up. A sense of immense depression came over him. Looking around, he saw his trunk in the corner of the room, roughly unpacked with clothes strewn over the floor and surrounding furniture, and Hedwig, looking ruffled and annoyed in her cage. His eyes met a sorry sight. He lay there miserably is his room in Privet Drive. It was the nearing the end of his summer holidays, and it had been months since Harry had lost his only living relative. Of course, everyone had been writing to him, Ron and Hermione especially, but he couldn't open their letters. He couldn't read their consoling words, their pity. He didn't want that.
Harry had assumed by now that the cause for the noise was that Dudley was heaving himself out of bed and waddling down to breakfast. Sure enough, moments later he heard the door next to his be wrenched open and a noisy shuffling could be heard travelling down the corridor. The shuffling passed his door and then proceeded down the stairs. Harry lay back down in bed. He was trying to forget the dream he had had about Sirius, as it caused him too much pain to recollect.
"Get up now! UP!"
Aunt Petunia's shrill yells could be heard from the kitchen downstairs, and Harry grudgingly pulled some clothes on and opened his door. He trudged down the stairs, awaiting the far-less-than-jovial response his entrance into the room would surely bring.
"Hurry up boy, we're leaving at 9 o'clock to buy Dudley's new uniform. Little tyke's growing up so fast." Uncle Vernon chortled.
As bad as his treatment had been over the past summer, Harry's life at Number Four could have been far worse. Had members of the Order not warned the Dursleys of the consequences of treating their nephew badly, Harry was sure he'd have had a much worse time. Because of this warning, Harry had been allowed a lot more freedom to do what he pleased. He had been allowed out of the house more often, and he used this time to visit the local park, often just to sit and think, but not of Sirius, never of Sirius, it caused him too much pain.
Harry reached the kitchen table and as he sat down, a small snort issued from Uncle Vernon, whose face was hidden behind a newspaper. Harry didn't care much that Uncle Vernon was clearly about to explode, but lifted his head in time to see him slam the paper down on the table and get up so roughly it caused the table to shudder vigorously.
"Who do these people think they are?"
This statement received a number of different responses; Harry continued to sit calmly at the kitchen table, marvelling at his Uncles newly purple face, Dudley, who, if it was possible, looked even more puzzled than ever, and a worried expression crept over Aunt Petunia's bony face.
Uncle Vernon continued:
"Do they think we appreciate reading rubbish like this?" he yelled, brandishing a shaking finger at the newspaper article he had been reading.
"And it doesn't even contain any facts, just suspicions… we suspect this… well 'we suspect' doesn't mean anything… it could all be lies!"
For some reason, Uncle Vernon was looking uneasy as he argued about the article, and looking at his Aunt and cousins' faces, Harry wasn't the only one to notice this. After some time of ranting about bad writing and false rumours, it seemed it had become evident to Uncle Vernon that this outburst was not going to be met by understanding, let alone an intelligent response from anyone. Defeated, Uncle Vernon proceeded to scrunch up the paper and lob it lazily towards the bin, but it fell short and landed a few centimetres away. Uncle Vernon then strode from the room noisily, and that left Harry alone with Dudley and Aunt Petunia. After Uncle Vernon's outburst had taken place, Harry realised he felt hungry, as he hadn't yet eaten anything. He hadn't really eaten much all summer, just picking at his food, how could he eat when he had just lost the closest thing to a father he would ever have? This had caused him to loose a little weight, but he didn't care.
Opening the fridge, he noticed that a large slab of cake was missing, along with a few cans of lemonade, and Harry noted this without a hint of surprise, for Dudley often raided the fridge. Grabbing some jam, he stepped away from the fridge and began making toast. As he did this, Aunt Petunia walked briskly out of the room, no doubt off to console her husband, who was making loud crashing sounds from another room, noises which could easily be distinguished as the sounds of furniture being thrown about. And that left Harry alone with Dudley.
Harry finished making his toast and was just finishing spreading jam on his last piece when he felt Dudley's eyes on him.
"What?" Harry snapped.
Dudley remained quiet but proceeded to glare at his cousin, then grab another large slab of cake from the fridge, and waddle off to no doubt play with one of his numerous electronical devices, the cake held tightly in his podgy hand.
Harry seized this opportunity to grab the newspaper article Uncle Vernon had thrown at the bin. Un-scrunching it and flattening it against the kitchen table, Harry began to read:
MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCES REPORTED: SUSPECT UNKNOWNIt has come to the attention of the press that numerous residents have been recorded missing, however, it also appears that the victims were only found missing this morning; their loved ones waking up to find them gone. Mr. Henry Brooks' whose wife was tragically taken by the mysterious kidnapper, has stated: "I woke up this morning, and I remembered she was gone. I remember what happened, they took her."
But this reporter questions how the suspect could take a victim from their home without members of the family noticing? How did he or she trick them into noticing the next day, and not immediately? We have not, however, found any bodies, and this suggests that the victims may still be alive, but we cannot prove this at the present time. We believe that this is the work of a professional, and that all residents should make sure to take the necessary precautions to ensure the safety of their loved ones. We suggest…
Harry didn't need to read on to figure out who was behind this. Mysterious disappearances? No bodies? The victims' families suddenly losing their memories until this morning? This was clearly the work of Lord Voldemort, or one of his followers. But what, Harry mused, would Voldemort want with muggles? He didn't have more time to ponder that however, because he could hear his Aunt and Uncle coming back. He quickly scrunched up the newspaper again, and lobbed it towards the bin, and unlike Uncle Vernon's throw, it went in.
"Right, time to go." Uncle Vernon half yelled half hissed.
"Duddykins… are you ready?" Aunt Petunia inquired patronisingly.
"I'm coming…" was the reply from Dudley, as he tried to quickly jam the rest of the slab of cake into his mouth.
Harry really didn't want to go and buy a new uniform for Dudley. He didn't want to go and discover that they didn't stock uniform big enough for Dudley's elephant-sized bottom, and even less he didn't want to see Uncle Vernon argue with the poor shop assistant about the lack of uniform sizes.
"Uh…" Harry cleared his throat. "Uncle Vernon?" Harry said carefully.
"What is it now, boy?" Uncle Vernon snapped, his back to Harry.
"I was wondering if I could stay home while you go out shopping for Dudley's new uniform."
Uncle Vernon seemed to momentarily lose all will and/or ability to move. He stood rooted to the spot, his back still facing his nephew. Then after a few moments, he seemed to regain control of his bodily functions and proceeded to turn around and stare fiercely at Harry. Harry was in no way frightened, and instead returned the look. As if suddenly waking from a trance, Uncle Vernons' facial features softened slightly and he adopted a tone of fake sincerity, and Harry knew the cause for this: he was thinking about the warning.
"Well, I guess that would be… erm… acceptable…" he stated with difficulty.
"But you are not to stay in the house, you will go out." The fake sincerity in his tone disappeared, to be replaced with bitterness.
"That's fine."
Of course, if he hadn't been allowed to go, Harry would simply write to anyone in the Order, saying that he wasn't being treated well, and boy, the effect on Uncle Vernon would be well worth the effort.
Within 15 minutes the Dursleys had left the house, and had by that time locked Harry out as well. But Harry didn't care, he could do what he liked, and he didn't think being trapped inside the house was going to help his mood at all. As he watched the Dursleys drive off, his mind filled with an infectious and fast spreading feeling, one that had momentarily gripped him: freedom. He began to walk to the park, a route he knew well. Harry looked somewhat different, having grown over the summer. His shoulders had broadened, and he had grown a little taller. He had grown his hair out a little longer than normal, but it remained sticking up at the back, as always, but now it was long enough to just cover his scar, and just enough to need to be pushed away from his eyes when he was looking at something directly in front of him. His body wasn't hard and muscular, instead lightly toned, but had the potential to be muscular if he had wanted it to be. He had grown into his facial features; his cheekbones were more defined and he had a more defined chin, but his emerald green eyes remained as dazzling as ever.
As he approached the park, he saw a young child on the swings being pushed by his mother, its father sitting on the bench nearby with another child perched atop his knee. Harry walked over to a nearby tree and leant against it. How he longed for family, for that connection, for the feeling of unconditional acceptance and support. He suddenly remembered Sirius, and in that moment was so beside himself, he didn't notice himself fall to his knees, burying his head in his hands. After a few moments however, he regained composure, instead choosing to rest his back against the rough bark of the tree, his knees up close to his chest, his arms resting loosely on his kneecaps. He felt angry. Why did he have to be so stupid? Why had he taken the dream so seriously? Why hadn't he listened to Hermione? Thinking of one of his best friends was painful too, and he quickly tried to think of something else. How he longed just to cut himself off from the world, so that no one would be hurt. He constantly blamed himself for the death of Sirius, and he wished so much that he could turn back time, and fix his mistakes. Wild thoughts of flying to Hermione on his Firebolt under the cloak and making her use the Time-Turner flashed through his mind, but he soon realised the flaws in the idea. Instead he thought about his impending doom or glory. The prophecy was always in the back of his mind, yet he hadn't told anyone, for fear of making people worry about him more, and that was exactly what he didn't need right now.
He suddenly realised it was getting dark. He must have been here for a long time. He got up, stiff from being in one position, and started walking home. No one noticed Harry entering the house, nor did they look worried that he had returned so late, but Harry was used to this treatment. He continued to his room, and flopped down in his bed and settled into an uneasy sleep, thoughts of Sirius plaguing his dreams...