The world seemed to have closed in on itself, encased in a never ending sky of dark grey cloud. It had yet to rain, a fact that didn't look like it would last that long, as another flash of lighting split the cloud in half, briefly giving light to a world lost in murkiness.

The lighting made a young man, observing the street from behind a double glazed window, blink. About the only movement he'd made in the last fifteen minutes as he stared out into the dull grey of Privet Drive. The houses lining the street were hard to differentiate from each other, like a line of soldiers standing to attention, waiting for their orders. The lightening was followed by an almighty crash of thunder, causing the boy to jump, even with its inevitability. The noise sounded loud in the silent house around him. He pressed his forehead more firmly against the cold pane of glass, watching the first raindrops finally soaking the ground, quickly followed by a more torrential downpour. Harry Potter sighed. It was finally raining.

He stayed staring out of the window, his thoughts a jumble that he wasn't inclined to try and sort out. Sorting out meant dwelling too long on events that he had no wish to dwell on. He looked round at the empty birdcage stood open at the far corner of his room. He hoped wherever Hedwig, his large snowy owl, was, she was at least dry. She'd gone out hunting the night before, and had yet to return, a fact that didn't worry Harry; she had been gone a lot longer before. He just hoped she would hurry in her return. At least then he would have someone to talk to in this miserable, silent house.

A door slammed below, making him jump again. In his efforts to not think, he had completely missed the large company car, owned by Mr Dursley, pulling into the driveway below. Harry sighed, unconsciously slipping lower in the chair he sat in, pulling back from the window, somehow hoping the smaller he was, the less likely his uncle would yell up the stairs at him.

The inevitable, however, has a way of happening against everyone's wishes. First the trill voice of Aunt Petunia sounded, greeting her husband as if he'd been gone on a long sea cruise rather than just another day at the office. Followed by the loud booming voice of Uncle Vernon, filling the house with it's sudden noise, no doubt boasting once again of some impossible contract he'd wangled out of some unsuspecting client or other. And then 'BOY! Get down here, NOW!'

Harry sighed, and the very foundations of the house he was in seemed to sigh with him, as he wearily got to his feet, stretching out a kink in his back slowly and carefully before beginning the long trek to fulfil his uncle's beckoning.

'Ah, you there,' His uncle greeted his only nephew, looking up at him as if he were a particularly nasty specimen of newt. His bushy moustache quivered, no doubt under the strain of not saying anything too nasty to his "special" nephew. It had only been a few days since they'd left Kings Cross station, the warning from Mad Eye Moody had to still be ringing fresh in his uncle's ears. Harry briefly wondered how long that would last out for. 'why haven't you started dinner yet? Your aunt has been busy all day, no doubt running around after your no good hide. The least you could do is to start preparing dinner. Pay at least some of your way'

'Yes Uncle Vernon.' Harry interrupted before his uncle could really get into the swing of his lecture about his no good hide and the free ride he had had up to now, no doubt progressing onto how good the Dursleys had been in taking him into their house all those years ago, giving him a roof over his head, feeding him, clothing him, making his very existence a misery he could yet behold.

'Don't you "yes Uncle Vernon" to me.' His uncle snapped at him, 'what are you still doing up there? We want dinner tonight, not next week.'

Harry moved somewhat reluctantly, seeing as it was heading towards his uncle rather than back to his room, unconsciously reaching with his right hand to his pocket, where his wand would normally be. It felt very unnatural to not have it to hand. He thought of it now, safely tucked between his schoolbooks after being banned to be on Harry's person by Uncle Vernon the first day back. At first Vernon had tried to wrestle it off him. They had compromised, to a certain extent, that Harry wouldn't carry it around the house. Seeing as it unnerved his poor cousin Dudley so. Harry thought it would do the big slob good to be on his guard, but despite what his friends might think about it, he was all for the quiet life. If that was what his Aunt and Uncle wanted, they could have it. And according to everyone, this was the safest place for him to be, after all. Why did he need to carry around his wand when the wards protected him? The wards that meant he couldn't be anywhere else but under the roof of the relatives that hated him probably just as much as Voldemort did. After all, it wasn't as if Voldemort wasn't going to come and attack him here.

Harry often wondered how they could know that the most powerful wizard of their time was not going to attack him when he felt at his most vulnerable, but that was the life he lived. The fight about his wand had lasted well into the first night, till Harry just didn't have the energy to fight his uncle anymore.

His mind had moved swiftly back to the world he had just left behind, too quickly for him to slam the gates against the sudden memories of the last few weeks at school. Of his own stupidness of going to the ministry, of seeing Sirius, once again, falling behind the veil. The anger came, harsh and cold, the guilt quickly following on. Harry stared down at the pork chops he had to cook. He would not think of it, he would not think of it, not think of it. He almost let out a sarcastic laugh. Not thinking too much was what had got him into so much trouble in the first place.

As he lay in bed that night, the expended energy of not thinking making him feel exhausted, he wondered what it would be like to have a muggle life, a life where he was nobody. Where his scar was just that, a scar. Where he didn't channel Voldemort's every whim and desire. Where Voldemort himself existed only as a few murderous headlines in the occasional newspaper. Where he wasn't living as a result of a prophecy that basically spelt the end of his existence. Where his parents had simply been killed in a tragic accident, and not struck down in their prime because they were trying to protect their only son from a Dark Lord's whim. Where he could just be Harry. He was aware of how useless his thinking was. And indeed, how even if he could wish it, he wouldn't. Because for all of the down side of being a wizard, that was what he was, it was who he was. He would always belong far more in the wizard world than he could ever belong here. However much he wished for obscurity, of being just a normal boy, he didn't for one second wish to be away from the world that had whisked him away from his harsh existence five years ago. His life was now irreconcilably linked to that world. Without it, it didn't matter if there was no prophecy, he didn't think he could exist anyway.

The summer stretched before him, a never-ending sea of dark, gloomy days, of thoughts he wished he didn't belong to, of emotions he wished he could banish forever. He wrote, diligently, every three days, addressing his letters to The Order, the words varied, but the sentiment the same; he was fine, the muggles were behaving. He didn't dare write anything else. Owl post was as susceptible to falling into the wrong hands as any other form of communication. He thought wistfully of the words he wanted to write. What's He up to? What's going on with the Ministry, now? Have there been any more killings? And, perhaps, more importantly than all, when am I going to get out of here?

He spent all day, wandering the streets of little Whinging, his wand safely tucked away within easy reach. Every evening he would be home, timed to arrive before his uncle, so that he could safely stow his wand away, in case his uncle re-ignited his ideas of instead locking it away for the summer. Some people, namely Hermione, might have tutted at his straying from the safety of his blood relation's protection. But whilst Harry could just about stand to live in the muggle world, staying within the four walls of number 4 Privet Drive would have driven him slowly and surely to insanity. It was bad enough being stuck there at night, surrounded on all sides by the dark walls of his room, staring out at the perpetual darkness of the sky, with not even the moon and the stars to ponder on. This, he decided, as he crossed off just one day on his "countdown to Hogwarts" chart, was going to be the longest summer of his life.

'Ronald Weasley! Get down here, this instance!' His mother's shrill voice easily carried the length of the house, reaching the teenage boy's ears and making him gulp, audibly. He reluctantly put down the Quidditch magazine he had been flicking through, dragging his lanky frame up from his bed. He had grown again over the year, now almost as big as his dad, in height anyway. His weight had yet to catch up with what seemed to be a never-ending growth spurt. He hurried down the stairs, briefly snatching a glimpse of his sister, Ginny, singing to herself as she scowled over what looked suspiciously like homework as he ran past her open bedroom door.

'Yes mum?' He asked breathlessly.

'What did I ask you to do this morning?' His mother asked, rounding on him, brandishing a washing up brush at him.

'Ummm…' Ron had no idea what he had been asked to do that morning. He barely remembered getting up that morning. The long lazy days of summer were joining together in such a way as to make him forget precise details of any day.

Mrs Weasley did not look pleased at having whatever she had asked to be done, not only not done, but even completely forgotten about, by her youngest son. 'I asked you to tidy that mess you made in the living room last night.'

'Oh, yeah, that.' Ron said, breathing a sigh that that had been all that he had forgotten.

This, obviously, wasn't the answer his mother had been expecting from him. 'Honestly, Ron, you are not a child anymore.' That fact alone didn't seem to sit very comfortably with his mum, even if she had been the one to say it. Her tone was quiet, almost upset, an emotion Ron wasn't used to hearing, one that made him more uncomfortable than if she'd just yelled at him.

He ducked his head, 'I know mum. I'll do it now.' He said quickly, wanting to appease his mum. Cursing the thing that was making his usually jolly mum so melancholy. He walked into the living room beginning to clear away the kit he had been using to clean the brooms last night. He had left it in a real mess. No wonder his mum was upset.

Unknown to him, his mother's eyes followed him from the kitchen, her thoughts running to wondering when all her children had grown up so much. Even Ginny, her little girl was turning into a young woman. It didn't sit comfortably with her. It was bad enough when they were all away at school. Even worse, when she heard the horror stories of what exactly they had been doing at that school. Storming into the ministry like that. Even now it made her heart beat uncomfortably fast.

She had hoped, when He Who Must Not Be Named had been beaten the first time, by a baby no less, that she would be able to bring her young family up in peace. That had been shattered spectacularly, with the resurrection witnessed by Ron's best friend. Poor Harry. This year hadn't gone any better, either. Losing Sirius like that. Mrs Weasley shook her head as she turned back to the washing up, flicking her wand at it and making the washing up brush scrub the breakfast pots. The mothering heart inside her cried out for the poor boy that had been forced to grow up faster than anyone should. She briefly wondered how he was doing. The letters he sent, arriving on time, every three days were short, to the point. Almost bitter, it felt to Molly; he was fine, the muggles were treating him ok. She could almost feel the unwritten words the author had wanted to write; what's He doing, when can I get out of here? She vowed to ask Dumbledore once again at the next Order meeting when they might expect Harry at the Burrow again.

Ron had just about given up on getting the smudge of grease out of the rug when Ginny walked into the lounge, flopping onto the nearest couch. Ron spared her a glance, before looking back at the grease stain that was, if anything, bigger than when he had started scrubbing at it. His elbow and hand were aching from scrubbing so hard; Ron was worried the rug would start unthreading or fraying before the grease deemed to move.

'Why don't you ask mum to clean it?' Ginny queried, not offering to help herself, Ron noticed.

'She asked me to clean the lounge.'

'You're gonna put a hole in the rug before you get that out. I think mum would rather have a hole-less rug and be asked for help.'

Ron sat back on his heels, regarding his sister properly. 'She seemed a bit weird, earlier. I didn't want to disturb her.'

'Weird? How?' Ginny asked sitting up straighter, looking a little worried.

Ron shrugged, infuriating Ginny with the gesture. 'I don't know…going on about how we weren't children anymore.'

Ginny visibly relaxed back into the sofa. 'She said the same to me yesterday, how I wasn't a little girl anymore. I mean, thanks for noticing, mum.' She added, sarcastically.

'Shhh.' Ron said. A finger to his lips, a worried glance at the door.

Ginny looked at him surprised.

'It's just…she was really upset about it, I think.' Ron said, surprising Ginny that he had even noticed that their mum could get upset. It had only taken him almost seventeen years.

Ginny sighed, hauling herself up, taking out her wand.

'Ginny! We can't do magic.'

'When has that ever stopped you?' Ginny queried, squatting by the stain, pointing her wand at it. 'abeo grease.' She at least whispered.

Ron looked down, as the pale colour of the rug seemed to wash over the grease stain, covering it from view. 'What was that?' he asked, still whispering.

'I learnt it out of this old cleaning book of mum's. It covers the stain.'

'Why didn't you just clean it?'

'Cause I couldn't remember that spell.' Ginny said, matter of factly, standing back up. 'Oh, and you're welcome.'

'What for?'

'I assume you meant to say thank you?'

'Oh, yeah, thanks Ginny.'

Dear Order Members,

Thank you for your continued support in helping me to defeat Voldermort. I assure you that I am fulfilling my part of the prophecy, sitting here on my backside all day, staring at another wet and damp Privet Drive. It's so good to know how important my part in the prophecy is, that you won't even tell me what the hell is going on.

Harry looked down at the words that had come flowing from the end of the quill, only now realising exactly what he'd written. A part of him wanted to call out to the newly returned Hedwig, get her to carry the letter to all those people in the Order just waiting to hear. The bigger part of him, the grown up part he hoped, snatched up the bit of parchment, looking at it a final time before crumbling it into a ball and throwing it at the waste paper bin. It missed spectacularly, making him think that at least he'd never tried out for chaser on the Quidditch team. He pulled out a new scroll of parchment, dipped his quill once more in the ink well, and turned his attention to the proper letter.

A few minutes later and he was tying the letter to an unusually complaint Hedwig. She hooted softly at him, making Harry tense momentarily, waiting for the first shout at the noise. He relaxed when none came, stroking the loving bird gently down the front of her body. The feathers were silk under his feathers, and the bird hooted its pleasure once again.

'Thanks girl.' Harry said softly, watching her as she hopped from his desk onto the open window ledge, giving him a last soft hoot before taking off, her impressive wing span at full stretch as she soared off into the night sky. 'Bye.' He said softly, thinking of the letter she was delivering, hoping that no harm would come to her in the journey. The "I'm fine, Muggles are fine" note didn't seem worthy of potentially getting attacked over.

He watched till she was barely a spot against the dark sky, before turning from the window, as downstairs the front door was slammed shut, Uncle Vernon no doubt on his way to the local for his usual two pints and 3 rounds of bragging. If Harry had turned he would have seen him head out, turning left onto the road, walking the 500 or so yards to The Blue Rose.

Instead, Harry was surprised when there was a soft knock on the door, and Aunt Petunia pushed her way in. He waited, staring her down, wondering what she was going to attack him for now. Instead she smiled, slightly, at him, the unusual facial features looking taunt on a face more prone to sneering and sticking its nose up in the air at something. In her hands she carried a steaming mug and a plate of biscuits. 'I…' She stopped, clearing her throat before trying again. 'I thought you might like a late night snack.'

Harry was clearly suspicious, staying where he was, watching his Aunt in curiosity, yes, at this sudden change of behaviour, but mostly with scepticism and wariness.

His aunt had obviously been expecting the response though, because any lecture that he would normally have received, probably along the lines of being a selfish brat, who didn't deserve the roof, the food, anything else they could think of that he'd taken over the last umpteen years, wasn't forthcoming.

Instead she smiled again, somewhat nervously it seemed to Harry, walking a few steps into the room so that she could perch the mug and plate on the nearest flat surface, a chest of drawers. 'Well, I'm sure you're hungry. I'll…I'll go now.' She finished lamely, clearly uncomfortable with his continued silence, beating a hasty retreat.

Harry didn't know what he found more suspicious; the fact that his aunt, who had barely deemed it necessary to grace the room with her presence, let along knock at his door before had offered him a snack, or the fact that her words were almost…courteous towards him. Harry was used to being told he was useless by the Dursleys, words said in anger, words said in merriment, either way they had the same sentiment. It was about the first thing any of Dursleys had said directly to him that hadn't involved the words boy, brat or ungrateful.

Harry waited, straining to hear the stairs creak as his aunt walked back downstairs. Slowly, cautiously, he got to his feet, walking towards the offerings with as much care as someone would approach a bomb they were expecting to blow at any time. He certainly expected it to go off in his face, although he wondered if this was too much influence by the Weasley twins and their pranks rather than the muggles behaviour. After all, what could they do, except maybe poison him? They certainly wouldn't let any of his "unnaturalness" into their home. Whilst Harry wouldn't put it past them to deviously hurt him, he couldn't see Aunt Petunia giving him anything that could potentially ruin her floors. And he really was peckish, he decided, breathing in the sweet aroma of Hot Chocolate. Really peckish in fact, and without dwelling anymore on the whys and wherefores he started eating one of the biscuits on the plate, quickly picking up the rest to take back to the bed with him.

At the end of the day, he didn't have the energy to try and figure out the Dursleys on top of everything else. Perhaps this was what miracles were really about, he mused, as he sipped the creamy sweet hot chocolate.