Chapter 1 – Rainy days at Privet Drive

The rain drummed noisily on the houses along Privet Drive. Rivers sprang to life along the curbs down the street, washing their way to the sewers. The thick, dark clouds hung low and heavy, releasing a seemingly endless deluge to the ground below. The carefully tended lawns of Privet Drive drank deeply, becoming rich and thick – a stark contrast to the brown, crackly grass of last year's drought. The street was quiet, as the inhabitants of Privet Drive sought refuge within their homes.

At Number Four Privet Drive, a fifteen-year-old boy lay flat on his back in his upstairs bedroom staring at the ceiling. Harry Potter had returned to Privet Drive less than a week ago from Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Summer holidays had just begun, and the dark, dreary weather seemed to reflect his mood. He already missed school – quite unusual for a teenage boy. At least at school, Harry could spend time with his friends to help keep his mind from the dark thoughts that haunted him. All that Harry had at Privet Drive was the constant string of threats and insults thrown at him by his Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia and cousin Dudley.

Harry had come to live with the Dursleys when he was one year old. His parents were murdered by the dark wizard, Lord Voldemort. Harry had miraculously survived Voldemort's attempt to kill him, with nothing but a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, making Harry famous among the wizarding world. Harry knew none of this until his eleventh birthday, when Hagrid (the gamekeeper and future professor at Hogwart's) had brought Harry a letter stating that Harry had been accepted into the wizarding school.

That had been nearly five years ago. Since that time, Harry had been through more than most grown wizards. He had faced his parents' murderer on four occasions, and managed to escape (barely) each time. He had discovered the truth about his godfather, Sirius Black, who was wrongly accused of murder and sent to Azkaban prison (and later escaped). Harry had grown to love Sirius as a father and a friend. However, the truth about Sirius Black had not been revealed to the wizarding community, as the evidence lay with Peter Pettigrew who was in hiding. Sirius, therefore, had spent the last two years on the run from the Ministry of Magic, and working for the Order of the Phoenix, a group of wizards and witches led by Albus Dumbledore (the Hogwart's Headmaster). The Order was organized to fight Voldemort and his followers, as Harry's parents, James and Lily, had done in their time.

It was thoughts of Sirius that kept Harry hidden in his bedroom for the better part of the days since he returned to Privet Drive. Whether he was awake or asleep, the replay of Sirius' death that Harry had witnessed occupied his thoughts: the graceful arch of Sirius' back, the look of surprise on his face, and the gentle fall beyond the mysterious black veil. Sirius was gone. Gone. Harry felt hollow. The empty ache filled Harry's entire body. He felt that he could never be whole again. He still felt responsible for Sirius' death, despite Dumbledore's talk with him a few weeks ago. This was the only other thing that often replaced Harry's thoughts of Sirius – the information Dumbledore had given him just a few weeks ago. Harry had been told of the prophecy that explained Voldemort's obsession with him. Harry learned that he alone could vanquish the Dark Lord. He either had to be murderer or victim.

Harry had rolled this idea over and over in his head to no end. What does this mean? How could this be? Why does it have to be me?

A quick rap on his bedroom door broke Harry from his thoughts.

"Harry. Breakfast. Now." Aunt Petunia's voice snapped from the other side of the door.

Harry listened to her footsteps fade down the hallway. He sighed and grabbed his glasses off his bedside table and glanced at the clock. 10:00. He was surprised she hadn't been up earlier to get him. She usually had him out of bed at the break of dawn with a list of chores to be done. So far, this summer had been different. It seems that the threats made by Alastor (Mad-Eye) Moody, Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks, and Mr. Arthur Weasley had left a lasting impression upon the Dursleys. This group of Order members had made it very clear that if Harry were mistreated in any way, they would make sure that the Dursleys would regret it. Despite Uncle Vernon's mutterings on the drive home from King's Cross Station – "…think they can intimidate me… tell me what to do in my own house … insult me…" – Harry knew the group's words had made an impact. While Harry was by no means treated as an equal, the number of insults and threats had lessened considerably.

Harry rolled off his bed, pulled on a faded, frayed robe, and headed down to the kitchen.

Uncle Vernon was sitting at the kitchen table reading the morning paper. It must be Saturday, Harry thought to himself. The days of the week seemed irrelevant to Harry since his return to Privet Drive. One does not need to know which day of the week it was to move back and forth from bedroom to kitchen, as Harry had been doing. His uncle's presence at the table this late in the morning, however, did indicate a weekend morning.

Harry sat down at the kitchen table as Aunt Petunia placed half of a grapefruit and a glass of milk in front of him. This, it appeared, would be the extent of acknowledgement that he would get from either his aunt or uncle. Harry was used to this, and rather preferred it to the snide comments he often received. He began to eat his grapefruit in silence.

Dudley entered the kitchen, squinting at the bright light, looking very pale, and walking as though each step was painful. His eyes were bloodshot and he exuded a smell that reminded Harry of Mundungus Fletcher. The elder Dursleys seemed oblivious to this.

"Ooh, Diddykins! What can I get for you, dear?" Aunt Petunia squealed, running over and walking Dudley to his chair.

"J-just some water," Dudley replied thickly, as though his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth.

"Oh, nonsense!" simpered Aunt Petunia. "It's Saturday, you can have whatever you like!"

Dudley remained quiet.

"How about pancakes? Crepes with strawberries and cream? Waffles with my special homemade sugared peaches? Oh, I know, how about some eggs?" Aunt Petunia twirled around the kitchen, opening cupboards with each suggestion.

Harry eyed Dudley, whose face seemed to go paler and paler with each suggestion.

"N-no thanks, mum. J-just water."

"Fine, fine. You need to think about it. Here's your water, Diddykins." Aunt Petunia said sitting down next to him.

Dudley grasped the glass and downed the water quickly. Aunt Petunia jumped up, refilled his glass and returned.

"You must be tired from your late night, son," Uncle Vernon said, setting down his paper and smiling at Dudley.

"Mm," Dudley noised between gulps.

"Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan must have enjoyed their outing. They don't seem to care too much about getting home at a respectable hour. That was obvious at last year's Christmas social – remember Vernon? I thought they would never leave. And not even thinking of poor Dudley." Aunt Petunia relayed, knowingly. "How was it babysitting young Emily, Dudley?"

Harry snorted into his milk. Dudley babysitting? Harry could not imagine any parents in their right minds leaving their child in the care of Dudley. Harry also knew, by the look of Dudley this morning, there was no way he spent the previous night babysitting.

Three heads snapped in Harry's direction as he spluttered in his milk. Dudley was glowering at Harry threateningly, his meaty hand gripping his glass tightly. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia glared at him with the utmost disgust.

"And what is your problem, boy?" Uncle Vernon spat.

"Nothing," Harry said, returning to his grapefruit.

"I should hope that you would look up to Dudley. Your cousin has taken the responsibility upon himself to earn a little pocket money. He doesn't expect handouts. He has a sense of pride." Aunt Petunia snarled, talking down her long nose towards Harry.

Harry clamped his mouth shut. The thoughts that were flying through his mind would not get him anywhere. First, Dudley had no need for pocket money, being the most spoiled person Harry knew. Second, Harry did not want, nor would ever want, handouts from the Dursleys. Third, proud was the last adjective Harry would use to describe Dudley. Harry could think of a few more accurate descriptions, including several colourful nouns. Harry nodded his head instead.

This seemed to pacify the Dursleys. They returned to their usual Saturday morning discussions – which neighbour had got a new car, which neighbour had not donated to the charity Aunt Petunia was collecting for, and so on. Dudley continued glaring at Harry in between his gulps of water.

Harry rose to leave, taking his dishes to the sink.

"Wait." Uncle Vernon ordered. "Sit down."

Harry sighed, placed his dishes in the sink, and returned to his chair at the table.

"Yes, Uncle Vernon?" Harry replied, preparing himself for some sort of onslaught of insults.

"I haven't noticed you sending any letters," Uncle Vernon stated, glaring at Harry.

Harry furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. "Pardon?"

"Th-those …p-people at the train station. They said that you were to keep in touch with them," Uncle Vernon spat out, while Aunt Petunia squirmed in her seat, and Dudley froze in his chair.

HA! Harry smiled to himself. He knew that the Dursleys could care less about his own well-being, but were very worried about their own. Harry was to write a letter, a minimum of every three days, to let his friends know that he was okay. If his friends did not receive a letter, the Dursleys could expect a visit from any or all of Mad-Eye, Tonks, Remus, or Mr. Weasley.

"Well, boy?" Uncle Vernon snarled.

"I sent a few letters yesterday with Hedwig," Harry replied, staring at the top of the table. All three Dursleys shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Harry wasn't sure if they were worried about the content of the letters, or just responding to the talk of owls. The Dursleys forbade any mention of anything magical in their home, even if it was just Hedwig, Harry's owl.

Harry looked up and saw that Uncle Vernon's face had turned a deep red, and that Aunt Petunia was sitting stiffly in her chair, her wide eyes darting back and forth between Harry and Uncle Vernon.

"And?" Uncle Vernon spat.

"And what?" Harry asked.

Uncle Vernon's face darkened further, nearing a deep purple now. "Should we be expecting any…visitors?"

Harry considered, for a moment, telling them that, yes, the entire entourage may very well be walking up the garden path at the moment. He pictured Dudley falling out of his chair, Aunt Petunia gasping and running to peer out the window, and Uncle Vernon… well, he wasn't sure what Uncle Vernon would do. No, Harry thought, probably not a good idea.

"No," Harry said resignedly, "I told them I was fine."

Harry remembered the three identical letters he wrote last night, to Ron, Hermione, and Remus.

Hi. Everything here is as usual. I'm fine.

Harry

Harry knew his friends and Remus would be disappointed in his letter, but what else could he say? There was nothing else to say. The bare existence he was living at the Dursleys provided little to include in his letters.

"Fine," Uncle Vernon said, his face draining in colour, slightly.

Harry, feeling that he had appeased his relatives, stood up once again to leave.

"Go up and shower, " Aunt Petunia said, crinkling her nose. "There's been a foul smell in here ever since you've been down. Honestly, you can't even keep yourself clean!"

Harry walked towards the door, knowing full well that the smell was not coming from him, but from Dudley. Harry would not point this out though, happy to have the opportunity to leave. However, Aunt Petunia was not finished yet.

"Get yourself looking respectable. Mrs. Figg is expecting you for lunch today."

Harry froze and turned around.

"M-Mrs. Figg?" Harry asked, his heart pounding and his stomach lurching.

Aunt Petunia took the look on his face as a grimace, and a satisfied smile spread across her bony face.

"Yes, Mrs. Figg. You know she just loves having you over for tea," Aunt Petunia said sweetly.

Harry nodded and left the kitchen. Indeed, Harry remembered many hours sitting with Mrs. Figg, an elderly neighbour, who would talk for hours on end about her numerous cats. The Dursleys only allowed these visits, Harry knew, because he had hated them. However, the last time he saw Mrs. Figg, the circumstances had been quite different. Harry had just fought off the dementors that had attacked Harry and Dudley, and Mrs. Figg had arrived in quite a state. Harry had learned that Mrs. Figg was a Squib; she was born a witch, but had no magical abilities. Mrs. Figg, Harry discovered, was one of many people from the magical world who had been keeping an eye on Harry.

Harry hurried through his shower and dressed quickly.

Does she have news for me? Harry wondered. Has something happened? Has someone been attacked?

Harry paced around his room, waiting until it was time to leave. He didn't want to leave too early and raise suspicion in the Dursleys. If they knew how he really felt about visiting Mrs. Figg, they would undoubtedly prevent him from going.

She could just want to see me, Harry reasoned. Yet, he could not help but hope that she had some news for him.

"Get down here, boy!" bellowed Uncle Vernon, stopping Harry's train of thoughts.

Harry rushed to his bedroom door, but then caught himself. Take it easy, he told himself. He went down the stairs slowly, dragging his feet, shoulders hunched, and a scowl on his face. Aunt Petunia looked absolutely gleeful at the sight of Harry, his demeanor hiding the building hope and anticipation welling up inside him.

"Well, get going!" Uncle Vernon's hand pushed Harry towards the door. Harry managed to grab his jacket off the coat rack just before the door was shut behind him. The rain had not let up one bit. Harry quickly pulled his jacket on, and ran down the steps, shielding his glasses with his right hand to keep the rain off. He splashed through the water, down the garden path and onto the sidewalk. He walked quickly and swore under his breath as the rain pelted him. He was soaked to the skin by the time he knocked on Mrs. Figg's door.

"Oh, Harry!" cried Mrs. Figg, pulling him into her arms. Harry stood awkwardly, his arms pinned to his sides by her embrace. Harry had grown enough over the last year that he was well over a foot taller than Mrs. Figg. If he had the use of his hands, he would have likely patted her on the top of the head.

"Come in, come in, dear," Mrs. Figg said, releasing him. "Let me take your coat. Oh dear, soaked right through, aren't you? Here, put this blanket around you dear. We don't want you getting sick now, do we?"

Harry stood quietly as Mrs. Figg fussed about him. His thoughts of possible news still flying through his mind, Harry waited for some kind of indication from the dear, old woman.

"Let's go into the kitchen, Harry. We'll have some nice, hot soup, dear." Mrs. Figg said, leading Harry to the kitchen. "Oh, and Harry, there's someone here to see you."

Harry's insides lurched, hope filling the emptiness that had consumed him for so long. Someone's here to see me, Harry thought to himself. No matter who it was, Harry felt his heart lighten somewhat. Harry hated being separated from the magical world, even though he now understood why he had to return to Privet Drive each summer. It was the safest place for him, thanks to the protection his mother had given him by sacrificing herself to save him. Knowing this did not make Harry hate living with the Dursleys any less. Harry did not belong here, and the pain and despair Harry had been feeling since Sirius' death seemed to have consumed him completely at Privet Drive. But now, someone was here to see him. Someone to give him news, someone who would remind him of the world he belonged to, someone to remind him of the good people in his life, and, if he was lucky, it would be one of those good people in his life.

Harry was nearly managing a smile as Mrs. Figg pushed open the door to the kitchen. Harry walked in behind her, then stopped dead in his tracks. His mouth fell open, and he hunched over as he felt as though someone had kicked him in the stomach. Harry began blinking hard, not believing his eyes. NO! Harry thought to himself. NO! NO! NO! Harry struggled to breathe, as all feelings of hope vanished and were quickly replaced by feelings of grief, pain, and…hate. Sitting on a stool in the corner of Mrs. Figg's cluttered kitchen, sat Kreacher, the Black family's house elf.