Harry opened his eyes. He felt as though someone was plunging a needle through his brain. His head killed. Rolling over, he tried to remember what happened. At first it was just a haze, but gradually, as his head began to clear, the letter, and the golem came to mind.

Abruptly he stood up and looked around the room. Hadn't it fallen on him – right on top of him? After it had… died, and knocked him out? He couldn't see it anywhere. There was only a rather beat up room, and – was it? – dust, all over the floor.

He glanced down at himself and wasn't surprised to see the pale grey dust on himself either. So that must be what happened to golems when they died. It made sense, anyway. Harry supposed that the best thing to do was to tell Dumbledore. Though he felt perfectly fine, and didn't think he was injured at all, the Order would have to know. Did Voldemort know where he lived? Next time he might get a worse Hex in the mail. Just this Summer he'd read about some terrible curses. Avada Kedavra required close proximity, of course, but there were envelope spells that would cut off a limb, at least.

He walked over to his desk and was halfway through scribbling a note when he heard the voices. They were filtering up from downstairs. The man – no men, and women, for there were many of them – were too low to hear, but Aunt Petunia was clearly audible, her voice raised in anger. It wasn't often that the woman lost her temper in front of other people; she was always carefully reserved. In fact, and Harry froze as he thought it, the only people that she would get mad in front of were him, the Dursleys, and wizards and witches.

Leaping to this conclusion, he hurried to his room's door, inched it open, and slunk as quietly as possible to where the staircase began. Here he could here everything clearly, and he breathed a sigh of relief. It was Dumbledore, and perhaps some other members of the Order.

He prepared to dive downstairs, but stopped in curiosity, to listen to what Dumbledore was saying. After all, he'd just sent his letter last night, before the golem attacked him. So why were they coming to check on him so early, when they knew he was well?

"Yes, yes, of course." It was Aunt Petunia speaking.

"In the house?" asked Dumbledore.

"Last time I checked he was."

"And when was that?"

"How should I know? A couple of days ago? Th-Harry does as he likes. Rarely comes out of his room. I didn't see him come down for breakfast today, but then he could have got it early or later when I wasn't there. Why do you need to ask this? You can just go up and check."

Aunt Petunia was getting exasperated, Harry decided, and, considering, he didn't blame her.

"Tonks and Lupin will go up and check," said Dumbledore.

There was a moment's pause. Harry heard slow footsteps on the stairs directly below.

"Why are you so worried anyway," demanded Aunt Petunia. "You told me that – he – couldn't get Harry when he was nearby me or Dudley. And he hasn't left the house all summer, except to do the garden. I think I would notice if – someone – came and kidnapped him."

The cautious footsteps on the stairs were nearing the top.

"But Mrs. Dursley," explained Dumbledore kindly, "We are not so much worried about that as… you see, Harry might have left of his own accord… it would be dangerous for him."

"If he did, I'm not having him back…"

Harry stopped listening. Of his own accord? What did they mean?

But Tonks and Lupin arrived up the top of the stairs, and Harry was distracted.

"So much for stealth! I heard you coming a mile away," he greeted them.

"He's here!" shouted Tonks, a joyful expression on her face. Lupin's smile was somewhat weaker and when Harry met his eyes, he could see sorrow staring back at him.

Lupin rallied , however, and said, "So Harry, you don't have to stay here much longer. We've decided, if you want, to move you out."

"So let's pack your stuff," said Tonks, going ahead to his room, and swinging open the door with a spell.

"My gosh Harry! Have you really been living here all summer. There's quite a lot of dust don't you think?"

There was indeed.

"I guess I just shed a lot of skin last night," he said, seriously intending to use that as an excuse. When he saw how implausible it came out, he added, "but it might have something to do with, um, illegal manufacture of Floo Powder. Not saying it actually took place, but…"

He grinned.

Tonks beamed back, evidently convinced.

"I'll pack your stuff, right?"

Harry wondered why on earth he hadn't actually done what he'd been planning to up to a minute ago, and told them about the golem. On impulse, he'd just kept them uninformed. Perhaps, though, it was better if they didn't know about the Killing Curse. Yes; that was it. And he hadn't been seriously hurt, anyway, so it wasn't as if the attack was important.

Harry stood back, and Lupin sidled closer to him as they watched Tonks get his things together

"So, coping?" Lupin said softly.

"Er, I suppose."

"Do you want to talk about it privately later?"

"I'm sorry. I don't…" Harry struggled for words. He didn't want to get sympathy from Lupin for something that wouldn't have happened if Harry hadn't been so stupid. For something which was his fault.

Lupin nodded and stepped away.

In a few minutes he was ready to leave. They came downstairs. Harry exchanged cordial, if slightly superficial greetings with Dumbledore and the other Order members congregated there.

"So," he finally thought of asking, "Where are we going? The Burrow? Hogwarts?"

"No, actually. We're keeping the same place as last year."

"I don't want to go back there. I'd rather stay here."

"Ronald Weasley and Miss Granger are there," said Dumbledore, and Harry's protests were smothered when Lupin, activating the Portkey, grabbed his arm.

Harry managed to stay upright as they arrived at Grimmauld Place, though not without grabbing onto Lupin's shoulder.

"Sorry," he murmured apologetically, and turned to find –

"Ron! Hermione! How are you guys?"

"Happy to see you, mate."

"Fine, Harry."

They both watched him, noncommital expressions on their faces. It took Harry a second to realise why.

"Don't worry," he said. "I'm not going to blow my top like last year. It'd be selfish of me, getting upset about being bored, especially considering what everyone else is doing."

"Well, Harry, you did have a lot on your plate," said Ron. "No one could blame you."

Harry didn't reply, but followed Ron and Hermione up to where his room was. In the silence, Harry could tangibly sense Ron reflecting nervously that, hey, maybe Harry had even more on his plate this year, with a dead godfather and all.

"We get our own rooms now," Ron explained. "'Cause we've cleaned up most of the house now. I saved one for you."

As Harry looked puzzled, Ron continued, "You see, there's a lot more people staying here now. What with You-know-who coming out into the open… I mean, of course, there've been attacks and a lot more Death eater activities and that sort of thing. But the good thing is that there's plenty more people joining the Order… that's what Dad says anyway," he amended with a sour face. "They still won't let us in the Order, seem perfectly fine with letting in Fred and George though. Can't see why; they're only a couple of years older than us."

Ron showed Harry into a brightly decorated yellow and blue room. In the middle of it was a bright green, bed-shaped thing.

"It's a self-making bed. Found it here and repaired it myself. See, you just say, 'Mungo Corners' and it makes itself. Mungo Corners!'

Nothing happened.

Ron went over to the bed, gave it a few kicks, and began to pummel one of the pillows.

Harry shrugged and turned to Hermione.

"So what's happened? I've looked in the Prophet but it seems like all rumours. I can't tell the difference between what's true and not, and after what they said last year…"

Hermione nodded.

"They tell us some things, especially Fred and George. One of the Ministry workers – a Mr. Scretin, I think – was outed as a spy for You-Know-Who. Before they could catch him he committed suicide… with a Devil's Trap. Oh, Harry, isn't that a hideous way to die? But Snape doesn't think it was suicide… Anyway, that was all hushed up by the Ministry. Oh – and Azkaban's under siege. Some of the Dementors have defected, and You-Know-Who's trying to come to terms with the rest of them. That's what we – well, the Order – think anyway. Imagine how terrible it would be, if the Dementors were on his side!"

Harry grimaced.

"So when did this happen?"

"Just in the past few days. And Fudge wants to summarily execute all the life-sentenced prisoners in Azkaban, but Dumbledore's put his foot down. The Ministry's trying to get help from overseas. Dumbledore thinks that Voldemort's going to gather as much support, from werewolves and so on, as possible before attacking. And apparently someone called Charles has gone missing, and it's really bad news. Have you heard of anyone called Charles, Harry?"

"I dunno. Prince of Wales?"

"No, no. Neville overheard McGonagall tell Lupin and they both looked very worried."

Harry was confused: "Neville?"

Ron, who had finally stopped hitting the pillow, said, "Oh yeah. He's here somewhere. He must be doing something, otherwise he'd probably have come to meet you. Ginny too," he added darkly. "As a matter of fact… no, this is Neville we're talking about… Anyway, Mungo Corners!"

The bed started to shake violently. This must have been what it was supposed to do, as Ron smiled smugly.

"So, Harry, it's about lunchtime, and I think we better eat it before anyone from the Order arrives. If you wait till after one, there's generally nothing left," Hermione explained.

After marching downstairs, and greeting Mrs. Weasley, who hugged Harry for about ten minutes before letting go, and expressed her regret that she couldn't have come to pick him up herself, they ate dinner.

Harry had eaten most of his mashed potatoes when Neville entered the room, followed a few seconds later by Ginny.

"Hello Neville," he said. "How come you're stuck in this place too?"

"Well… my grandmother pretty much insisted on it. After the Department of Mysteries I think she feels the Death Eaters have me number one on their hit list or – oh! Er, sorry Harry. But, yeah, that's why I'm here."

Harry felt the guilt surge up in him. Great, because of him, poor Neville, who hadn't done a thing wrong, couldn't spend his summer at home in safety –

"Though being here with you guys is better than being stuck at home helping my gran with her quilting."

It didn't make him feel any better. He'd almost gotten Neville killed. And the rest of them. Ginny, especially, whom he was even more responsible for, seeing as she was in the year below. Now she was laughing but she could have been –

Harry glanced up as he heard the kitchen door creak open. His gaze froze, and he felt his features harden to ice.

Scurrying dourly across the flagstone floor was Kreacher. The little malicious, repugnant, parasitic bundle of life itself. And if Harry had his way, it wouldn't remain a bundle of life much longer. Gripping his wand, not quite remembering when he'd grabbed it, Harry rose and advanced on the house elf.

He was suddenly aware that the room had taken on a tense silence. Everyone was looking at him, wondering what he would do. But he didn't care. The only thing going through his mind was burning hate. He'd promised himself, promised Sirius that he'd get his vengeance.

The House-elf didn't seem to notice him, and continued along, slowing down to sniff the freshly cooked food. It muttered to itself.

"Oh, yes," said Hermione nervously. "I forgot to tell you. Kreacher's still here."

"Why is he allowed to be here?" Harry demanded. "Why is he allowed to live?"

Ron shakily laughed. "Oh, trust me mate, you should've seen Lupin. Looked like he wanted to eat the little bugger."

Harry didn't respond.

"Well…" Hermione began, "when House-elves willingly aid and abet in a plot that leads to their master's death, sometimes there are spells, um, curses actually. So that if a House-elf does that they get cursed. Even if they do it unwittingly." (Hermione, who was beginning to stray onto familiar text book territory, became more confident.) "I read about it. It's an old Pureblood family tradition, so that their elf can't be used against them - without consequences anyway."

"Oh."

Harry didn't take his eyes off Kreacher, and raised his wand with an air of finality.

"Look," continued Hermione desperately. "It's cruel. Kreacher's insane now. He's just an empty husk. He never knew what he was doing, and if you hurt him now it won't mean anything. He's mad, he hardly knows where he is now. As soon as Sirius died, Kreacher lost his mind. I'm surprised Sirius let that curse continue on Kreacher, frankly. Treating house elves like they're inanimate objects is cruel."

Harry felt numb. He gave Hermione as cold a look as he could muster. She wilted under it, but he didn't let himself care. How dare she!

Neville, Ron, and Ginny, the others in the room, tried to stop him.

"Don't be stupid."

"What are you doing?"

"Do you want to be a murderer, Harry?"

"Murder?" His lips twitched. "What? This is simply garbage disposal."

"Harry, if you don't stop I'll curse you." Hermione had her wand raised and was eyeing him determinedly. "It's for your own good."

Harry lost it.

"For your own good? For your own good! How many times have I heard that from you, Hermione! You think you've got the moral high ground, so you can tell us what to do. For once could you stop being so bigheaded and righteous? Sirius is dead! Kreacher helped kill him. So could you stop trying to tell me right and wrong!"

"Harry, I-I care about you. That's the only reason. I don't want to see you do something you'll regret."

"Who do you think knows what's best for me? You or me myself! I think I know what I'll regret, and this isn't it! Expelliarmus!"

He focused his wand on Kreacher and snapped, "AVADA KEDAVRA!"

But midway through his shout, someone burst through the kitchen door, and shouted, "Expelliarmus!"

Before he could finish the spell, the wand was out of his hands. He glowered at Kreacher a second, then dived for him, clearly intending to strangle the elf with his bare hands.

Someone grabbed his shoulders, though, restraining him.

In his haze of fury Harry struggled and kicked against them. Their grip didn't lessen, however, but simply tightened even more.

In his ear, a cold voice said, "Haven't we had enough homicidal rage for one day?"

Upon hearing it, Harry, repressing an involuntary shudder, stopped struggling. It was Professor Snape, and Harry didn't like to think what he would do if Harry elbowed him or bit him, as he'd been contemplating.

"I see we're taking after our godfather, then," Snape said provokingly.

Harry elbowed him violently and spun around.

Snape simply smirked at him.

"Careful now, Potter."

Harry, finally realising he did not, in fact, have his wand, backed down, shrugging with false apathy. His vision seemed to instantly expand from the red haze that contained Kreacher, and he now saw the horrified expressions of the others in the room. Excepting Snape

Ron's mouth was hanging open, Hermione was sobbing quietly, Ginny was clutching Neville almost unconsciously. It was like Harry had died, not just attempted to kill a treacherous elf.

"Stop looking at your hero like he's the Dark Lord," said Snape contemptuously. "No doubt he wanted to destroy it, but he's no more capable of killing than a rabbit is."

"Then why did you disarm me like that? Sir?" demanded Harry.

Snape was tellingly silent for a moment, before saying, "Because, Potter, you needed to be put in your place."

"Well, give me back my wand now."

"Without a promise from you not to try any dark arts? I don't think so."

Harry was getting impatient. Hermione's wand, he knew, was lying on the ground a step behind and to the left. He spun round and grabbed it in a lightning fast movement. Panting, he raised the wand at Snape, whose lip was curling.

"You do know this is idiotic, Potter?"

Snape sighed.

"But I suppose this is some part of a vendetta against me, then? Want your revenge on me for killing your pet dog?"

Hermione's wand clattered to the floor. The kitchen door swung shut. Harry had left the room without so much as a word.

If he hadn't been so distressed, he would have been pleased at the second's shock on Snape's sallow face.

Harry was in his room two hours later. There had been a few knocks at the door, and a few appeals to be let in, but so far he had ignored them.

It was all his fault. He bore the responsibility for Sirius' death. Grief turned to self-loathing so strong it made him shake.

And here he was again, making more trouble! Trying to kill Kreacher, fighting with Snape… none of this would bring Sirius back. It probably wasn't even what he would have wanted anyway. He would have wanted Harry to keep going, to concentrate on defeating Voldemort.

Harry needed to stop wasting his time on pointless, selfish useless things. He needed to improve. He needed to make himself an actual threat to Voldemort, and stop living on luck.

He'd start studying – training – tomorrow. He wouldn't let anything get in his way. And he wouldn't apologise to Hermione either. She'd had it coming for years, thought Harry petulantly, and it was nothing more than the truth. If he bothered she'd just hinder him. He needed to forget any stupid ideas of revenge and focus on combating Voldemort.

All the same, Bellatrix L'Estrange had a horrible and excruciating death somewhere in her future.

gratuituous use of Killing Curse, I know.