A million miles and a world away from home, a thin teenage boy with scruffy black hair folded a letter. He paused momentarily, his eyes sliding from the envelope in his hands to the window as the hair prickled on the back of his neck. Outside was a line of picture perfect suburban homes, each with identical white picket fencing and prim flowerbeds. The street lamps were flickering; the only source of light visible. The neighborhood was asleep, with the exception of Harry Potter.

From the sidewalk below you could see the light emitted from his ugly laced curtains. There was a faint scratching of a freshly ink dipped quill on a new sheet of parchment, but that was barely audible between uncle Vernon's obnoxious snores. Unless you were listening for it, which of course someone always was.

Harry shook his head as he labeled the envelope and tucked the letter back into it. Ronald Weasley, a closed minded redhead with a knack for getting into trouble almost as bad as Harry's had recently sent Harry his new plan for obtaining this years amount of mischief. Of course he pretended it was a tribute to Harry Godfather, who had been murdered by Harry's new worst enemy; Bellatrix Lestrange.

Ron was convinced that Sirius would have completely endorsed them becoming unregistered Animagi, like him and Harry's father, but Harry wasn't so sure. Either way, Ron had instructed him to send the newspaper clipping to Hermione. Said newspaper clipping read:

Animagus transmogrification is quickly becoming the most common form of self preservation as it has recently been proved that Animagi can live up to twice as long as the normal witch or wizard. Among the more popular theories of the life expectancies of Animagi, the most educated guess is that the life span on your chosen animagi adds to or multiplies your current life expectancy. Older folks have taken to becoming Animagi in a final attempt to rejuvenate themselves, and it works. For the spirit, not so much the body…

Harry had wondered ever since he read the article, if perhaps Dumbledore had been an animagus, maybe he would have lived; maybe he would have had enough strength to fight Snape off.

Folding and re-folding the letter, Harry's thoughts wandered to what Snape had done to Dumbledore, and to the Order. It was burnt into Harry, like an unforgettable wound. The blade was still fresh in his back from the horrors of last year.

Hermione Granger was Harry's other best friend, and the more intelligent of the three. Up until she met Harry and Ron, Hermione had been the most perfectionist, anally retentive, smartie pants ever. Now she was all that plus really good at solving the problems Harry and Ron got themselves, and usually her, into.

Harry had a feeling that Hermione would be all for it, but would go about convincing him in a round about way so that he thought it was entirely his idea. And he would probably let her.

Lately Harry's corresponding letters had skimmed over the important things he needed to talk about. He wouldn't bring up, or answer their questions regarding Dumbledore. He just didn't want to face it yet.

He rolled onto his back and sat up, his blankets sticking to him. The summer had been the hottest he'd ever survived, and he wasn't even sure he would. He crossed the room quickly, almost fainting when the draft from the window brushed by him, cooling his body. He passed the envelope to his snowy white owl and patted her beak lightly.

"Take that to Hermione would you?" She gave him a pearling coo and hopped off the windowsill, soaring away into the night.

Harry remained by the window for a moment longer, the feeling of being watched sending shivers down his spine. He reached into the waistband of his too big pajama bottoms and wrapped his fingers around his wand.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley told Harry he was a nobody, going no where in life, they were right. In their world Harry was a boy suffering from kleptomania, or some other mental malfunction. To the neighbors he was their nephew who attended Saint Brutus's Center for Incurably Criminal Boys. Harry had no problem going along with that little façade if it meant Uncle Vernon signing his various permission slips for Hogwarts: his actual school.

Harry closed his window, locking it as more of a formality, because anyone who wanted him dead would have no problem with opening his window, locked or not locked.

Harry lay on his bed, his heart beating tad faster that is healthy, and his mind wandering. As always he looked forward to the school year more than the summer, which is exceptionally odd in a sixteen-year-old boy. Almost seventeen, but still sixteen.

Harry didn't remember falling asleep, but he woke up as usual to Aunt Petunia's pueling shrieks, and banging on his bedroom door. Uncle Vernon's yelling soon joined Petunia's, and Harry could see his face turning purple and splotchy, though there was a wall between them.

"SHUT THAT RUDDY OWL UP, OR I'LL SHUT IT UP PERMANENTLY!" Uncle Vernon roared from the corridor outside Harry's bedroom. Harry rubbed his eyes and glanced to the window, where Hedwig was sitting on her perch, screeching indignantly at being locked out for the better part of the night.

"ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT!" Harry bellowed, annoyed with his only living relatives. He let Hedwig in and Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia promptly stopped yelling. He could hear them muttering to each other about their misfortune, ending up with such an ungrateful nephew.

After Harry had dressed in some of Dudley's old jeans and a tent sized black t-shirt, he headed downstairs. Harry moaned as he realized what day it was. A ton of gift wrapped boxes scattered the oak dining room table and the expensive leather couches in the living room.

Every year the Dursleys took their only son Dudley on some outing with a friend for his birthday. This year they were going on a camping trip with a professional white water rafter. Harry sincerely doubted that either Vernon or Dudley would be able to be supported by any inflatable dingy, but Piers Polkins, Dudley's best friend could probably share one with Petunia and a whale on steroids and still float daintily down the river.

"What are you thinking?" Petunia shrieked in Harry's face, popping out of nowhere. "The Polkins are coming soon!" Rather than defend himself, Harry ducked under her arm and strode back up the stairs, skipping the third to the top because it creaked.

From the top of the stairs, just out of sight Harry heard Dudley and Mrs. Dursley greeted Piers and his parents. Harry retreated to his bedroom as Uncle Vernon came up the stairs. Harry could hear the stairs groaning under his ample bulk. Uncle Vernon stopped near the top of the stairs, chortled out a long phlegmy cough and rapped on Harry's bedroom door.

"Come in." Harry droned in a bored voice, pursing his lips in an insolent greeting. Harry twirled his wand in his fingers; his own little way of ensuring decent treatment.

Uncle Vernon cleared his throat. "You're to pack up your things and head over the Mrs. Figg's house the second we are gone, you hear?" He said this with his eyes glued to Harry's wand, practically bulging from their sockets. He cleared his throat again, thumping his fist against his chest. Harry could hear the rasping of mucus in his windpipe. It was enough to make anyone gag. "I don't want any…. you know what." Vernon narrowed his eyes. "Nor any drugs. I won't hold for it."

Harry smirked. He was being sent to Mrs. Figg's for punishment of sorts, as oppose to staying home alone, but what the Dursleys didn't know was that Mrs. Figg's was actually a member in a secret society; The Order of the Phoenix.

"No drugs?" Harry drawled, sarcasm dripping from his voice like blood from a fresh wound. "I don't know if I can manage that."

"Don't you speak to me like that you insolent brat!" Uncle Vernon raised his voice. He glanced over his shoulder sharply and lowered his voice. "Don't you dare speak to me like that under my roof!"

Harry raised a brow, crossed one leg over the other and kept on twirling his wand. "Shall we step into the yard then?" He asked coolly. Uncle Vernon's face changed from red to purple faster than Harry had ever seen. A vein pulsed in his forehead as his mind turned into a battlefield as to what he should do first, bellow and holler, or throttle Harry. During Vernon's mental debate, Harry stood up and opened the trunk at the end of his bed, turning his back to Uncle Vernon and ignoring him completely.

Uncle Vernon seemed to realize that having a nervous breakdown in front of the neighbors was not his brightest idea, and retreated to the front hall before he could do anything rash, or break anything. Harry glared over his shoulder at Uncle Vernon's back.

Lately Uncle Vernon had been almost impossible to bear. He was now onto the ignoring Harry as much as possible, and blowing up at him the rest of the time. Harry thought it was because Dudley had been caught smoking marijuana on the corner of little Whinging two weeks earlier. Of course Petunia blamed Harry for his bad influence of her dear Duddikins. Harry had never heard of a case of a Witch or Wizard on drugs, but decided to ask Hermione.

Harry slung a backpack over one shoulder; the other strap was broken, and made his way to Mrs. Figg's house, wondering if she would treat him differently now that he knew she was a witch, or rather, a squib.

Taking a breath and realizing that the next week of his life would depend on how Mrs. Figg felt like treating him, Harry knocked softly on the door.

Mrs. Figg answered it nearly instantly. "For most things in life, you'll have to be a bit more commanding than that weak knock, boy." She squinted at him, as though sizing him up for an instant before opening the door the rest of the way and beckoning him inside. Harry dropped his stuff on a bench near the shoe mat. He ran his fingers through his hair, and act that had become instinctive, growing up with such messy hair.

"You're only here for three days. A couple of friends will be by to pick you up and take you," Her voice dropped to a suspicious level, "you know where." Harry quirked an eyebrow at her, biting his lower lip. He did indeed know where, his dead godfather's house. The house he had been planning on living in since his third year of Hogwarts. Harry wasn't sure how the house would feel lacking both Sirius' and Dumbledore's warmth.

Harry scratched the back of his neck. "What about the Dursleys?" He didn't actually care, but they would be angry. Or relieved, who knows.

"I'll tell them some red heads came by and picked you up. They'll know who I mean." She replied sharply. I guess I don't get any special treatment still, Harry thought. "During your three days here you will help me around the house. Don't go thinking that you will just laze about with me to clean up after you, and you will help me with the gardening." Harry nodded, feeling that if he spoke, he would have to add a sharp 'Sir' to the end of anything he said.

Mrs. Figg glanced about suspiciously and closed the door behind him, whispering so that he could barely hear her and had to lean closer. "It won't do the have the nosey neighbors seeing us getting along will it." She winked at him.

After a lunch of the most heavenly fish and chips, Mrs. Figg showed Harry where she kept the gardening tools and a few places in the garden he was not to go near. "I want all of the beds weeded, and rocks around them all. Don't you dare go near the bed in the left corner, all that will bring is a several hours where you think you are blind and dying." She grinned at the expression on his face. "Don't you look at me like that, the plant does have its uses."

Harry worked until dinner, and having never done any form of physical labor, and being thoroughly un-muscular, Harry's arms were aching and he had a terrible sunburn on his back by night fall. Eating tough steak and delicious mashed potatoes and sipping at the best lemonade he had ever tasted (not that the Dursleys gave him much chance to taste lemonade) made Harry think that this was probably as close to a family dinner as he would get without being at the Weasley's.

Mrs. Weasley treated Harry like a son, and it meant a lot to Harry that she worried about him in a motherly way and lectured him as much as any of her other children. Growing up with the Dursleys, Harry had never received a rightfully earned lecture, only ones that were unjust and unfair. Staying with the Weasleys reminded him that not all families were like the Dursleys.

As Harry lay in bed, thinking about school and friends it dawned on him that he had great reason to dread this upcoming year. Last year at Hogwarts, Harry had landed Malfoy's father in Azkaban, and Harry doubted Malfoy would be inclined to forgive him for a very long time, if ever. Harry rubbed his temples, thinking about all the events last year. He wondered, not for the first time why Luna had been the only person he had been able to talk to.

Even Ron and Hermione had stopped trying to bring Sirius' or Dumbledore's deaths up, as Harry always changed the subject. Harry tried to convince himself that it was because of her mother's death and her being able to see the thestrals, but he couldn't help but believe it was something more.

He couldn't wait to see Hermione and Ron again, even though it would be in Sirius' old house. Harry wasn't sure how he would feel about that. He was also curious about the new Defense against the Dark Arts teacher, as the job never seemed to hold a teacher for more than a year. He wondered if he would be forced to continue his DA meetings, or if they would just for fun.

Thinking about DA brought Harry's thoughts around to Cho.

Cho Chang had been the extent of Harry's love life since he was born, and he had never really liked her, or been comfortable around her. He had definitely been attracted to her, but thinking back, all he ever really felt was a flutter in his stomach. When he thought about it, the only girls he was comfortable with were Hermione, Ginny, and his Quidditch team. And Luna Lovegood. All the other girls he knew giggles way too much too ever interest him.

For the past few months Harry's life had been too frantic to think much about girls, and he suspected it would remain that way for quite a while, especially with Dumbledore's death so fresh in his mind. He often thought that maybe it would be nice to have someone care about him, and worry about him, in more than a friendly manner. Just so that he wouldn't feel so lonely sometimes. Deep down he knew that he carried a burden that couldn't be shared. From the moment he'd vanquished Voldemort as a child he'd been doomed to a life carrying a weight that was his and his alone.

The next day, by lunch Harry had done more cleaning than in a lifetime at the Dursley's. He cleaned the kitchen and scrubbed the floors, on his hands and knees like a medieval scullery maid, nonetheless. He vacuumed and dusted the living room and, with the exception of the third bedroom on the right of the upstairs corridor, Harry cleaned every room spotlessly before noon. He did pause momentarily, pondering the contents of the forbidden room, but decided, against his worst judgment, not to open the door. Mrs. Figgs had promised him much pain if he ventured into said room.

"Harry?" Mrs. Figg called upstairs to Harry as he dragged the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead, resting momentarily on the corner of a bed. "When you are finished up there, come down here for sandwiches." Harry nodded even though she couldn't see him, running his fingers through his hair.

Harry flopped onto the couch, unable to lift his arms to eat. All of his muscles hurt from dusting in high places, and lifting furniture. He knew he wasn't as strong as some guys his age, but he felt no reason for reminding him so often.

"I've got to go out for a few hours Harry. You may take the afternoon off of gardening if you wish." She cast Harry a small wink. "Invite a friend or two over, dear, you seem lonely sometimes, but you stay away from that room I showed you." She shrugged on a particularly motherly shawl, that looked like it would supply ample comfort in a long cuddle, and headed out the door before Harry could say anything.

Harry looked around, a feeling of freedom washing over him. He couldn't remember the last time he had been left alone in the muggle world. The Dursleys hardly trusted him to be alone in a room, let alone their house.

Instead of lounging about and watching TV, which is what he really wanted to do, Harry let Hedwig in the kitchen window and sat down to write a long letter to Remus Lupin. Since Harry's godfather's death Lupin had become more and more like an Uncle than a former teacher. Harry wrote to him less formally and more frequently than the rest of the order, save Moody, who demanded a letter every three days whether Harry wished to write one or not.

Professor Lupin, How are things? I'm at Mrs. Figg's house because my stupid, pathetic excuse for a family thinks that they can find an inflatable dingy somewhere in the world that will support a whale like Dudley. Not likely. I'm alright, I have a really spiffy sunburn on my back from gardening and my arms hurt because I'm a weakling. I don't suppose you know any good spells that will make me look less like walking toothpick. My feet have a growing fondness for bashing themselves on anything and everything sharp and painful. I think that if I grow any taller my bones will rupture my skin. Uncle Vernon has a new favorite sport: reminding me that I look like a skinny underfed slave who has grown a lot in a short period of time. Sad thing is, he's right. Mind you, i'd; take my physical position over Dudley's any day.

How are Ron and Hermione? I haven't heard from either of them since Ron sent me the…

Harry paused, scratching out the last but until he was sure they couldn't read it. No use worrying Lupin about issues such as him becoming and Animagi.

I haven't heard from either of them in a while. Say hi to Tonks, Moody and the Weasleys for me. I'll see you around.

-Harry

A few hours passed and Harry made beans on toast for dinner and lay on the couch watching TV and waiting for Mrs. Figg. She had said a few hours. It had been nearly nine hours by the time Harry's television show ended. Harry yawned and closed his eyes, intending on only resting a second before hauling himself upstairs and falling into bed exhaustedly.

The slam of the front door jolted Harry from his sleep. He could hear a rasping sound that reminded him of Uncle Vernon's breathing after he'd had something like frozen yogurt or peanut butter; that wet, sticky sound that you can feel chafing in your own throat even if it plagues someone else.

"Hello?" Harry called, his brow furrowing together as he stood up, pushing his glasses up so he could rub him eyes. "Mrs. Figg?"

The grating continued. It was the type of breathing that gave a person nightmares, which drove a person mad. There was a bubbling sound to it as it pocketed, blown into a domed shape. Harry nearly gagged by the sudden smell that wafted over him. It was one he had become dangerously familiar with. Blood.

Harry peered over the back of the couch and down the hall towards the front door. The worst thing he could ever have imagined greeted him. Mrs. Figg lay stomach down, scrabbling forwards on the wooden floor. Her nails clicked against the plywood as she strained, her breathing growing more ragged by the second.

Harry stood, shocked and dumbfounded at the ample blood that seemed to be flowing freely from Mrs. Figg's stomach. Harry never knew humans held that much blood, but there it was, pouring from Mrs. Figg like milk from a carton.

"Harry." She rasped in a weak voice, unable to open her eyes. Harry rushed over to her, his jaw moving but no words would form. His tongue felt like a bed of sawdust and he barely noted the dull throb of his arms as he scooped Mrs. Figg up and carried her to the couch, unaware that her blood was soaking through his dusty clothing. His gaze briefly flickered to her stomach as he grasped her hand tightly. It looked as it someone had ripped her stomach open with three claws. Three vertical wound, deep and ragged traced up the length of her stomach.

"What happened? Arabella! What happened?" Harry's voice was as soft as he could make it while being insistent. He was terrified. Something had shredded her. Harry pressed a hand against the side of her cheek and started into her slitted eyes, his voice was slow and soothing. "Mrs. Figg. You'll be okay. What happened?"

Mrs. Figg's fingers tightened around Harry's, slippery with blood. "Harry." She whispered, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. "Go get the book." Her grip slackened.

Harry stood up and stepped back a few steps. He had no idea what was going on. The room around him spun. This was worse that Diggory. This was the worst moment in his entire life. Harry closed his eyes, the inside of his head pounding. He wished that he had kept working on his occlumency, but it exhausted him badly.

The book, What book? Harry thought, exasperatedly and completely oblivious to the tear threatening to spill down his face. It suddenly struck him, as more of a hunch than anything else. He darted up the stairs as if the devil himself were on his heels. RIpping open the door, he threw himself into the forbidden room.

It was not what he expected. It was furnished exactly like the rest of the house, only minus the old, flower printed furniture. The only thing in the entire room was a small wooden lampstand in he center of the room. Upon it sat a book. Using his powerful skills of deductive logic, Harry assumed that this was the book Mrs. Figg had deliriously asked him to fetch.

Harry lunged forward and grabbed the book, desperately afraid whatever killed Mrs. Figg would be after him next. The book reminded him of the programmes from the Quidditch world cup, velvet covered and tasseled. Holding the book in quivering hands, not sure what to expect Harry opened it. It was blank.

Turning the pages frantically Harry found one page, about ten in that had writing on it. He recognized the writing but couldn't place it. It was a thin, green ink, obviously written with an expensive quill of sorts. Harry leaned closer and polished the lenses of his glasses as best he could.

Flip to the fourth to last page.

Harry followed the instructions without question. He found the fourth to last page and stared at it. It was as blank as the others. The creamy smooth texture seemed to call to him. He brushed a finger against it, meaning only to feel the subtle paper under his bloody fingers. He felt the familiar yank behind his navel as the world around him jumped.