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Chapter Three, Awakening

Harry spent the next three days in much the same state. His room was a mess. Scattered pages of the Daily prophet were strewn about; pages he'd read over and over again, worrying himself sick over the fact that Death Eater incidents had been increasing and spilling over into the Muggle world. Even the Dursley's had noticed how much everything seemed to be changing around them, though they weren't smart enough to link two and two together. The weather had turned bleak, sudden, and a familiar mist hung over the city, pressing down on all of its inhabitants.

Not for the first time, Harry wondered why he hadn't had any face-to-face contact over the summer. Aside from the days soon after his godfather's death, Dumbledore hadn't spoken to him. His words were still in his head, though. Words that he didn't want to hear. That he was the Chosen One. That the prophecy and Voldemort had chosen Harry as the final enemy. Had given him a scar for it. That the whole reason that his parents were dead, was because of Voldemort's irrational fear.

Harry hadn't slept much in days. He missed his friends; he missed Hogwarts. He couldn't stay in his room. He was restless. And so he was venturing out again. It was nighttime and the Dursley's were fast asleep. Harry had received birthday letters from Hermione and Ron and Hagrid two weeks ago, but there hadn't been any mention of when they would try to get Harry out of there. Not that there was any point now. With only two weeks left until the start of term, Harry realized there wouldn't be any visits to the Burrow.

It was turning out to be a summer much like the year before, if not worse, and Harry wondered whether Dumbledore had told his friends to refrain from any contact with him again. Harry hadn't replied back to them.

He reached a deserted playground, on that he'd often visit before, and sat himself upon a swing. The chains were cold on his hands and slowly he rocked himself back and forth. The swings creaked at every movement. The reality of his situation was unbearable. If he was supposed to be the one to defeat Voldemort, why haven't they started giving him proper lessons in fighting and defense? At the rate Dumbledore kept hiring new Defense professors, Harry would never learn anything useful!

He stilled his movements abruptly when he heard rustling in the shadows of the trees. But it was too dark to see past a few yards in front of him; the street lights were dim, and the light of the moon was obstructed, signaling a summer storm. Harry narrowed his eyes as another rustling came from behind him. He stood up and reached into the waistband of his jeans. Wand now safe in his hand, Harry fought to remain calm. Voldemort wouldn't dare to try something right in the middle of Little Whinging.

Another rustling sounded and out of pure instinct, Harry called for his shield against a violent flash of red thrown in his direction. Harry gasped as his shield shattered violently, the force of his opponent's spell throwing him of his feet and onto paved ground. He ignored the bruising pain on his back and scrambled to his feet just as another jet of red whistled past his ear. Angered, Harry sent his own stunning spell in the direction of the cloaked figure, but the spell was easily blocked.

Harry's heart was racing in his chest; he barely managed to dodge another curse, but it fueled him. He would not die tonight, in a duel with a nameless figure. He fired off another stunner, and another, walking closer to the figure silhouetted under the shade of a tree. In any other instance, Harry would've considered his moves reckless, but at the moment he didn't care. He was angry. Angry at Dumbledore, angry at his friends, angry at his life. He fired off an Expelliarmus and it shot out of his wand. The man—for he was clearly a man—raised his wand and the spell rebounded. It caught him off guard; the spell hit him squarely in the chest and he was once again flying off his feet, hitting the ground hard. His wand clattered somewhere too far for him to reach. He scrambled to get up again but stopped, a wand pointed only inches from his face.

"I finally have the honor of meeting the famous Harry Potter," a smooth voice said from behind the mask of a Death Eater. He wore a black cloak, draped over his shoulders, covering his entire body up to his wrists.

Harry scowled. "Apologies that I can't say the same about you."

The man chuckled darkly. Icy-blue eyes peered through the mask, making Harry shiver. "The Dark Lord was right. Such a feisty one, aren't you?"

Harry's eyebrows furrowed at the tone, but he remained silent. Was this it then? Not even having a chance to face Voldemort in the end? Harry felt a tingling of unease. Just then he took notice of something in the man's hand. A silver vial with a needle at the tip. A syringe? The vial held a dark red liquid and Harry didn't want to know what the contents were made for.

He braced himself and pushed forward, his hands at the man's shoulders. He fell back with a curse and Harry managed to dart away. But it was too dark to see where his wand had fallen. He was hit with a leg-binding spell not a second later, and he smacked to the ground face first. Then he felt the man's weight on top of him.

"No, get off me!" Harry hissed. A hard knee held his legs down and an arm draped across his back to keep him still.

"Don't worry, Harry. This won't hurt a bit," the smooth voice purred.

"Shut up. Don't—!" Harry gasped as the needle pierced his neck. It burned through his skin and he could almost feel the beats that his heart missed as the liquid poured through his veins. He tried to push the man away again but his limbs were frozen, paralyzed by the poison.

Suddenly there was a flash of red through his half-closed eyelids; the street beneath him shook. The hold on his back slackened and he could hear the words, "We'll meet again soon, Harry," before the weight left all together. There was a familiar crack of disapparition.

He knew someone was calling out to him, but Harry couldn't respond. He couldn't think. His blood was boiling underneath him, spasms of painful electricity making him cry out. His body shook. He thought he recognized the voice that surrounded him. Fought to recognize the concern behind it that had never been there before. He whimpered as the syringe that had still been pieced at his neck was pulled out, and after a moment he heard the vial shatter as it hit the hard ground. He felt hands turn him over, on his back, and though the world spun, Harry could make out a pale face. Dark locks. And the darkest eyes that seemed almost endless. His insides were melting, on fire, he was sure, and soon he welcomed the darkness that enveloped him.

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