Harry tried to encourage Hedwig to go. He had the note; Dumbledore needed to know that Death Eaters and Voldemort himself were outside his house every night. Just staking out all around the house on the daily.

Hedwig bit his finger hard enough to draw blood. She flew to the edge of the property and let out a small shriek when she tried to pass the wardline. When she landed, he noticed some of her feathers were browned and hot to the touch.

"I'm sorry, girl," He gently petted her head and fed her a few treats.

She hooted at him sadly. No letters. He assumed it worked in both directions, so there was nothing in and nothing out. Dammit! He was trapped, whether by Dumbledore or Voldemort. It wasn't safe to leave either. Who knows how many Death Eaters were waiting for him to exit the protection of the wards?

So Harry did the one thing he's never done. He observed. In his mostly unused spiral-bound history notebook (wixen should use these more, honestly), he wrote everything that he could. Whenever they'd wake him up, he would pay close attention to just about everything.

July 10th

Cracks (Apparation?) - 10

Figures Spotted - 4 in east neighbours backyard, 2 in the south backyard.

They looked at the corners the most. There isn't much to see, all of them wore Death Eater uniforms. Two had ash wands was all I could tell.

He almost scrapped the paper. How was observational stuff supposed to go? He groaned. But then he had a thought. He shuffled through his trunk until he found the copied notes from the diary.

They were more analytical and detached than his. More complexity to go with that. He needed to take this seriously and put effort into it. Something that he could look at years later and still know what they meant. If he survived that long.

July 10th, 1996

Apparations: 8

Confirmed Individuals: 4 in the east yard, 2 in the south yard, 6 in total

Observations: Inspections occurred at the corner of the yard, with an assumed investigation on the other corner. Assumed to be the boundaries of the wards. Each one wore Death Eater uniforms—a black hooded robe with a silver mask—with off-coloured black trousers and shoes.

Two of the wands were made of ash wood, one medium and two dark in colour. The rest either did not carry wands or wands were not identified. Three of the six were tall, two were medium-height, and one was short. Four had heavier builds and two were of average builds. From murmurs, at least one was a woman and two were men.

Noises lasted from 11:59 to 01:30.

Yes, that was better.

Who was he kidding? He didn't have the commitment to do this nightly. Unless he only changed a word or two, there was no way he was going to write a report like this each sleep-deprived night.

While he was awake, he decided to write another note. He used his pinky to write, attempting to make it a little smaller with the limited room on the parchment. If anything, all they could say was no.

'Can you at least begin at 11 or earlier? This is affecting my chores and I'll have worse punishments if I make any more mistakes.'

Again, while tending the garden, he received his response.

'No.'

It was worth a shot.

The ring looked inconspicuous, just like the diary. It was surprisingly simplistic—just a symbol on an eight-sided black shiny stone and a golden band with small vines carved into it. But the radiation of dark magic that poured from it proved the contrary.

On closer inspection, the stone had a crack in it. It was barely noticeable, but it was there, across the symbol. He frowned; it took away from its beauty. A yawn escaped him. He'd study it more tomorrow.

Harry hid it under his pillow, swapping it out for the diary. He curled his fingers over the corners and pulled them close to his chest. It was crazy, and he knew it, but the dark magic comforted him. If he ignored the sinister undertones, it reminded him of his invisibility cloak. Safe, warm, and protected by magic.

Crack

Crack

Crack

Crack

Crack

He groaned. Haphazardly, he jotted down the time, 11:50, and tried to get some more sleep. They always made noise when they left.

Just as he slipped into the edge of dreamland, a loud thump resonated from outside. That was new. A sigh left him. Still wrapped in his thin blanket, he lumbered to the window. He peered out of it, only to freeze.

On his neighbour's roof, staring directly at him, was Voldemort.

It would be comical if it wasn't for the struggling muggle teen in his grasp. But his anger died down when he realised who it was. Billroy Hills, resident scumbag who somehow managed to bribe his way out of imprisonment.

Mockingly, Voldemort held up a scrap of parchment. 'Surrender yourself, or the muggle perishes.'

Harry ducked away from the glass and got his writing supplies out. He held the parchment to the wall as he wrote, with a quill this time.

'I don't negotiate with terrorists. I'm going back to bed.'

He wiggled it into the corner and left the sight of the window. There was a strangled scream he tried to block out. In bed, he piled his blanket over his ears. Bottom of the line, he needed sleep.

And who was he to intervene? Every damned time he did, the person ended up dead or injured. Cedric, Sirius, and countless other friends had suffered under his supervision. The debacle with Dumbledore's Army was more than enough for him.

Harry was done playing saviour.

'Your reaction was unexpected. How would your mentor react?'

This time, the note was neatly folded and clearly visible. He thought it was a piece of trash that got caught in the irises at first. He pocketed the note and threw it in with the others. A hum escaped his lips.

Honestly, this back-and-forth was the most entertaining part of his summer. It would probably be his only connection to the outside world for the next two months. Might as well drag it out until the end of the break. Hopefully, he'd have some sort of escort out of there, like last year with the Order of the Phoenix members.

'I was told not to run into danger. It's not like this is the first person to be hurt because of me. If he wanted me to save people, he should have asked.'

He ignored the three cracks that night, making only a quick scribble to note the time (11:45). The used parchment was put to the side for use later. At the amount he had left over after all his homework was done, he would barely have enough to last the rest of the summer if he used both sides.

'At least you are learning self-preservation, sixteen years too late. Your headmaster does expect people to act on his whims without direction. Beware of the consequences if you stray too far from his will.'

"Beware of the consequences?" Harry muttered to himself, as he wiped the sweat from his face.

The words were at the forethought of his mind throughout the day. He shook his head, Voldemort was just trying to get in his head. Psyche him out or something. It was obvious. But it didn't stop it from leaving a bad taste in his mouth.

"Shit," He hissed under his breath. One of the plates broke in his hand, probably from a spike of accidental magic. He clenched his forehead in pain, Voldemort was angry again.

Harry pushed the shards to the back of the sink and filled it with more soapy bubbles. Hopefully, he could dispose of it before they noticed. Put the pieces in the bottom of the trash can or something.

He managed to do exactly that right before Petunia walked in. The evidence would be gone by the end of the week. Harry surprised himself when he almost snapped at the woman for chastising his work ethic. The gnawing headache continued throughout the day and into the night.

If the almost sleepless nights wouldn't get him, that would. A quip marked his lips; he knew what he was going to write tonight. There was a slight decrease in the burn.

'Can you get some anger management? Every time you throw a fit, it makes my scar hurt. It probably isn't good to be bursting a blood vessel almost daily.'

He felt a gentle breeze from the gap in the frame as he taped it to the window. Harry pushed the window open and leaned out of the window. He breathed in the air, crisp and cool with a dash of oncoming rain.

It was left ajar, and for once, Harry wasn't able to sleep. Even as he lingered at the edge of conciseness,, with the warm arms and soft whispers of slumber coaxing him deeper into darkness, a spark of energy lingered within him. A large part of him yearned for any type of interaction, and he'd take it from anyone at this point. Even a dark lord.

Crack

Bingo.

He peered from the corner of the window. On the rooftop, Voldemort stood, his deep green robes blowing in the wind. As soon as he was oriented, his maroon eyes were drawn to the window.

Voldemort appeared surprised to see Harry. Or as surprised as the lipless, hairless, and noseless being could be. Harry nodded to the note, choosing to swing his leg over the sill of the window. He watched as Voldemort read his writing.

The man's head cocked to the side. Voldemort withdrew a short roll of parchment from an inner pocket of his robe along with a dark blue self-inking quill. He scribbled down a few words, the parchment floating in the air as if placed upon an invisible desk. Harry had to squint to read the words.

'Your scar hurts when I am angry?' It was a simple question.

Harry flipped the parchment on the window. 'Yeah, or at least I think so. It feels angry. Kinda burns, and it lasts for a long time, and no painkiller, muggle or magical, makes it better. Maybe a stress ball will do you good.'

Voldemort's forehead creased, and his eyes narrowed. With a wave of his hand, the ink on his parchment disappeared.

'I have my own form of stress relief—the cruciatas curse on incompetent Death Eaters. Have you had any medical inspection on your scar? Specific scans or spells?' It took Harry a minute to read it because of the darkness.

He grabbed a long scroll from his trunk. 'No? I'm not sure. I always just assumed you put some evil magic in me. And what did they do to piss you off today? You're angrier than normal.'

Voldemort glared. Harry's scar flared up, and he clutched his forehead. The snake-face paused and took a deep breath before writing again, the pain only mildly dissipating.

'Botching a raid, three captured and one killed. You should read the Daily Prophet, even if it is lowly drama, it occasionally reports on important events.'

Harry shook his head. 'I can't get the prophet here. No owls in, no owls out. Haven't heard anything from anyone since I got here. Can't leave this shit-pit either.'

The man patted his pockets. Out of another pocket (did they make expandable pockets? It made sense—if they could do that to trunks, why not do it to pockets?) was a twine-bonded roll of the prophet.

He stepped back, aimed, and threw it. Harry watched as it arched through the air and landed on the roof just above his window with a soft thap. It rolled, and Harry snatched it from the air.

Sure enough, plastered on the front page, was a person in Death Eater garb, shouting as Aurors hauled him into the Ministry courtroom. The article went on to describe that, after a failed raid in the Department of Mysteries again, five Aurors were injured and three death eaters were captured, one dead, and one death eater run free.

'Damn. Did the free one seriously run back to you? Why?' While Voldemort scribbled his answer, he flipped through the rest of the paper.

It was mostly articles about the captured death eaters and a recap of some of the events of the last war. There were a few that made him laugh, like "How to Defend Yourself Against a Death Eater"—half because the advice was nonsense and half because the author was a death eater he'd seen in the graveyard.

'Their mark burns if I call them. The distance does not matter. It is either return to me, receive their punishment, and get another assignment, or defect and have their forearm on fire for the rest of their miserable existence after being persecuted for aligning themselves with me.' He rolled his eyes. Harry was surprised by the human gesture, even more, when he heard a disappointed sigh.

Voldemort paused, 'Why are you doing this?'

He froze. Why was he doing this? The notes, the back and forth, would be insignificant if it were anyone other than Voldemort. Harry bit his lip. Tell the truth or a white lie?

'I'm bored.'

Voldemort's mouth gaped for a second. He shook his head. 'Do you not room with your muggle relatives?' It was an open-ended question that demanded an explanation.

It took a minute for him to respond. 'They aren't the nicest muggles. You could probably win this war thing politically if you just let them wander around Diagon for a few days. Everyone would want the extermination of muggles.'

He scowled, 'Perhaps I should borrow them, once we get past these wards.'

Voldemort raised his wand and flicked it. The time, 1:05, glowed in the air. ' I have a meeting now. I will be back tomorrow.'

Something within Harry frowned. 'Fine by me. Do think about getting a better stress relief, as much as it hurts me, it isn't good for you either. Stress ages you, causing wrinkles and all that. And you're already struggling with your looks. At least you don't have to worry about grey hair.'

Voldemort stepped back and stared up at him. A smirk lit his lips. Lips. His skin shifted from a bluish-bone white to a healthy pale porcelain. Sharp, claw-like fingers into thinly manicured hands. Lastly, a crop of wavy black hair grew from his head, brushed towards the back with the top longer than the sides, with not even a hint of a receding hairline.

He looked like diary Tom Riddle, only in his late thirties or early forties. That devilish smirk disappeared, apparating away into the night.

Bastard.

Gentle touches caressed his skin. Unnaturally soft, like the petals of a flower. One trailed up his side, lingering for a second before wrapping around his waist. Another traced the length of his jaw to the curve of his lips. Up it went to ghost over his eyelashes before settling on slowly running through his hair.

In all of his life, he hadn't felt more content. Happy. Safe. He wanted to stay like that, coddled in a cocoon of protection. Harry sank deeper into the warmth.

In an instant, it was gone.

Vanished.

He groaned. Dammit! All he wanted was to enjoy it a little longer. At this point, he didn't even care to question what had happened. It didn't matter if it was real or not. It felt real enough for him.

Although the warm fuzziness persisted throughout the day, the bitterness of losing it so quickly burdened his mind. Sour. He was angry enough to have some bursts of accidental magic.

A few roses wilted, some splotches of grass were dead, and burn marks appeared on the handle of his rake. With a quick mix of paint from Dudley's discarded school supplies, he was able to fix it quickly.

Again, the night could not come soon enough. He sneaked in a short nap right beforehand. Somehow, each day drained more of his energy. Sucking it from his soul—a side effect of just being around the Dursleys for so long.

It was taxing to stay up late last night, but it felt like it was worth it. Any positive interaction was a godsend to him, no matter who it came from. He paced back and forth from the window to his bed to make sure that he caught the sounds of Voldemort arriving. His body almost gave out—he was more tired than he had thought.

His desk and chair were moved in front of the window. He perched on top of his desk and leaned against the window sill, letting the soft breeze sweep over him. The chill danced against his skin with a gossamer touch.

A sharp prick struck his face. Harry flung himself back and toppled off of his desk. Startled, but now awake, he stumbled to his feet. He looked down, scouring the dark bushes below him for the source of his awakening.

Pinecones?

Another blur of brown hit his face. He stared up. Not-snake-faced Voldemort perched on his neighbour's roof with a small stack of pinecones at his side. Voldemort tossed one up and down in his hand threateningly. A surprised laugh left Harry's mouth.

'Your survival instincts need work.' Was written on Voldemort's parchment.

Harry stalked to his trunk and rummaged around. It slipped his mind that he needed them. Parchment (he was running much lower than he thought), ink (also low), a quill, and a textbook to write on.

His door slammed open.

"You!" Petunia's shrill voice echoed in his ear.

"Yes?" Harry slowly turned around. Petunia stood there in her floral nightgown and curlers, finger-pointing accusingly at him.

"You - you're - stop making such a racket!" Can't even use the bathroom in peace!" She narrowed her eyes at the book in his hand.

The woman marched over to him and yanked his wrist painfully. It popped with a resonating echo. Petunia scanned the new leather book, "A Guide to Rare Poison"', and dropped him from her grasp. She stared down at her hand like she had touched something tainted.

"What is this? What do you think you're doing?" Petunia demanded. The whole neighbourhood could probably hear her at this point.

"A book. I need it for homework." Harry replied flatly, even if his mind was racing faster with each passing tick of the clock.

"They're teaching you how to poison people? Of course, of course, your kind would do that. Hope you test some on yourself first. Now, stop making so much ruckus! Else you'll be without lunch or dinner for a week!" A hard slap streaked across his face; her nails caught on his cheek and left small cuts on his skin.

Petunia swiftly walked out of his room, slamming the door behind her. It took him a few seconds to regain his composure. Sure, Petunia yelled at him a lot and berated him often, but she never really hit him. Something like a firm pat, yes, but not like that.

He slowly rose from the ground. There were clicks from his locked door. At least he'd have a warning if they intruded on him again. Harry climbed onto his desk after carefully placing his ink and quill.

Voldemort looked at him, bemused. As Harry positioned himself, he took a pause.

'Is she always like that?' Voldemort asked when Harry looked up at him.

'Kinda. Vernon is worse, but her screaming makes my ears ring.' He absentmindedly rubbed his cheek.

'I can see how they could influence the public's impression of muggles. I may borrow them one day.' There was a smirk on his face as he wrote it.

Harry grinned, a sting in his face, 'Be my guest. There's no love lost if they disappeared. But please try to do so after next summer. I don't know where I will be placed if they're gone before that.'

'I will keep note of that.' Voldemort reached into his robes and withdrew another roll of the Daily Prophet.

He raised it above his head, was about to throw it, then stopped. The parchment rose in the air again.

'Can your owl catch items?'

Harry cocked his head, 'Like something that's thrown in the air?'

Voldemort nodded.

'I'm not sure. Why are you asking?' It was peculiar.

'Your owl needs exercise, and this morning's prophet may interest you.' It was reasonable enough.

Harry hopped off his desk and opened the door to Hedwig's cage. She opened her beak to squawk at him, but he gently shut it with his fingers, giving her a knowing glance. The avian understood him and ruffled her feathers instead.

"Okay, girl," Harry spoke in a whisper and walked to the window, "He's going to throw the newspaper at you, and you're going to catch it. Do you think you can do that?"

Hedwig slowly blinked at him.

"Good, good, out you go."

He stuck his arm out of the window. Hedwig leapt from him and fluttered in the air. White-peppered feathers flew up and up until she reached the dome of the wards. She dropped from the sky, almost reaching the ground before she held out her wings.

The bird swung upward, right in front of Voldemort. She circled the air, claws extended and waiting to catch anything. Voldemort raised an eyebrow at her. Nonetheless, he tossed the newspaper past the wardline.

Nails sunk into the paper, poking small holes into the print. She fumbled in the air for a second, teetering worryingly, but then regained her balance. Hedwig was perched on his shoulder within seconds.

Plastered across the front page, in bold black letters, was —

Harry Potter: Accomplice or Whistleblower?

As we now know, dear reader, He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named made an appearance in the Department of Mysteries in late June. It is hard to believe this momentous event happened just three weeks ago. But, as we reported last year, this isn't the first time we've heard of His return.

Last year, Harry Potter came out of the Tri-Wizard Tournament carrying the corpse of Cedric Diggory. He was adamant that He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named had returned and murdered Heir Diggory. Many of us had doubts about the accusation, as it is well known that He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named died on October 31st, 1981.

Now that He has made His reveal, we must now ask the question. This was a call to action, but to whom? The ministry is prepared for an attack at all times (as seen in the two successive defeats of the Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries).

Who would the warning be for?

Death Eaters are the only ones who would need the warning. They would need that crucial time to organise and plot. Isn't it suspicious that Cedric Diggory, a boy three years Potter's senior, died in the 'attack', but Potter was able to return after witnessing He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named's revival, duelling him, and running from Death Eaters?

Cedric Diggory's only major injury was the killing curse. The point of impact was on the boy's right trapezius muscle. Would you, dear reader, turn your back on He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named? Or, would you instead, turn your back on a fourth year Hogwarts student?

Very suspicious.

We will be looking into this more, as this can be one of the most important pieces of news in these early times of war. Follow more at the Daily Prophet, for stories every day for the everyday person.

Rita Skeeter

Head of the Daily Prophet Press Department

July 15th

Harry didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Maybe both were the right answer. Despite Cedric's death being a year ago, it still weighed on his mind. Harry had actively pressured him to take the cup. If Harry had gone alone, then Cedric wouldn't have been killed by Pettigrew.

Cedric was honestly one of the best people he'd ever met. Hermione and Ron were great, but their growing pains in their relationship were far from perfect. The older Hufflepuff just radiated positivity and kindness, from his tall frame to his charming was among the first to suspect that Harry had not placed his name in the Goblet of Fire..

And she was implying that he had killed Cedric? As an attempt to rally Death Eaters? He scoffed. The woman was just as crazy as she was influential. Perhaps a reminder of her blackmail will do. Either a complete backtrack or just stop writing about him disparagingly.

'I'm going to hear about this so much next semester.' Harry sighed.

'Even I was surprised she would stoop so low. You, a Death Eater?' Voldemort coughed.

Harry shook his head, 'Right? I honestly wish I could see how other people reacted to this.' He could imagine his friends reading it, outraged. And Seamus nodding his head while believing every word.

'There was chatter in the Death Eater circles. Most of them were ridiculing it.'

They chatted into the night, far longer than any of the other conversations. At some point, Voldemort stopped writing with his hand and used a self-writing quill to write his words. He lounged on the roof with his legs crossed at the ankles, only reminding Harry just how tall he actually was.

In the morning, Harry found himself asleep at the desk, face pressed into the Daily Prophet. He brushed the blanket off of his shoulders and found a folded paper plane beside him.

'I will be gone for the next three nights. - LV

He huffed. All good things must come to an end, or in this case, pause.

Humming. Deep, but soft, rocking back and forth in his brain like a ship on calm waters. A hand combed through his hair, playing with it like sand on the beach. Warm breath batted down on his face.

Harry lay relaxed in his bed—not that he had to pretend. Something about being preened was oddly calming to him. He pressed against someone's chest. It wasn't quite solid, like a cloud or the petals of a flower.

A woody scent flittered in the air, with undertones of spice. He was pulled tighter than normal—not enough to suffocate him, but enough to make him feel like he couldn't escape. Not that he wanted to.

Their magical cores intertwined, spiraling around each other. So familiar, yet so strange at the same time. The ever-present pounding in his head nor the exhaustion could reach him at the moment as if he was taken from his body and put into a new one.

"Soon," A voice breathed longingly.

Harry: "Ah, yes, mysterious person cuddling me in my sleep that I have never seen. Totally normal. Nothing to be concerned about."