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June 14, 12:57 AM

Harry awoke from a fitful sleep to find himself in his meager little bedroom at Number 4, Privet Drive, instead of Voldemort's grasp as he had thought.  Flashbacks of the Third Task assaulted his thoughts, and his dreams.  Dreams of Voldemort, laughing cruelly in his face.  Of Wormtail, clutching his silver hand.  Of his parents, encouraging him to escape Voldemort.

Of Cedric, asking him to return his body to his parents.

In Harry's dreams, Cedric asked much than this of Harry.

Cedric asked Harry why he had allowed Voldemort to kill him; why he had helped Voldemort end his life.

It was my fault, Harry admitted silently to himself.  All my fault.  If only I had taken the Cup when Cedric offered it to me...he would still be alive.  He would still be attending Hogwarts.  Still be playing Quidditch...still be dating Cho.  Harry felt a pang in his heart, as he always did when he thought about Cho.  Damn it, Harry!  He scolded himself.  You were responsible for a person's death, and you actually have the nerve to think of his girlfriend and your stupid feelings for her.  What's wrong with you?

Harry rolled over, punching his pillow in anger, misery, and guilt.  Hot tears rolled down his cheeks as he mentally berated himself.  Murderer, his mind proclaimed.  He turned restlessly in his bed, taking no notice of the fidgety sleep that overcame him.  Murderer...murderer...murderer...murder...Murder the boy.

Harry was jolted back into wakefulness.  He had no idea how long he had been asleep (indeed, he felt as though he never fell asleep) before his dream had brought him back into consciousness.  He tried to remember what brought about his awakening.  His infamous lightning bolt scar tinged slightly.  Murder the boy, said an oily, venomous voice, an evil, somewhat pensive, glint in blood red, serpentine eyes.  Harry didn't have to think hard about whom the eyes belonged to.  He shuddered at the thought of the all too familiar, all too terrifying gaze of Lord Voldemort.

Harry desperately tried to forget his dream, but at the same time, he tried to remember it.  Was Voldemort instructing a Death Eater to bring about his demise?  No, Harry mused.  Voldemort wants to save the pleasure of my death for himself.  He fiercely racked his brain for the details of his dream.

Voldemort had appeared to be alone, sitting in a carved, gnarled chair; His makeshift throne, Harry supposed.  Harry closed his eyes, trying to recall all the details.  No, the chair wasn't gnarled; instead, snakes crept surreptitiously up the back, sides, and arms of the chair.  Harry realized that the chair was actually completely made up of intertwined snakes.  But they can't be real.  They're just carved snakes, with glittering eyes...and forked tongues that dart in and out of their mouths...no.  They're not real.  Although Harry had convinced himself that the snakes were fake, he wouldn't put it past Voldemort to charm snakes into making his throne.  After all, snakes were his signature.

Voldemort held something in his thin, white hands.  Harry pressed his eyes shut, as though that would seal the details in his brain.  He was holding a black sphere, with red smoke swirling within it.  It looked rather like Neville's Remembrall, except that was clear and much, much smaller.

All Harry could conclude from his dream was that Voldemort had been plotting his death, to himself.  Since his former plan had been foiled, Voldemort had no idea what to do next.  This theory somewhat reassured Harry; it meant that Voldemort had no apparent stratagem to harm him.  Harry tried to use this rationalization to assuage his fears.  Since Voldemort doesn't know what to do, this means I'm safe for now, Harry thought.  He looked over at Hedwig, his trusty snow owl.  She had just returned from a nighttime scavenge with the fruit of her labor, which was being mercilessly nipped at.  Harry lifted his head to see what Hedwig had managed to capture during her hunt.  When he caught sight of Hedwig's prey, he nearly broke into a cold sweat.

It was a snake, with cold, glittering eyes.

*     *     *

"You worthless burden of a boy!  Get up this instant!"  There was no need for Harry's Aunt Petunia to screech as she so often did.  Harry was already awake.  In fact, he never went back to sleep after discovering Hedwig's midnight snack.  He couldn't go back to sleep; he didn't want to dream anymore.  He turned to Hedwig's cage, which was empty.  Hedwig had gotten angry with Harry during the night because he had confiscated the snake.  He was hesitant to touch it, but finally prodded it with a wire coat hanger.  Though the snake was dead (it couldn't have survived Hedwig's relentlessly sharp bites) its eyes glittered in a strange way.  They sparkled as though they were jewels, red as rubies.  It turned out that Hedwig's victim was just a common garden snake, but the sight of it unnerved Harry, especially after his dream.  He had tossed it out the window, instructing Hedwig not to retrieve it.  Hedwig had flown out into the night, undoubtedly peeved, going out to blow off some steam.  She still hadn't returned, but Harry wasn't worried.  He peeked out the window to see if the snake was still there.  It was.  Well, Harry thought, at least she's obedient.

He trudged out of bed and put on some clothes, not really paying attention to what he chose.  Everything in his closet was far too large anyway.  He could wear his wizard robes, but that was a sure ticket to starvation, courtesy of his magic-abhorring aunt and uncle.

When he joined his "family" in the breakfast room, Aunt Petunia already had the meal ready...if you could even call it a meal.  Despite Aunt Petunia's apparent blind eye to Dudley's plentiful shortcomings, she had willfully resolved to keep Dudley on his diet.  Sitting on four plates (of course, Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley's plates were much fuller than Harry's), was a portion of a cantaloupe and a scoop of cottage cheese.  The sight of the cheese revolted Harry, but he managed to keep his face neutral.

"Looks delicious," Harry said cheerfully.  Dudley eyed him viciously, perhaps sizing me up to see if I would provide any nutritional value, Harry thought, amused.  He pretended to enjoy his paltry meal, because it made Dudley that much more hungry and agitated.  In all actuality, Harry just wanted to hurry back to his room.  He had some letters to write.

After excusing himself from the table - three pairs of Dursley eyes boring holes into his back - Harry made his way up to his room, or rather, Dudley's museum for discarded toys.  Harry locked his bedroom door behind him and saw that Hedwig had returned.  Her amber eyes regarded him warily, as though she hadn't quite decided to forgive him yet.

"Hullo, Hedwig," Harry said halfheartedly.  He glanced at his reflection in the mirror as he passed it.  He stopped and studied himself.  Was that him?  He was several inches taller, but his hair was as unruly as ever.  Dark circles adorned his eyes, and gaunt cheekbones stared back at him.  It almost reminded him of Sirius' picture that ran in the newspapers when he had first escaped Azkaban.  He was pleased to see that his frame wasn't as skinny as it had always been.  He was acquiring a good bit of muscle, and it was beginning to show.  It seemed Harry was growing into his body; at age fourteen (he wouldn't turn fifteen for a month and a half), he was finally looking his age.

Harry suddenly found himself resenting his newfound weight gain.  He couldn't quite understand why; he stared at himself in the mirror trying to understand the reason.  Finally it came to him.  His father.  Everyone who had ever known James Potter always told Harry how he looked exactly like his father.  In the precious pictures he possessed of his parents, James Potter had always been lanky and skinny.  He, apparently, never gained the muscle Harry was starting to procure.  Harry felt that in an odd, abstract way, he was dishonoring his father's memory, somehow giving it up.  He didn't understand this; it was completely unreasonable, but still.

Harry sighed and pushed his hair back.  There was nothing he could do about body changes.  He turned and got a quill and some parchment from his trunk.

"Hedwig, will you forgive me long enough to deliver some letters for me?"  Hedwig hooted in an indignant, yet yielding sort of way.  Harry stroked her feathers briefly before starting his first letter.

Dear Sirius,

I'm not exactly sure where you are right now, but Professor Dumbledore assured me not to worry about your whereabouts.  Of course, I still will.  I hope you're happy, wherever you are, and I hope Professor Lupin is with you.  If he is, tell him I said hello.

There is actually a reason I'm writing this letter.  I had the strangest dream last night.  I'm planning on writing a letter to Professor Dumbledore to inform him, but as I've never done so before, I don't know where he spends his summer holiday.  But back to my dream.  At first, I had my usual nightmares, about the Third Task, and all those bad memories and such - Harry didn't feel the need to include Cedric's accusatory questions - but then I woke up.  But that's not the strange dream.  After I fell back asleep, I dreamt about Voldemort.  I think it was a premonitory dream, but I'm not sure because he wasn't doing the sort of things he usually does when I dream about him (i. e, killing someone).  He was all by himself, sitting in a throne of intertwined snakes.  They may have been live, I don't know.  I'd like to think they were fake; there's just something unsettling about having a throne of live snakes.  Anyway, Voldemort was thinking out loud (I suppose - I'm not sure of anything right now) - and he said, "Murder the boy."  I'm assuming the boy is me.  That's when I woke up.  I remember he had a large black orb in his hands, not quite as large as a bowling ball - sorry, that's a Muggle term - roughly the size of a Bludger, with red smoke swishing about inside it, sort of like a Remembrall.  I have no idea what it could be, but it looked important.

So what do you think?  My interpretation is, if it was a premonitory dream, then Voldemort is at a loss of what to do and at that particular moment, he was merely trying to devise a plan for my murder (does he ever get tired of that?).  Oh yeah, I almost forgot to mention, my scar kind of hurt.  Not like it normally does when I have dreams, but just a slight...twinge I guess the word is.  I don't understand that either; Professor Dumbledore thinks that my scar hurts when Voldemort is feeling particularly murderous (which, well, he was, considering he was planning my death and all), but then why didn't my scar hurt badly, like normal?  Usually the pain in my scar is what wakes me up, not what he's actually saying.

What does this all mean?  I'm extremely confused right now, and I think I've probably confused you too.  I know this letter was long, and I apologize.  Hope you're well.  Please write back soon, even if you have no idea what this means.  I need some reassurance in this world.

Love,
Harry

*     *     *

Two weeks had passed, and Hedwig had yet to return.  Harry had sent her off with a good bit more than he usually did - letters to Sirius, Ron, Hermione, and Dumbledore - so Harry did not worry.  Hedwig was an extremely reliable owl and had yet to fail to deliver a letter.  Indeed, Harry did not have time to worry - his aunt seemed to have grown more vindictive - if that were possible - and forced Harry to do much more than his normal allotment of chores.  Presently, Harry was helping some professional pool installers dig in the backyard.  Aunt Petunia seemed to think a pool would be a nice addition to the house - especially after Mrs. What's-Her-Name over the fence had one installed.  Harry wiped the sweat from his brow and tried to imagine Dudley in a swimming pool.  He nearly retched at the thought of Dudley with his shirt off; besides, Dudley would probably just use the pool as a conveniently large privy.  Harry made a mental note never to swim in a pool with Dudley.

As Harry stared up at the sky, his mind wandering, rather brown, rather frumpy looking object went hurtling through his open bedroom window.  Harry leapt up and rushed inside the house to see who the intruder was.  As he ran by the kitchen, Aunt Petunia stuck her overly large nose out the door.

"Excuse me?  I didn't say you could rest.  Get back outside, you lazy boy!"

"Can't," Harry replied, slightly slowing his pace.  "I think, um, I think a friend from school has sent me a letter."  He quite enjoyed the frightened look that leapt onto Aunt Petunia's face at the mention of his school.  "I should check it upstairs before the neighbors see the deliverer."  And with that, Harry continued upstairs.  It was much easier to manipulate his aunt and uncle now that he knew he was a wizard.  He could hear Aunt Petunia muttering to herself downstairs.  "Never should have allowed such abnormality in this house," he heard her say.

When Harry reached his room, he was immediately drawn to the sound of wheezing and heaving.  Lying in a heap on his bed was a rumpled, decrepit owl by the name of Errol.  Errol was the family owl of Harry's best friend, Ron.  He rushed to the collapsed owl, relieved it of its letter, then carefully set it in Hedwig's cage.  He eagerly tore open Ron's letter.

Harry,

Hi!  I just received your letter today (today being June 16, who knows when Errol will arrive...I'm afraid he'll just collapse in midair on of these days).  I would have sent this with Pig but he went twittering about the attic, with the ghoul.  No way am I going to get him; he can come down when he wants.  I can't tell you anything about your dream...maybe we should ask Bat-eyed Trelawney; everyone knows she's your favorite teacher and all.

Harry laughed; Professor Trelawney was the Divination teacher at Hogwarts and notorious for predicting Harry's death.  She was also notorious for being air headed and inaccurate.  According to Professor Trelawney, Harry should have died at least five times by now.  He continued deciphering through Ron's illegible writing.

I wouldn't worry about it; I mean, it didn't sound too dangerous, and besides, your scar didn't even hurt, so maybe it was just a nightmare or something.  Sirius or Dumbledore will probably have the answer.

Anyway, Mum wants to know if you can come stay the rest of the summer with us.  We've been trying to reach Dumbledore, but we can't seem to find him anywhere.  Mum reckons if we don't hear from him by the first of July, we'll come to get you.  She thinks you'd be safer with us than those Muggles, but she doesn't want to do anything Dumbledore wouldn't approve of.  Well, hope to see you soon, if not, I'll see you at school (oh man I can hardly wait).  We'll keep trying to reach Dumbledore.

Ron

PS - Hermione's gotten really pretty.  She sent me a picture.

Harry laughed; he remembered how awkward it was for the two last year.  Their attraction was obvious, but neither chose to admit it.  He hoped they would be a bit more mature than they were last year.

Just then, Harry heard a haughty hoot behind him.  Hedwig had returned, and was looking rather disdainfully at the lump of dowdy feathers occupying her cage.  Harry saw that she had a few letters tied to her leg, and he quickly took them from her.  With a little coaxing, Harry was able to get Hedwig into her cage.

Harry looked at the letters in his hand.  The first he recognized as Hermione's.  He laughed at the ridiculous flowered envelope her letter came in.  He set it aside and looked at the next letter.  It was from Sirius.  The last letter was his own, addressed to Dumbledore.  Hedwig had never failed Harry before, but then, if the Weasleys couldn't find him, how could Hedwig?

Harry opened Hermione's letter first.  He pulled an equally flowered and (was that a fragrance?) girly stationary from the matching envelope.  Harry sighed and shook his head.  So Hermione was finally turning into a girl.  A Muggle picture fell out of the envelope as well.  Harry almost choked.  He had no idea how much of a girl Hermione had turned into.  The picture featured her in front of a tall white building that came to a point; the Washington Monument in the United States.  But that wasn't what took Harry's breath away.  The sun had apparently been very kind to Hermione this summer; her bronzed arms and golden cheeks smiled back at Harry.  Her simple tank top and jeans complemented her slender form.  Her curly hair seemed to be tamed into shiny chestnut ringlets.  Harry shook his head in disbelief.  He felt a strange, unfamiliar knot tighten in his stomach.  Was this...Hermione?  The same endearingly annoying teacher's pet?  Harry had always been fond of her; though she'd been his best friend for four years, she'd always been held in a different light than Ron.  Harry had always assumed it was just because she was a girl; and what a girl she was.  Harry's stomach flipped, with a strange mixture of anxiety and pleasure.  It felt like the feeling he got when he thought of Cho...but for Hermione?  He shook his head again and glanced down at her letter.

Dear Harry,

Hello there!  How has your summer been so far?  Thanks for your letter; it's so good to hear from you.  Your dream does worry me a bit, and I'm glad you've contacted Dumbledore.  He's sure to have the answer.  Have you checked your Divination book?  Inaccurate and flaky as the subject is, perhaps there is something in there about premonitions.

Harry laughed. As much as Hermione changed physically, mentally, she was exactly the same.  Dumbledore and books, her answer for everything.

My family has been spending our vacation in the United States.  You wouldn't believe the wonderful history this country has; both Muggle and magical.  I'm learning so much it ought to be illegal.  The wizarding world apparently is not as big a secret nor as big a deal here in the States.  Here, lots of Muggles claim to have magical powers (which they don't), so it's rather commonplace to be called a witch.  However, perhaps it is a better-kept secret here, because American Muggles don't believe it exists, which makes it easier to hide.  Did you know that roughly a third of the American presidents were wizards?  Amazing.  This place is wonderful; most of the monuments and memorials have hidden magical areas, like in the Washington Monument; Muggles think that their elevators reach the top levels, but it's charmed so the top few levels are accessible to the magical community only.  It seems Washington himself was a wizard.  So far, we have visited Washington D. C, New York, and Virginia.  We still have many states to go, and I'm eager to learn more.  Well, I can't wait to see you on September 1st!  Do take care of yourself, Harry dear.  

With love,
Hermione

Harry stared at her words "with love."  Sure, Hermione signed all her letters that way, but Harry couldn't help but wonder (and hope) that perhaps this time it meant more.  Harry smacked himself on the forehead.  

"What's WRONG with you these days?" he wondered aloud.  "This is Hermione; your best friend; the girl your other best friend likes.  Wake up, Harry!"  Harry didn't have feelings for Hermione.  Of course he didn't.  He couldn't.  Ron had already expressed his interest in her, and Harry couldn't break the first rule of friendship.  A wave of guilt washed over him for the mere thought of Hermione.

He opened Sirius' letter, hoping to drive Hermione from his mind.

Harry,

I don't have much time to write, but let me assure you that I'm fine and in no need of any worry.  I am with Remus; he sends his fondest regards.  Do not be surprised if you see me soon.  I don't know what to make of your dream; you're right; live snakes would be quite unsettling.  It was wise to consult Professor Dumbledore about your dream, but do not be alarmed if you cannot reach him.  As you know, these are dangerous times and Dumbledore is an important person.

Of course!  Why hadn't Harry realized it on his own?  Dumbledore was probably off on some secret mission, fighting evil.  The thought made him smile.

The orb is interesting, though I must admit, I have no idea what it is either.  I seem to recall an orb of some sort in an old tale my parents used to tell me, but I regret to tell you that I have no recollection of the tale or the orb's meaning.  Again, Dumbledore is your best source.

I know that your friend Ron has been trying to reach Dumbledore; I'll tell you how I know later.  What's important is that it is okay for you to spend the summer with the Weasleys.  We've sent word to them as well.

Harry's heart leapt.  He would get to spend two months with the Weasleys!  He couldn't imagine better news.

However, the Weasleys will not be picking you up.  The night of July 1st, I want you to stand outside at 8:00 and call for the Knight Bus.  The Knight Bus allows dogs; so don't leave without your dear dog, Snuffles.  That's all for now; take care.

Sirius

Harry was excited.  Not only did he get to escape the Dursleys and join his real family at the Burrow, but he also got to see his godfather again!  July first couldn't arrive fast enough.

*     *     *

Glorisuldal closed his eyes; he had no idea if this was going to work.  He had never called on all four elements of nature before.  He thought of his family, and of Elaurarwen, and sadness overcame his mind.  Never again would he lay eyes on them.  Never again could he revel in Elaurarwen's beauty and grace.  Never again could he be happy...he quickly chased these thoughts away.  Taking a deep breath, he stretched his arms to the heavens.

"O ara Hini Iluvataro, Eruhini, atanatari Eldar, Glorisuldal eru!" he cried.  "Ara fea, tir Glorisuldal.  Caranar lhach, uruloki; celebluin gaer, kel.  Beleg sul, cirya Glorisuldal kel; calendor, romen.  Thalion valar, tir Glorisuldal, ranmen, kel eredor. O beleg Vala!"  

Glorisuldal felt his power, as well as the power of nature, surge through him.  He vaguely heard the rolling sea crashing and the wind whipping around the trees.  He did not feel the earth shaking, nor notice the ring of fire that leapt up around him, for his eyes were pressed firmly shut, his concentration purely focused on summoning his power.