This is not for profit, only fun. I admire J.K. Rowling's works and thought it would be fun to try my hand at Harry's sixth year.

A/N Here it is, Harry's sixth year. The story is complete and starts to improve in action and interest at about chapter three, so please bear with me? I will update every week or twice weekly, so the story will not just peter out like some do. Please read and review with respect.

Update 2012 - this piece was written years ago when I first started writing again after being out of school for over twenty years. You know the saying 'use it or lose it'? Well, yeah, I'd lost it, spelling, grammar, the whole works. I learned much since I wrote this but for now, I don't have time to go back and fix it but I'm leaving it up; it's a victory for me of sorts, I stuck with it and a few people liked it well enough while others didn't. It's all good. One day I hope to have time to go back and fix this story up, it still has a special place in my heart even though I cringe when I see mistakes that I wouldn't make now in my writing. It was a learning process and such fun to write. So much has changed since I wrote this story, it's mind boggling. I haven't written a Harry Potter story in years but I wish all writers and readers joy in their pursuits. J.K. Rowling has certainly given us a gift.

Harry Potter And The Fifth House

Book six

By Dianne

They say that your life flashes before your eyes when you are about to die. Harry lay, taking his last few breaths as the rain pounded his lifeless body. He knew he must be near the end, because his mind had already gone over most of the last sixteen years of his tortured life and now the last four weeks had begun to play like a tape in his mind. He tried in vain to figure out what mistakes he had made to lead him to the last days of his life, for the boy could always find a way to blame himself for everything that happened to him...and others... "Sirius..." he moaned softly as he thought back to the beginning of the summer, which had started with his mourning the death of his Godfather Sirius Black and had seemingly ended that horrific July night with his own death.

One month earlier:

Things were far from normal at number four Privet Drive, now that a sixteen-year-old boy named Harry Potter, had once again been forced to live with the occupants of this house. Harry's relative's, Aunt Petunia, uncle Vernon and their own sixteen-year-old son Dudley, dreaded the summer months, which brought with them an unwilling and unwelcome house guest.

Even though the Dursleys knew that Harry must spend a certain number of days with them for his own protection, it didn't make their disposition any more welcoming. On the contrary, the threat from Sirius Black (Harry's late godfather) to Aunt Petunia to keep Harry as a resident of her home, only made living there more terrible.

Aunt Petunia, who was usually outspoken and well dressed, seemed almost sulky and unkempt. She seemed to be walking on eggshells around Uncle Vernon, while being especially doting on Dudley and more venomous toward Harry than ever before. She cast him a furtive look across the kitchen table, as if she thought that at any moment he might explode.

Harry stared at his plate, which for the first time in two years at the Dursley's house was full of normal food, not that healthy rabbit food as Uncle Vernon had called it. Aunt Petunia had been cooking meals like they were going to be the last meal the family ever ate, and even though Harry Potter had no appetite just now, the irony of the situation never escaped him.

Yes, Aunt Petunia knew that Lord Voldemort had returned and could no longer pretend that her sister Lily had never been a witch who attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, nor could she force Harry to tell a lie that he had not believed since he was eleven, when he was told the truth about his parents. James and Lily Potter had not died in a car crash when Harry was one year old. No, James and Lily Potter had been killed because they had refused to join the dark Lord Voldemort.

Aunt Petunia had had to come clean to Uncle Vernon, whom all these years had believed that his upstanding, normal, spic and span wife, in fact knew much more about the wizarding world than she had ever spoken of, even to her so called respectable husband Vernon. Harry had thought Aunt Petunia was oblivious to anything magic, as even the word itself was loathingly referred to in the Dursley household as the "M" word, and was punishable by anything from extra chores to lockup for even saying it.

The state of shock and mourning that Harry was in, over the death of his Godfather Sirius Black, ranged from grumpy silence to fits of rage. It was the rage that Harry was most frightened of, for at times he could not distinguish whether the rage was his own or the rage of Lord Voldemort over having lost a weapon he so desperately needed to take over the wizarding world. Harry had placated himself that his anger was all his own, reasoning that the scar on his forehead which he had received from Voldemort on the day his parents had been killed, hadn't so much as stung since his return to Privet drive. Harry had been able to feel, or was forced to feel Voldemort's strongest emotions since the last school year so strongly that at times he thought he was going mad. Well, Harry thought, I've either mastered this connection or Voldemort is too far away...

Even with this false reassurance from himself, Harry felt no better. After all, no one in the wizarding world had even sent him a sympathy card, let alone given him advice on how to deal with his feelings over the recent murder of his Godfather. Harry tried to persuade himself that Ron and Hermione, his two best friends, were just busy. It was amazing to Harry how things went back to normal after a death, except for people or rather person; Harry being Sirius's only heir, and the only person who was outwardly mourning his death. Life couldn't get much worse. The only contact Harry had with the wizarding world, was receiving his copy of the Daily Prophet (the wizarding world's largest newspaper).

The cold callous obituary was complete with a moving picture of Sirius Black at his most scruffy time. The picture, looking sad and haunted, was entitled, Sirius Black, Captured and Killed in Uproar at Ministry of Magic. Harry gritted his teeth and fury overtook him. Dumbledore should have seen to it that Sirius had a funeral fit for a King, and that he was at last revealed as the hero he was and not the mass murderer he was painted as, and had been sent to Azkaban prison for without a trial.

Harry always felt extremely young when he was referred to as The Boy Who Lived, in newspaper articles. Very young, and more than ever, very alone, for the last hope for having a home where he was loved and cared for was now gone. "I'm sixteen soon, I don't need a home now," he lied to himself. Harry had resisted crying outwardly since he was a child, since it was never met with a gentle hand or loving reassurance. Harry felt hot tears falling down his cheeks, though his face bore no expression. His chest was heaving and he could feel the blood pumping in his temples. His jaws had been clamped so tight that his teeth hurt. Harry opened his bedroom window and tried to gulp in some air, but it had been so hot and dry in Little Whinging, that the air seemed devoid of oxygen. Forcing himself to calm down, it suddenly struck Harry that Aunt Petunia owed him an explanation as to how she came to know Sirius Black and all about Dementors and whatever else she knew about the wizarding world. But Aunt Petunia had flatly refused to speak of such abominations as magic, even though Harry had begged her time again to tell him more of his family history.

Now one of the people Harry most despised, Professor Severus Snape, Potions master at Hogwarts, came to mind. What Harry would do if he could get his hands on a vial of veratiserum (truth serum) that Snape had used in Harry's presence and had threatened him with on several occasions. Knowing that he could not obtain veratiserum, Harry devised a plan using the closest thing he could get without using magic, alcohol. Aunt Petunia had been drinking rather a lot more alcohol than Harry had ever seen her consume. In her so called blissfully ignorant days of entertaining Vernon's drill business clients, she would daintily sip on an ounce of Sherry for an hour. Now however, there were empty wine bottles littering the cupboard under the stairs, which used to serve as Harry's bedroom. True, the house was still surgically clean, but the alcohol had wreaked havoc on Aunt Petunia's usual neat appearance. Firstly, she had gained weight from the overindulgence of alcohol, leaving Harry to guess that all of Dudley's obesity hadn't necessarily come from Vernon's side of the family. Secondly, because she did not hold her liquor well, she could frequently be found napping in unladylike slouches, muttering nonsense mixed with just enough key words ordinary muggles wouldn't use, to make Harry even more intrigued to get inside his aunt's head.

The plan to get Aunt Petunia drunk to make her talk, was going exceedingly well. Two more glasses of wine past her usual after dinner five glasses and Aunt Petunia was as loose as a goose. "Why are you offering to bring me my wine?" she slurred "You've never lifted a finger in this house, after we have given you the food off our table..."

"Yeah, Yeah, Yeah" Harry thought to himself, having heard this brandishment every day of his life at Privet Drive. "Just get to it," he thought desperately, looking at his watch. Uncle Vernon would be home from his golf game any time, and Harry's inquisition would be over before it even began.

"Potter!" muttered Petunia, her horse face contorting as though saying the name was like uttering a swear word.

"Yes ma'am,' gritted Harry trying to sound cordial.

"No not you boy." She slammed down her glass pointing her finger at him, "Your father James." This was the first time she had referred to Harry's father as anything but "that Potter" or "that strange boy." This made Harry snap to and pay close attention to Aunt Petunia's strained voice for the first time since she had come clean about how and why Harry's parents had died.

"Oh, little Jamie, come to ask for Lily's hand," simpered Aunt Petunia, drowsily getting to a point Harry feared would never come. "Well Petunia, guess that leaves you an old maid... Your father thought he was so big, so special, so..." She seemed to nod off for a moment. This wasn't the first time Harry had been ashamed to find that his father could be a little more than callous to people. He had seen in a pensieve, James's unwarranted cruel behaviour to a certain now professor Severus Snape while they were still students at Hogwarts, but Harry had heard nothing but praise for his father. He had thought James would have grown out of strutting around like a peacock, by the time he was out of Hogwarts.

He was disheartened only for a moment over his father's bad behaviour, for when he looked back at Petunia she looked back at him, apparently out of her little drunken nod and said, " Oh I do love you Harry," which is something Harry knew was what a drunk person would say to a cold bathroom floor. He forced his revulsion at her words, the only time she had ever spoken them, back down to the pit of his stomach. The shock at hearing " I love you," even on a drunken pretense, had made Harry realize that no one had ever said those three words to him in fifteen years, and the only time he had ever heard them in his life had been before he was one year old. Aunt Petunia had nodded again, leaving Harry with what he knew was a futile effort to remember his mom or dad saying, " I love you." He was so intent upon his quest for a memory, he fancied he saw his parents face looking down on him and saying , "I love you, little one." Harry must have nodded as well in the stifling heat of the close sitting room. He was startled awake by what started as another, " I love you" moment. This time his mother's face swam before his baby eyes "I love you forever, Harry." She kissed his forehead where his scar, which today marked an otherwise smooth face, had been so cruelly marked upon him after her death. She looked scared, but earnest. She uttered some words of which Harry understood just one, "Petunia," than there was a blast of green light and Harry woke up with a start, hardly remembering at all why he was here with Aunt Petunia alone.

His head too full to continue his interrogation, Harry stumbled upstairs and fell onto his bed, staring unblinkingly at the ceiling just as Uncle Vernon thumped heavily into the house, sweating profusely under the weight of his golf bag. Leaving Harry with no time to himself for his thoughts or pursuits, seemed to be Uncle Vernon's mission in life lately. "Boy," he bellowed up the stairs, "come put my golf things away." Uncle Vernon's disposition seemed to indicate he had done poorly today.

As Harry descended the stairs, he looked at his fat purple faced uncle, who was in turn looking at Aunt Petunia with something between pity and annoyance. When he saw Harry, he looked at his watch and said, "she's usually not this far in the bag until ten." He narrowed his piggy eyes at Harry. "What did you do, boy? You haven't been pestering her with questions again, have you? I forbid you," he hissed, " to ask her any questions about your...your abnormality... Things were fine before you brought those people into her life. We might have to keep you here, but I will not tolerate..."

"So Vernon," said Harry, leaving out the uncle title, "did you know about the wizard ties to Petunia's family," he went on, leaving out the aunt title. Harry was feeling recklessly blunt now. "Maybe she wouldn't get tanked every night if you took your head out of the sand pit at the golf and country club, (where the Dursleys were still respected members,) and listened to her, instead of keeping up appearances." Harry didn't want to sound like he was defending Aunt Petunia, there just wasn't any other way to say it. Besides, if she was allowed to spill the beans, Harry could use Fred and George's ear device ( without using underage magic, ) to eavesdrop, since he had failed to extract information from Aunt Petunia spectactularly.

Harry tried to put on his best helpful tone in what he said next. "Aunt Petunia," he put the Aunt title back in, "can't go to a Psychiatrist. Most of them belong to Grunnings Golf and Country Club. How would it sound when Dr. so and so goes and tells his high society, bridge club attending wife, that poor Petunia Dursley finally lost it?" Uncle Vernon Knew how fast juicy tidbits spread among the socially elite people, some of whom were Grunnings clients.

Uncle Vernon surveyed Harry with a mix of apprehension and looked about to ask Harry something. " No," he said at last, when I married Petunia, we agreed to forget about this magic nonsense." His mouth spat out the word magic like it was as disgusting as a dung bomb.

"Well," pressed Harry, "it's only a matter of time before she drinks too much at the lady's garden party." Harry held up the invitation, embossed in gold and pink and addressed to Mrs Petunia Dursley. The R.S.V.P. card had already been torn and sent off. "Mailed it myself," Harry taunted him, " I believe she stated her intention to attend. Said something about it being good to get out of the house and socialize and maybe have some lovely cocktails." Harry only half lied, for Aunt Petunia, upon ordering him to deliver the reply card, had also used it as an opportunity to insult him again. "At least I'll get out of this house and away from you," she had scowled at him.

Harry knew Uncle Vernon had been lying about playing golf. Vernon Dursley had no more interest in any sport, than Harry had in being friends with Dudley. Using this information, he told Uncle Vernon, quite truthfully, that in addition to attending a gossipy tea party, she was going to invite all of Uncle Vernon's best clients over for dinner and a round of drinks.

It had been three months since Vernon Dursley had entertained a client in his home, owing largely to the fact that Petunia had ended up losing him a very large order of drills, after she sat on the lap of one Samuel J. M.M.. Lougheed the third, while his glowering wife stared in disgust. All the while she was singing a muggle song about a ship called Britannia.

Uncle Vernon looked utterly speechless. Harry guessed he had pushed the right buttons to get Uncle Vernon to question Aunt Petunia when she sobered up. He guessed this because as he nodded his head and tweaked his moustache, he hoisted his golf bag (which contained only putters, to Harry's amusement) and put it away himself.

Harry set up Fred and Georges's "magic ears" and settled himself uncomfortably at "Dudley's old desk , which scraped his knees as he slid the chair in, owing to the fact that the desk had belonged to Dudley at the age of ten. Everything Harry had at the Dursley's were hand-me-downs from Dudley and had been well ruined. Having received no summer homework, Harry sat with his chin resting on his left hand and a quill in his right, not wanting to miss one word of what he wanted to hear. He guessed correctly that Uncle Vernon was terrified of Petunia's giving up their long held secret about there being witches in the family, and would try to coerce her to talk to him, rather than her gossipy friends at the bridge club, and he would get his family history at last, or at least more of it than he knew at the present.

"Um, Petunia dear," Uncle Vernon paused, as he passed her a hot cup of tea in a fussy china mug. Uncle Vernon had never waited on Aunt Petunia before. "I know when we married and I caught you in that unfortunate position," he went on, offering a tray of biscuits he had made himself.

This change in Uncle Vernon's demeanor didn't escape even the bleary eyed Aunt Petunia, who with a most unladylike belch, sat upright out of her slouch. " Oh Vernon!" she wailed, " you promised!"

"Yes, but now dear, it might help you feel better if you explained why you feel the absolute need to distance yourself from your family." He stopped as she shot him an angry look.. " Of course I completely agree that they were freaks," he added to placate her. He despised the memory of his former in-laws as much if not more than she ever had, though he couldn't quite remember why, apart from the fact that Lily had been a witch. Uncle Vernon kept his voice light and reassuring and tried to agree with everything Aunt Petunia was telling him, but to no avail.

"How could you!" she screamed, hurrying off upstairs and slamming the bedroom door. Harry wouldn't need Fred and George's invention now, as what was about to be said, was going to be dragged out and yelled through the thin walls at number four Privet Drive, and Harry didn't wonder if it was to be heard throughout the attatched dwelling complex.

Harry, although he had his ear pressed to his bedroom door, caught a glimpse of number seven's house lights come on as if the neighbours were looking out to see what the normally quiet street's disturbance was.

Aunt Petunia would not to speak him, so Uncle Vernon's tone became one of first frustration, than anger, to a direct order. "You will tell me now Petunia Evans!" followed by complete silence, than at last a heaving Aunt Petunia found her voice. If Harry had not heard Aunt Petunia's name, he would have sworn that Uncle Vernon had been addressing him.

"The only reason I married you, Dursley, was to forsake the name of Evans forever as soon as possible!"

"Now Petunia, you don't mean that." Uncle Vernon sounded like someone had let the wind out of his sails.

"Oh Vernon, I'm so ashamed! When Lily came for summer holidays from that school of hers, she had a fascinating potions book in her trunk. I fancied you so much, so tall, so strong, so handsome in your Smelting's uniform..." Harry thought he was going to be sick. "But you never noticed me. You always paid attention to the...ehm, fuller bodied girls. I tried to follow the directions from the book. I...uh...borrowed Lily's wand, cauldron, and potions bag, to, you know -enlarge certain inadequacies, so you would look at me in the way you looked at those other girls. Oh Vernon it was awful! Lily found out and she, well she, for lack of a better word enhanced certain parts of me. I couldn't fit my blouses. I fell over forward. I was humiliated!" She caught her breath and went on. "And do you know what my parents did? Nothing! They said Lily had been punished enough by having received a warning about underage wizardry from some crackpot Ministry for Magic, and what was worse? Lily pretended not to know the counter curse, so these people from the Ministry of Magic showed up to-to, uh shrink things. When they arrived, they all had a good laugh about it and I heard that Lily could merely have uttered 'reducto' and I would have been back to normal. That Hog Warts was more important to her than her own sister. As amusing as all this was including the Hog Warts that Harry hadn't found amusing until now, it wasn't enlightening him in the slightest. Harry couldn't imagine this one little fight separating two sisters forever, but Petunia was proud and obstinate and although Lily had, according to Petunia apologized many times, Petunia had never accepted.

"I promised myself," Aunt Petunia continued, " that I would never do or say anything about magic ever again, but on Lily's second vacation and you still ignoring me completely... Oh she was so popular even with our kind. When she went out, I took her things again. I opened the chapter on Love Potions . I mixed everything right you know..." She trailed off as if all these years later she was still trying to figure out what went wrong. "Oh promise me you won't hate me Vernon." She actually sounded scared.

"Go on, Petunia dear." Harry couldn't tell whether Uncle Vernon was concealing anger or simply being patient. He had been fooled before.

"So," Petunia said, plucking up her courage, "I gave you a teaspoon, just a teaspoon, Vernon..." she trailed off. You took my shoes off and started kissing my feet and when my mother came into the room, you did the same thing to her. You didn't know what you were doing. Naturally, when my father came home and you challenged him to a duel with your smeltings stick for his wife and daughter's hand in marriage, he promptly hit you once and you fell like a sack of bricks."

"I only did it because I loved you, so to prove my love, I confessed to having made a potion, but Lily got another letter from the underage wizardry whatchymacallums and those reversal nutters came to the house again. They did some memory work on you. They said something about the pot I mixed the ingredients in not being thick enough."

'So cauldron thickness does matter,' Harry thought, jotting it down to amuse Ron and Hermione. Than during a fleeting moment, he thought he couldn't wait to tell Sirius...somehow as amusing as all this was, Harry was lapsing into grief again.

"Once again, I got all the blame." Aunt Petunia sounded falsely accused. Mommy and daddy grounded me and forbade me to leave the house for a month. You were finally attracted to me once you found out I was grounded-a dangerous woman." Aunt Petunia made what she thought must have been a seductive tiger growl. "Even though you couldn't remember why after your...uh...unfortunate alteration." (One of the wizards from the magical reversal squad, had sprouted Vernon a cheesy moustache which he wore to this day, thinking it quite dashing.)Vernon would never know that the moustache had been added to cheer Lily up about her second warning.

"You came to my bedroom window every night with the Smeltings choir and only left when daddy got out his rifle..." she recalled dreamily. Uncle Vernon seemed not to have heard anything since the two little words 'love potion' had been uttered. He had been strangely silent.

"So!" he bellowed, apparently not to have taken to heart the fact that the love potion had failed utterly. "I'm married to one of those...one of those..." Harry could almost hear Uncle Vernon's temples pounding. In his frustration, Uncle Vernon had clumsily grabbed his golf bag and stomped down the stairs and out the door, driving away rather faster than keeping up appearances of normality would allow.

Harry was taken aback by all that had transpired, but it was nothing compared to what would happen next. Aunt Petunia was sobbing and calling him to her room. He had never even peered in there before, let alone been invited into Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon's room before, in fact , he had been downright forbidden.

Harry swallowed hard, remembering Dumbledore's words. He needed to be welcome under this roof at all costs, the main one being his very life, for it was the one place where dwelt the only living person who shared the same blood as his mother. It was this very blood that Harry realized must have been part of the protection incantation his mother had uttered in his daydream when she had told him that she loved him so desperately. Although not happy here, Voldemort could not touch Harry while he lived at number four Privet Drive. The protective virtue although not as strong as it had been all these years in Privet Drive, still held some virtue. The blood that Voldemort had obtained from Harry could not completely erase the protective charm, much to the Dark Lord's fury.

Harry had no intentions of comforting Aunt Petunia, nor did she want him to. When he entered, she seemed to be back to her stiff upper lipped routine of days gone by. "Sit down Harry." She gestured to a chair, but when he sat down and she did not, he stood back up again, not wanting to be in a submissive position. No, those days were gone, now he was growing up and he was going to defend himself. "Harry," Petunia said calmly.

"Oh great here it comes. This is all your fault boy. If it wasn't for you, we'd be holidaying in Majorca by now." Harry thought and he readied himself for something like this, but it turned out he did not have to defend himself this time.

"Harry dear." She was actually sounding like Mrs. Weasley . "How long has Uncle Vernon been having an affair?" Harry didn't know whether to laugh or bite his tongue as he thought of a reply that would at least resemble the truth and wouldn't get him kicked out. All the while she surveyed his face, trying to discern an answer from his expression. Harry wanted to be blunt and tell her that Uncle Vernon wasn't having an affair, but was entertaining clients in the high class pubs and restaurants so he wouldn't have to bring them home to number four Privet Drive, dwelling of the 'homewrecker,' as the wife of one Uncle Vernon's most important clients called it.

What was even more hilarious to Harry was picturing Uncle Vernon with another woman, after all 'I ask you' Harry thought to himself, what kind of woman in her right mind would attach herself to that jowl jawed, foul tempered oaf. And that moustache! Harry chuckled despite himself, remembering the wizard who had apparently given it to him to be funny.

Aunt Petunia did not like to be corrected. She would rather believe that Uncle Vernon was having an affair than blame her unladylike behaviour for his long absences of late. Harry didn't dare contradict her, but he prided himself on not telling lies, plus there was the fact that she would make his life more hellish than it already was if he did. And than it happened. Harry was granted unprecedented freedom, in the form of a bribe of course, but he thought to take it rather than leave it.

"Of course, Harry, with our social standing, I couldn't possibly hire a private detective, and my poor innocent sweet Dudley must know nothing of this. Why, I already had to increase his allowance and buy him more presents to compensate for his father's lack of attention." Harry had to close his eyes and pretend to have dust in them so as not to disparage her ickle Diddydums in from of Aunt Petunia. "That of course leaves you. You will follow Uncle Vernon night and day. I will give you train fare to follow him into work..." seizing his opportunity, Harry asked hopefully . "Can I have some money to buy lunch and sodas in town?"

"Certainly not." Aunt Petunia snapped. You will take a bag lunch." Harry's hopes deflated. He had never had muggle money for his own and although fairly well to do in the wizarding world, Harry had never been dressed, nourished or properly supplied for in the muggle world. Harry had to think quickly. Putting on his most sensible and reasoning voice, he said, "Aunt Petunia, I could do this for you, but you know if Uncle Vernon goes for lunch or cocktails I couldn't follow him into one of the expensive establishments without cash. I'd need money so as to be considered a customer and not be kicked out for loitering."

Aunt Petunia spluttered, "but, but," than finally pried her purse open, extracting her wallet with her still bony fingers. She looked pained as she took out five pounds. She was quickly snapping it shut when Harry cleared his throat loudly indicating that this was not going to be enough. "It's going to cost a slight bit more for me to be allowed into those fancy places Uncle Vernon frequents. Harry knew this because he had been left in the car with a cold sandwich while the Dursleys had dined out on many occasions.

Aunt Petunia was full of surprises. She ordered Harry to leave the room, but Harry made sure to leave a space to peer through the door. Aunt Petunia lifted up the expensive wool handwoven area rug in the middle of the floor and Harry's jaw dropped as she pried up a loose floor board. Harry was not the only one with a secret hiding place. An envelope with the words 'Petunia's mad money' written on it was drawn out. Harry was stuck between amazement and confusion as to the utter stupidity of such a label, but Aunt Petunia had always been obsessive compulsive about everything in it's place and a place for everything. Harry was elated, when with a disapproving look at him, she handed him more money than he'd ever had in his muggle life. "You are such a slovenly pale faced boy. These clothes.." she clucked as if the baggy worn clothes were his fault, "are completely inappropriate for this task."

'Well duh,' thought Harry. Even Dudley's clothing from three years ago did not fit properly. He had been given a sizeable amount of money to buy some 'acceptable clothing.' Aunt Petunia had been sure to add that he wouldn't look good in anything anyway, just to spoil his anticipation of shopping on his own for once in the muggle streets of London with money to actually buy stuff.

Uncle Vernon had thumped upstairs at almost three a.m., waking the entire household. No one seemed brave enough to complain, even Dudley who at this age would still throw temper tantrums and take the day off school, complaining of fatigue after being awoken at these hours.

The next morning at 7:00 am sharp, Harry was woken up by Aunt Petunia's impetulant pounding on the door as though he should been up hours ago. Dudley opened his bedroom door and glared at her and she hastily consoled him with a promise of a full English breakfast in bed for the sheer inconvenience of it all.

Harry was hurried out the door still buttoning his shirt, without so much as a glass of juice. Aunt Petunia had shoved a journal and pen into his hands and ushered him out the door. Of course Harry had no intention of following Uncle Vernon around all day. He knew perfectly well that Uncle Vernon was only doing Business. Just to make it seem like some footwork had been done, Harry decided he would at least, eat at the same establishments as Uncle Vernon.

Harry arrived in London, and had some time to kill until noon when, he, that no good for nothing boy, would be dining at the Pomme de Terre. Harry chuckled to himself wondering why people always thought places withe French names were always classy, after all in English, the restaurant's name was simply, "The Potato".

As he walked along looking for a suitable place to buy himself his "incognito" clothing, Harry had a pang of guilt that made him think of his criticisms of a few days past that people go on with their lives quickly after a death. His grief returned to him as if had never left. If he didn't know better, he would have sworn there was a Dementor nearby, sucking all the happiness from the place. It was with a heavy heart in remembrance of Sirius that Harry chose instead of normal clothing, a black pair of pants and shirt and tie. He looked about to attend a funeral and in fact was asked by the clerk if this was so.

Harry was leaving the shop when he realized something. He was never allowed to have anything, even decent clothes. Sirius hadn't died trying to save him so he could punish himself for the rest of his life. Lord Voldemort, and in fact half the students of Hogwarts already did a bang up job of that as it was, 'thanks very much,' Harry thought to himself as he stepped back into the store. Looking at Harry still dressed in Dudley's old clothes, the salesman figured he must have spent his last dime on the black outfit. She was less than helpful. Harry felt his humiliation rising, and he would not have his first taste of freedom ruined. He reached into his wallet and pulled out the large amount money, making sure the snobby clerk had a good clear view of it. Obviously on commission, the sales clerk sprang into instant helpfulness. "Forget it," said Harry as the scandalised looking clerk stared after him leaving to enter the shop across the way. He left carrying a large bag of expensive jeans, sports jerseys and trainers.

Harry, who had been quite reckless since Sirius's death, spotted a large black dog across the four lane street. Before he could even stop himself...before he could even remind himself of the painfully obvious fact that Sirius wasn't coming back in his black dog animagus form or otherwise, he sprang into traffic, calling his godfather's name. Everything seemed to be in slow motion. Harry didn't hear the honking horns and calls of "hey, watch what you're doing!" As his waking eyes watched the poor dog fly through the air, having bounded into traffic to answer Harry's call and getting struck for his happy obedience to answer any friendly call, no matter what name was called to the poor thing, Harry's tormented anguished mind's eye saw Sirius falling through the veil of night, never to return to him again.

The image of Sirius faded from Harry's view as he was jolted back to the reality of just how sick he had been to think that Sirius would be strolling around London, when he thought he had finally come to accept that he was dead. The very real normal dog, lay in a heap on the road amidst the honking horns of the unsympathetic, who just wanted 'it' removed from the roadway so they could get where they were going, and the throngs of pedestrians who stood by wondering why the dog had suddenly bounded into moving traffic. Part of Harry wished the dog had just vanished like Sirius had done, because he couldn't face the whimpering noises and shivering of it's battered body. He knew it was his fault. Sirius was his fault, Cedric was his fault...it was all his fault.

Harry just stood there, legs feeling like they would buckle from under him until he was jolted back into the horrible moment when a lady addressed him directly.

"It just ran out and there was nothing I could do," sobbed the lady who had struck the rather shabby looking dog. She felt so bad as she took in Harry's equally shabby appearance, still wearing Dudley's old clothes for some reason, that she figured Harry must be from a poor family and this dog must be his only friend in the whole world. The poor lady's imagine ran away with her, figuring that Harry would be beaten for taking his dog out without a leash. She pressed some money into Harry's hands and drove off in a very large expensive car.

The animal shelter van pulled up just as Harry was kneeling on the pavement stroking the dying dog's fur. " I'm sorry boy...I'm so stupid! How could I have done this?" Harry felt even more guilty when the black lab licked his hand and looked at him with his large amber eyes. "You're not going to die," Harry decided. The animal control officer appraised Harry's appearance and again jumping to the conclusion that Harry was extremely poor, assured him that the dog would be 'put to sleep' humanely. Harry always thought 'put to sleep was a very deceptive way to tell someone that the dog would be killed. He would be no less dead just for the difference of a few words.

"No," said Harry with a voice laced with so much conviction it hurt. "This dog will not die. Please just give us a ride to a vet's office."

"But son, these injuries are probably beyond repair, leastways without big bucks." He looked sympathetic, but resolute on the destruction of the dog. "You know, if you want, you can bring your parents into the shelter and buy another dog for cheaper than fixing up this one."

"I want this dog!" bellowed Harry, surprising even himself. Other than Hedwig his owl, Harry had never had a pet. He'd never been allowed. "I've got money. Please take me to a vet! He's dying!" Harry wished more than anything that he could get ahold of Professor Grubbly Planks, who had mended Hedwig when she had been injured. Even Madame Pomfrey who looked after humans would do.

"I just need a ride to the vets," Harry pleaded again, but the man already had a syringe filled to kill the dog. Harry had been through hell this year, and the more he thought about it, life was hell. Suddenly whether this dog lived or died seemed to Harry to be the deciding factor in whether or not he should keep fighting to have a decent life and defeat Voldemort or just give up and wait for the inevitable to happen, the duel to death with Voldemort as the prophecy had foretold. Harry felt if he could undo the wrong he had done today and save this life, he would keep trying to save his own.

Okay, that's chapter one. I promise it will heat up more around chapter three. I thank you for the reviews...very honest. I have fixed some of the errors mentioned in the reviews, so I'd like to thank everyone, and in the next chapters, I will be more specific about some of the wonderful people who have pointed out flaws and encouraged me at the same time. I'm glad you like it, and like I said, soon, the Weasleys and the whole gang will be in the story and things will take off.