The Dursleys are attacked and the wizarding world's hope goes up in flames, literally.
In the quiet neighbourhood street of Privet Drive, a scrawny boy with messy black hair and emerald green eyes could be found washing a four door sedan in front of a meticulously kept house. Now this might seem normal to the casual observer, but this was no ordinary boy. A long lightning shaped scar marred the boy's forehead and a thin polished stick hung from his back pocket. Harry Potter was a wizard, and an unusual one at that.
When Harry was only one year of age he defeated the darkest wizard of the age. After his parents had been murdered trying to protect him, Lord Voldemort had turned his wand on him, the boy prophesised to be capable of defeating the Dark Lord. But a great and ancient magic was invoked from his parents' sacrifice, and the dark lord was defeated when the killing curse meant for the boy was reflected back upon him. Lily and James Potter died at the hands of the dark lord, yet Harry was left unscathed except for the scar on his forehead.
But this success was not meant to be, for some thirteen years later at the end of Harry's forth year at Hogwarts, the dark lord rose again. After dealing with a year of slander and lies from the magical government and wizarding press, who refused to believe the dark lord had returned, Harry was proven correct when Lord Voldemort showed himself at the Ministry of Magic. Although Voldemort had not successfully acquired the prophecy that he had been seeking, he had lured Harry Potter to the Department of Mysteries where it was hidden, and had killed the boy's godfather in the resulting fight.
The prophecy rested heavily upon his mind as he scrubbed at the car, Dumbeldore had finally revealed it to him after the events in the Department of Mysteries. Harry had to kill or be killed by Voldemort; there was no way around it. The prophecy had made Harry frightened and confused. He wanted more then anything to be able to talk to Sirius, he could help him through his problems. 'But I can't' he thought angrily, as a familiar pressure grew behind his eyes. It was Harry's fault that Sirius had died. If he had just listened to Hermione or Dumbledore he wouldn't have been lured into the Department of Mysteries. He sighed sadly, wiping his eyes across his sleave before returning his attention to the car.
As Harry rinsed the last of the soap residue off the shiny vehicle, a horse faced woman stuck her head out the front window of the house and snarled.
"Potter! Get in here and make some dinner, my poor Duddykins is starving." Rolling his eyes at the idea of his whale of a cousin ever starving, Harry sighed and cleaned up quickly before heading in to feed his hungry 'family'. After checking that the Dursleys had completely finished their meal and were otherwise preoccupied watching T.V. or spying on the neighbours, Harry quickly made himself a sandwich from the leftovers and quietly climbed the stairs to his room.
'I wonder if Hedwig's back?' He wondered absently, as he climbed over his cot to the window. He found two owls waiting patiently for him to open the window, while a small ball of feathers zoomed in circles above their heads. After allowing the calmer owls to enter, Harry quickly snatched the feathered menace out of the sky and untied a piece of rolled up parchment from its leg.
"Alright Pig, calm down or my uncle will hear. You know what happened last time; I'd hate to have to send you back to Ron missing more feathers." He said anxiously. At these words the hyperactive owl calmed down considerably, allowing Harry to place him in the large cage on the desk next to him. Now setting his attention on the large regal owl which was closest to him, he quickly untied the letter that was attached to its ankle, before handing it an owl treat and sending it on its way. The snowy white owl that remained calmly lifted her leg up, allowing access to her master's parcel whilst glaring daggers at the jittery owl now drinking the water in her cage.
"Alright girl, here you go." He said, quickly giving her some owl treats before she could grow too frustrated with Pig. Hooting gratefully, she swooped into her cage and pushed the miniscule intruder away from her water.
Snickering quietly at her antics, Harry unrolled the first piece of parchment to find his friend Ron's untidy scrawl:
Happy birthday mate! I hope the muggles are treating you well. I would send you some food, but I don't think Pig would survive the flight carrying anything more than a letter. Anyways, Hermione is here with us at you-know-where, and is currently spying over my shou... (Here the writing turned to a scribble, before it became a much tidier script.)
Ignore that idiot, Harry; he doesn't know what he is talking about. And happy birthday, we've decided to give you your presents when we see you in a couple of weeks, as Pig is too small and Errol is getting way to old to use anymore.
I hope that you are doing better; you know that Sirius would not want you to mourn his passing; he would want you to celebrate his life (Most likely by doing something that would make the Marauders proud). I want you to know that we all miss him, but he went out knowing that you were safe. He wouldn't want your memory of him to be clouded by the guilt and grief from something you weren't responsible for. (There were more scribbles as the writing changed once again)
Alright, enough of the sappy stuff, but she's right, mate. Don't beat yourself up over this; you are not responsible for it, Voldemort is.
Harry smiled absently when he noticed that his best friend had written Voldemort, instead of You-Know-Who or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
If you are going to blame anybody, blame him. I know this is easier said than done, but know that we all chose to come with you because we care about you (Bloody hell, she has me getting sappy too!). Just know that we are here for you, you are not alone.
On a happier note, Ginny was made prefect and I got five OWLs, while Hermione got eight. (Surprise, surprise). Hopefully we will see you soon, give the muggles hell! (Ouch, Hermione just punched me for that one!).
Ouch, fine... and Hermione
Smiling sadly, he placed the letter on the desk before picking up the remaining roll of parchment. Unrolling it, he froze. This was the results of his O.W.Ls. With bated breath, Harry slowly opened the letter:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Dear Mr. Potter,
Below you will find the results of your O.W.L. tests;
Transfiguration - Outstanding
Care of Magical Creatures - Exceeds Expectations.
History of Magic - Troll.
Potions - Outstanding.
Defence Against the Dark Arts - Outstanding.
Charms - Exceeds Expectations.
Astronomy - Acceptable.
Divination - Dreadful.
It should be noted that you have received the highest grade ever recorded for Defense Against the Dark Arts, Congratulations on your achievements.
He sighed in relief, he had gotten six OWLs. Feeling his heart beginning to beat normally again, he turned his attention to the rather long package, in which he found a note from the Headmaster of Hogwarts, Dumbledore, definitely not someone he wanted to hear from. Feeling his annoyance creep in, he opened the note:
I again want to apologize for the conversation that we had at the end of last term. I should have let you know during your first year instead of putting it off for so long. Please forgive an old man's mistake; you have every right to be angry with me. In the hopes of some kind of peace offering, I enclosed a certain object from a certain ex-professor, which I felt that you would like to have back.
Slowly, Harry reached inside the box and pulled out an all too familiar broom. Grinning widely, he stroked the polished wood of his Firebolt and began to repair the damage inflicted during its time in custody with Dolores Umbridge. After about an hour of intensive repair, he chanced a glance at his alarm clock to find that it was about fifteen minutes until midnight, fifteen minutes until he turned sixteen. Sighing, he carefully packed his broom away with his polishing kit. He was lying down on his tiny cot to relax when he heard a loud crash from downstairs.
AN- Please let me know how you like this story (if at all) by leaving me a review! No flames please! I'm still trying to deal with the charred remains of my room from my very first story (posted elsewhere for a reason!). Yep that's right, move that mouse just a little bit lower and to the left. See that little button marked "Review"? Good. Now press it!