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A/N: Many thanks to my beta-reader Ash. Ash and her friend Lex will help me improve my story :-).

Chapter Three: The Boy-Who-Didn't-Die

The moon shone through the windows of number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. Number four equated all other square houses along the street, with their square cut hedges, short-cut lawns and trimmed flowerbeds. This time of day, nearly all residents of Privet Drive were sleeping more or less peacefully; all but one almost sixteen year old boy, who, lying in his bed, was trying everything to stay awake.

Harry Potter had been so desperate that he had started to read through the entire works of Gilderoy Lockhart. At the moment he was halfway through Magical Me, a forged autobiography about the most heroic adventurer - Lockhart himself, of course - describing his numerous encounters with all sorts of dangerous creatures, countless conflicts with evil dark wizards, and an everlasting battle with an oversized ego.

Years ago, Harry and Ron had revealed that Lockhart was nothing more than a fraud, only capable of powerful memory charms, which he used to erase the minds of those wizards and witches who had told him the stories he had written down as his own experiences. His writing style was as pompous as he himself, but Harry had to admit, whosoever had truly undergone the adventures, the stories were enthralling.

Nevertheless, the whole reason to read was a desperate but ineffective attempt not to fall asleep. It was far beyond midnight, Harry's eyelids were heavy, and the description of Lockhart saving a gorgeous Indian Princess from a rampaging giant wasn't able to keep him awake. Eventually, his eyes closed just the moment the Princess fainted into Lockhart's arms. They snapped open a second later, when his forehead connected with the book, only to steadily fall shut anew. Harry's mind was floating in a state between waking and sleeping, dealing with a mountain troll and a bushy haired princess, who was lecturing a freckled, red haired knight, whilst she knocked out the troll with a huge tome of /Hogwarts: A History/.

This time his head missed the book and sank into the soft pillow. His subconscious told him there'd be no need to open his eyes again. Later, he wouldn't remember where his dream had started and at which point it had turned into a nightmare. His mind swirled around, dashing forward along memories, passing locations he had visited over the years, and then, suddenly, with a thud he landed on the ground in the middle of nowhere.

"Wormtail," a high-pitched voice hissed, "our guest has arrived," and two glaring red eyes manifested in his mind.

Hours later, Harry awoke, his body trembling and drenched in sweat, and he didn't even know if it had been a dream at all. Like every goddamn night.

---

At first it seemed as if Mad-Eye Moody's threat had made an impact on Vernon Dursley. When Harry's relatives had picked him up at King's Cross Station, Arthur Weasley, Nymphadora Tonks, Remus Lupin, and especially Mad-Eye Moody hadn't asked but ordered the Dursleys to treat Harry well, and the appearance of four determined wizards had impressed them. However, the moment Harry and his relatives had left the station, Vernon Dursley stated clearly that, whatever those freaks said, the boy had to earn his living at his house. Thus, Harry Potter had to suffer from his Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon nearly as much as every summer.

Usually Harry had early breakfast with the elder Dursleys, commonly used by Uncle Vernon to complain about Harry's kind in general, about Harry, Harry's hair or Harry's untidy downy beard. The latter had been a huge exaggeration, but it had resulted in his Aunt handing him a cheap razor later that day and in Harry gaining some painful experiences the following morning. Since then shaving was something he had decided to skip the moment he would leave Privet Drive.

Aunt Petunia saw that her nephew didn't eat too much so that there was enough left for Dudley. After all, her son shouldn't die of starvation. Not that Harry bothered; his appetite was afflicted with the events at the Department of Mysteries as much as his mind was. He ate even less than usual and mostly abandoned lunch entirely. After breakfast he was given the daily chores while Dudley slept in. After such a successful school year at Smeltings, the poor boy needed his rest. Of course, Duddydums would have to re-sit most of his exams, but that was only a minor defect of a great boxing season, wasn't it?

Over the days he had to clean out the attic and tidy the garden shed, repair and repaint the wooden fence, do the gardening, and similar jobs, while Dudley was strolling around with his gang. Of course, Harry's work scarcely met the requirements of his relatives, so he had to do most of his assignments all over again. It bothered him, but then again, he was glad to be preoccupied with something as ordinary as cleansing the gutter or doing Dudley's laundry. The latter was a distasteful but nevertheless completely hazard-free task, which allowed him to suppress his grief and his guilt about the death of his godfather, Sirius Black, at least for some hours.

At night, everything he had suppressed by day came back - and Harry wasn't able to resist. In his nightmares he had to relive the deaths of his parents and Cedric Diggory; over and over again he had to witness the ritual of Voldemort's return; night after night he stumbled in the trap at the Department of Mysteries, where his friends were seriously injured; again and again he saw Sirius hit by a curse and falling backwards through the veil.

Then there was the prophecy: "Marked as his equal," it said. "The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord," it said. He was marked to kill Voldemort, destined by a prophecy given by that old fraud Trelawney sixteen years ago.

"Either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives."

Day and night he was haunted by these words. He wanted to disbelieve the prophecy, he really wanted to doubt that Trelawney was able to predict anything even resembling a possible future. But he knew it was a real prediction, as real as her announcement of Voldemort's resurrection. Perhaps part of the prophecy had already been fulfilled, Halloween night, fourteen years ago, with the first downfall of Lord Voldemort, or in his second year, with the destruction of Riddle's diary. But the rest was quite clear: One of them had to kill the other. And there was no doubt who would survive the encounter.

How could he, a not even sixteen year old boy, finish off the most dangerous dark wizard of all times? Whether weeding the flowerbeds or digging through Dudley's underwear, the thought never really left him.

Oh, yeah, right. The power the Dark Lord knows not! His skills at Quidditch? "Love," Dumbledore had said, was that unknown power. Indeed, the power Voldemort had been surprised of was the powerful love of Harry's mother, her sacrifice, which had saved his life twice. But the Dark Lord had outmanoeuvred this 'power' during his resurrection by using Harry's blood. He had even proven he was able to touch the boy. It was sheer luck that he hadn't killed him on the spot.

Oh, Harry had defeated the Dark Lord five times as of now. Mere luck and the sacrifice of his mother had enabled him to win, and the last two 'fights' had been narrow escapes, not brave victories. In the Ministry of Magic, Dumbledore had appeared just in time to save his ass. Some minutes later and the whole prophecy would have been fulfilled. He might have driven Voldemort out of his head, but there was no way he could even hope to get a chance in a duel.

He had to try. It was his destiny, and he had to try soon, or he would be responsible for all those future deaths. Even if he failed, he bore responsibility for everyone out there. And he had to face him alone. The last encounter had ended in a catastrophe, with Sirius killed by Bellatrix Lestrange and his friends severely injured. Hermione had barely survived the curse which had hit her straight in the chest. Only the sudden appearance of the Order of the Phoenix had saved their lifes. That was another daemon haunting him: Some nights he saw Voldemort with his wand pointing at Ron, Hermione, Ginny, his classmates, Fred, George, killing them all, all dying after he himself had lured them into another forlorn fight.

Ron and Hermione. They had stood by his side no matter what happened for five years now. Hermione had tried to put him off breaking into the Ministry, but nevertheless she had followed his lead. In their letters they tried to reassure him: they were okay; he did not have to worry; he wasn't to blame for anything. But he knew better than anyone else that he was the one who had convinced five other children to fight a bunch of Death Eaters. The only reason that they survived was that just in time the Order of the Phoenix arrived, alarmed by Snape.

Well, nevertheless, Snape was to blame, too. If he had taught Harry Occlumency, the art of clearing and sealing his mind from external penetration, correctly, then he wouldn't have seen the visions created by Voldemort, and he hadn't been lured into the Department of Mysteries that night.

And Dumbledore: If he had informed him as to why he had to learn Occlumency, if Harry had known what might happen, then he'd have known what to expect. He wouldn't have believed the images he had seen; he would have doubted the visions which Voldemort had placed inside his mind.

And again Dumbledore: If Dumbledore had informed him about the Prophecy, he could have collected the sphere holding the images of Trelawney ages ago to destroy it. Nobody would have had to guard the Department of Mysteries; the Unspeakable Broderick Bode would still be alive; Mr. Weasley wouldn't have been attacked; Sturgis Podmore wouldn't have been arrested.

Over the last fifteen years, everything Dumbledore had done to ensure his safety and well-being had turned into the contrary. In number four, Privet Drive, Harry had been safe from Death Eaters, but not from his relatives. He had grown up without the stares and glares of the wizarding world, but his childhood had even been worse, not only at Little Whinging but also at Hogwarts, where he had faced Voldemort four - four - times.

Nevertheless, he had convinced Cedric to take the cup together, he had insisted on entering the Department of Mysteries. Even though he couldn't have known what would happen to Cedric, he had known someone was after him, and he definitely should have known what to expect at the Ministry of Magic. The one to blame for their deaths was Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Just-Didn't-Die, no one else.

Most of Harry's spare time was spent in his room, trying to distract his thoughts by reading his spellbooks (quite useless without being allowed to practice), A History of Magic (nearly as boring as Binns himself), and Dudley's untouched library (his cousin made a scene when he found out). During the first week, Harry had taken every opportunity to leave the house, wandering through the neighbourhood and heading for the park. Soon, he learned that the house was still guarded by the Order of the Phoenix. One of the guards had reported his strolls to Dumbledore, who at once had requested that Harry didn't leave the property anymore.

Dumbledore didn't learn from his mistakes. He had caged Sirius, who later had jumped at the chance to leave the house, and now he caged Harry with a similar effect. Harry wasn't able to stay inside all the time; he couldn't bear the four walls of his small bedroom any longer. Last year, just after Voldemort's resurrection, no one had cared if he wandered the streets. Now he had to sneak out, covered by his Invisibility Cloak, which Harry often did at night. Except at full moon. After the encounter with Dementors last year, he downright expected that this year someone might send a pack of werewolves for him.

His contacts with the outer world, the wizarding world, were minimal. The Order had charmed the whole street against unknown owls; only his friends and the Ministry were able to contact him now. Sometimes he saw owls circling high above Privet Drive before they returned to the sender. It bothered Harry that no one had asked or at least informed him beforehand, but he also was glad that he didn't have to deal with the crap he had received during last school year. Even the owls delivering the Daily Prophet were blocked, and he wondered if it had been done by accident or on purpose.

The thing he missed most was flying. Mounting a broom, taking to the skies, leaving everything behind, and then free falling, gathering speed, shooting down to earth, until the last moment to jerk the broom upwards avoiding a collision - that was his way to clear his mind. He hadn't been on a broomstick since October for their first Quidditch match, after which Dolores Umbridge had confiscated his Firebolt. Professor McGonagall had returned the broom at the end of last term, but there was no way for him to use it now. Harry had thought about it; he had seriously considered mounting his broom and escaping through the window of his bedroom, but somewhere in the back of his mind sanity had intervened.

Flying... that was the thing which drove him to the park again and again. The swings weren't a replacement in any way, but they were within reach, and when Harry closed his eyes he could almost forget that he was chained to the ground. When the swing reached its peak there was a moment, a very short moment, when he was hovering in the air. And when he opened his eyes at just this moment, he felt like he was floating through the dusky skies.

---

It was halfway through July when Professor McGonagall sent word of her arrival and asked for his assistance in introducing a Muggle-born to the wizarding world. Harry welcomed the distraction, but he wondered why his teacher chose him. Hermione would have been an obvious choice, as she was a Muggle-born herself. Unless... unless McGonagall wanted to present a special student, The Boy-Who-Lived; this idea annoyed him immensely.

He hesitated to inform his relatives about the visitation of another wizard, and delayed it until Friday, the day of the Professor's appearance. As his relatives rarely entered his bedroom, they didn't notice he had even tried to tidy up, at least a bit. He wasn't afraid of Professor McGonagall, but (and he would never admit it, not even to himself) he feared her stern gaze, and his Head of House was one of the teachers he didn't want to let down - especially after she stood up for him against Dolores Umbridge just ten weeks ago, during his career advice. The prior state of his bedroom wasn't adequate to present.

So he announced her appearance Friday morning during breakfast.

"Uncle Vernon," he started, "one of my professors is coming to visit me today."

The announcement had two similar yet different effects on the two adults. While Aunt Petunia noticeably paled, Uncle Vernon's face went beyond red and reached a shade of purple, indicating that Harry had to expect an enraged outburst soon. And indeed, that was exactly what followed.

"What did you tell them?" his Uncle started, his volume increasing with every word. "Spread lies, didn't you? Told them we wouldn't feed you? Told them, we'd lock you in?"

"No, no," Harry answered swiftly. He shouldn't have informed them at all. "No, it's nothing to do with you. It's just a school thing."

"It doesn't matter," his Uncle stated firmly. "I don't want another one of your kind here in my house! I haven't forgotten the last time they vandalised the living room."

"And traumatised poor Diddikins," Aunt Petunia added.

"She won't come through the fireplace. She won't even come inside. She'll collect me around midday..."

"The freak comes in broad daylight?" Aunt Petunia chimed in, even paler than before. "In front of all the neighbours?"

"She is a distinguished old lady," Harry interjected. "I'm sure nobody will recognise her as a wi--"

"Don't use that word in our house!" bellowed Uncle Vernon.

"I mean, no one will recognise her as - as one of my Professors," Harry corrected himself.

"I don't want her to enter the house," Aunt Petunia started again. A witch was a witch, even if she was a distinguished old one. "I don't want her to enter. If anyone sees her..."

"They won't," Harry answered, his voice stressed, "and she won't enter. I'll wait for her at the door."

"You'll wait outside," his Aunt insisted.

Harry sighed. "I will."

Meanwhile, Uncle Vernon was occupied with another thought, obviously a positive one, as his face seemed to regain its usual colour. "So that means you're gone until next June?"

Harry sighed again. Deep inside he himself still hoped Professor McGonagall's appearance meant an early retreat from Privet Drive, but he knew better. "No, I fear... I think I'll return around lunchtime."

The discussion was finished when Vernon Dursley had to head for Grunnings.

At the scheduled time, Harry sat on the doorsteps of number four waiting for the familiar 'crack' a wizard created while Apparating. The street wasn't noisy, but somewhere a neighbour was mowing with a crackling lawn mower, and a circular saw was screeching nearby, so nobody else would notice the sudden and loud appearance of a woman wearing strange robes and a pointed hat. However, Harry himself was surprised, when, with an indeed quite quiet sound, a cat appeared in front of the house. It was a tabby cat with odd markings around its eyes, a pet he had seen before, but not at Mrs. Figg's.

Astonished, he watched the feline approaching the entrance. It sat down, obviously waiting for something, or for someone to open the door. Considering how Aunt Petunia spoke about the dogs of Aunt Marge, Harry assumed she would murder anyone who let a stray cat inside.

"Shoo." He waved his arms to scare the tabby off. "Shoo, shoo."

The cat didn't seem to be impressed at all. Instead it turned its head and stared at him, while with the tip of her tail impatiently tapping on the ground.

"Shoo, shoo."

The pet raised its eyebrows. Until now Harry hadn't even known that cats had eyebrows. And then, suddenly, very suddenly, his own eyes widened in recognition.

"Erm...," he started, blushing deeply. "Erm... Shall we go inside?"

How do you greet a teacher, how do you greet any wizard in his Animagus form? Surely not with shooing it - her away. Despite the situation his thoughts wandered off... Padfoot...

The cat meowed. Harry's mind snapped back to reality, and he opened the door to let her in. The moment he closed it, the cat transformed.

"Aaaaaaaaah!" screeched a female voice, accompanied by a loud crashing noise.

When Professor McGonagall repaired the splintered porcelain vase with a flick of her wand, Aunt Petunia screamed once more.

A stern voice interrupted the hysterical woman. "Mr. Potter, don't you want to introduce me?"

"Erm..." Harry didn't know how to start. "Aunt Petunia, may I introduce: Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts."

In response Aunt Petunia did something that Harry appreciated very much. She backed out of the hall and hastily retreated into the kitchen, where she locked the door. Audibly.

"To conclude the formalities then," McGonagall said with a cold look at the closed kitchen door, "please offer your Aunt my apologies. I didn't intend to frighten her." She turned to Harry and surveyed him intensely. "Your casual clothing looks rather exceptional. Is this some sort of Muggle style?"

"No, err... not exactly." Harry's cheeks blushed slightly. He hadn't felt ashamed of his clothing since he had entered Hogwarts. "These are hand-me-downs from my cousin."

His teacher eyed him sceptically. "Perhaps, for the task at hand, you might prefer to change into your school robes. And don't forget your wand. You might need it for a little demonstration."

Five minutes and a Muggle-Repelling Charm later both teacher and student were walking along Privet Drive.