Harry sat up with a jolt of fear, sweat tingling down his back and his breath jagged with panting. He reached up, unconsciously, to feel his scar which was fine, not even a twinge, but something was wrong, horribly wrong.

The house was an eerie silence, not even the snores of the Dursleys filled it, but after a few moments, Harry remembered that he had been left alone for the night, along with a barely any food and a list of chores he had to have done by the next morning.

On his desk, under Hedwig’s empty cage (she was off at Ron’s) was the perfect plan he had drawn up for escape, but realizing it was useless he had given up on it. Why run away? Dumbledore had said he was protected here more than anything else because of blood magic, what was the reason for running, besides proving himself...to himself and maybe Snape.

There was a sudden creak and Harry straightened up, hair rising on end and his thumbs prickling slightly. That wasn’t a natural sound for sure.

Someone was in the house.

His heart pounded and he stood up slowly, fishing for his wand, which he kept on him at all times (or at least by him) and crept to his doorway, quietly. The Shakespearean saying, ‘By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.’ Ran through his head and absently he rubbed his thumbs.

Taking a steadying breath, he carefully pushed open his door and looked back and forth, seeing no one. Even more quietly, he crept out into the hallway, his wand steadfast in his hand, and crept to the stairs.

Darkness danced in serpent tongues around him, taunting him with concealment of hidden things or people, and spraying across the floor in his wake. He longed to look at his watch but he had tried losing himself to time again and had no clue what time it was. Suddenly he regretted his obscene idea, though it had helped at the time.

He reached the banisters, a light breeze from the A.C. ruffling his hair as he leaned over, hidden in shadows, ready for anything. However, he saw nothing and heard nothing.

He relaxed slightly. Maybe his imagination was just overacting. The Dursleys weren’t here and they rarely left him alone, he was bound to imagine things. Especially with a psychopath murderer after him, but that was all trivial when it came to actually being trusted to be left alone. He had never thought that would happen.

Sighing, he descended the staircase, slowly but carefully, and quietly. His wand never leaving his hand. When he reached the bottom, he heard something.

A rustling, or was it a tapping. Shaking his head, he looked around, while outside the wind blew hard around, bringing about the first cool weather of the summer. All around tree limbs swished and buckled about, screeching and careening in the air. All the noise, Harry was hearing, was coming from that, he was sure of it.

Nonetheless, he walked around the house, carefully, his heart pounding, half-expecting to run into a Death Eater around every corner.

Then, he turned a corner, and did run into someone.

Not a Death Eater, but after a brief second Harry placed as a Muggle Burglar. The robber reacted before Harry could regain himself and soon they were rolling around, his wand having clattered off.

Quick and fit from Quidditch, Harry was fast in regaining control while the burglar fought hard to knock the boy out.

Over and over they went, Harry thinking vaguely of the irony of his death at the hands of a common muggle thief, when they both went crashing into the bottom of the staircase. Harry smacked his forehead, while the robber clunked the top of his head.

Grunting, the robber rolled over and managed to slug Harry hard in the chest, who toppled backward with a hefty oft while wildly grabbing out and snatching the robber’s mask.

It came off gracefully, revealing the face of the man who Harry had consulted not but a couple weeks ago about directions to his sister’s house.

‘Imagine that,’ Harry thought ruefully. ‘Uncle Vernon was right in not talking to strangers.’ Then the robber lunged forward, shoving Harry backwards, and the brawl began again.

At one point, Harry managed to pull himself up while the robber also managed to grab his arm and swing him around. With a sickening crash, Harry when slamming hard into the bottom of the stairs, and the world began to spin.

Vaguely, he watched, as the muggle robber, in horror, fled from the house and he dropped off in and out of darkness. His head was swimming and he was starting to smell the acute smell of blood.

Hell! He was bleeding.

Moaning, Harry realized he needed to get help, but Hedwig was gone and he couldn’t go to St. Mangos without risking his neck. Grunting, and painful tears swimming down his cheeks, Harry clambered to his feet and labored upstairs, gripping the railing with a death grip and fighting the darkness.

If he lost consciousness now, who knew what would happen.

Finally, a painful ten minutes later, Harry, trying hard to contain the blood welling up from his head and forehead, had gathered his things, his wand and was outside the Dursley’s residence, sometime around one in the morning.

Knowing Ms. Figg was out of town, due to the fact that he was by himself, Harry steadied himself on getting over there by himself. It was a laborious task that he didn’t fair too well from. He collapsed twice on the cold concrete, blood swarming up even more while the cloth on his head proved to be futile.

When he finally managed to get to Ms. Figg’s he was barely standing and opening the door was hard, if not impossible. Biting his tongue, he settled on using all his strength to dragging his trunk around back, where the door was always unlocked.

The fireplace gleamed before him eagerly, and tired, barely awake, no longer able to contain the bleeding, he threw in Floo Powder and hoped to Merlin that Ms. Figg was hooked up to Dumbledore’s office, gathered his trunk to himself, and more or less fell into the fireplace while shouting out the destination.

He lost consciousness right after that.