On the other side of the United Kingdom, a pale, lean, slightly muscular man bolted upright in his bed, desperately gasping for air. Of all the days for his nightmares to appear, it had to be this one. The anniversary of the day he met the love of his life at the park, some twenty years ago.

He couldn’t get the thoughts of her out of his head. Twisting and turning on the bed…to no avail. “Lumos,” he breathed.

The lights flickered on, showing a gorgeous but threadbare room. He had but recently moved in, having only inherited the house when his uncle had passed on mere months before. Why exactly he had inherited the house was another question altogether. He had seen him but once when he was a child, and he was far from being his only nephew, or relation, for that matter. His thoughts once again snapped back into the present, where his nightmare still lay in the forefront of his mind.

He sighed, and stumbled off the bed, knowing that until he washed his face, he wouldn’t be able to sleep again. He walked down the hall like a man twice his age, and came upon dead ends twice. He really had to do something about getting a washroom installed somewhere…convenient. But a man of habit, he knew he would never get around to it. He was surprised he took residence in this house at all, but it was the fault of that meddling old coot, Albus Dumbledore, who insisted that his last house at Spinner’s End was unsuitable. Who was he to judge?

Severus finally found the washroom. He locked the door, again out of habit. There was no one else in the house, but he found solace in the little actions of his childhood, and the secrecy he maintained, courtesy of his past spying days. Gazing at the mirror, he glared at his reflection, noting the long hair that invariably needed a cut, the bags under his eyes, and lastly, the paleness of his skin. He knew his students joked that he was the “bat of the dungeons,” but he hadn’t realized he looked this terrible. He realized that’s why Dumbledore had requested him to take a change in scenery. But wouldn’t a simple walk in the woods do?

He sighed again, remembering that he had yet another meeting with the old man the next morning. He quickly rinsed his face with water, and looked at his watch. It was only a couple hours ‘til nine, and he might as well get some research done. He knew without a shadow of doubt that he wouldn’t be getting anymore sleep tonight.

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At seven-thirty, Vernon Dursley stumbled out of bed. He really needed to get a better mattress in Dudley’s spare room. He nearly broke the springs the night before, probably because of his weight, but he’d be the last to say that. He decided that the mattress company was probably at fault, and resolved to call the company and complain about the poor worksmanship when he got home. At seven-forty-five, he was off and driving towards the nearest McDonald’s, knowing that today, there was free coffee.

Petunia Dursley heard her husband leave. She shuddered, remembering how close he was to hitting her last night. And that tone! Which brought her directly back to her problem, or rather, their problem—one Mr. Harry Potter.

There was no way she was going to talk to…that woman. Why, it would ruin her reputation completely! But if Vernon knew she hadn’t talked to her…well, she’d be in for it. She sighed. “I suppose one visit this early in the morning shouldn’t hurt. I mean, what civilized person gets up before eight?” she spoke to herself.

At around eight, she walked out of the house, knowing that Arabella Figg would be awake already, having once dropped Harry off there at that time. She walked up the steps, shuddering at the décor, and rung the doorbell.

“Why, good morning, Mrs. Dursley. Do I have to babysit little Harry today? It really wouldn’t be a problem,” Mrs. Figg said.

“Oh, no, I’ve come for an entirely different thing, Mrs. Figg. May I come in?” Petunia answered, hiding her disgust.

“Oh, where are my manners! Of course, please do,” Mrs. Figg replied, gushing.

They sat down in the living room, and Mrs. Figg proceeded to pour Petunia a cup of tea. “So, what can I do for you, Mrs.  Dursley?”

“Harry did something…last night. Something we’re not entirely comfortable with,” Petunia said.

“You mean, magic?” Petunia groaned. So she was one of those freaks.

“Yes,” Petunia answered. “And we’d really like to give him back to his people. After all, we don’t have any experience in that area.” Mentally, she added, nor do we want to.

“Oh, my,” Mrs. Figg stuttered. “I don’t know anything about that, now, dearie.”

She continued, “You see, I don’t have any magic of my own. So I wouldn’t really know at all.”

Petunia’s face contorted, as if she couldn’t figure if she should grimace, or smile. “That’s all right, Mrs. Figg. But could you possibly get in touch with Bumbledorf? Tuddlydook? Err…what’s-his-name…”

“Dumbledore,” Mrs. Figg supplied.

“Ah, that’s right. And please tell him of our predicament, would you?” With that, Petunia got off the couch. “I really must be going now.”

“Oh, all right,” said Mrs. Figg.

“Please, don’t get up. I can let myself out,” Petunia replied, revolted at what her new pants had acquired: cat hair. She quickly left the house, and walked into her own. Scrambling up the stairs, she changed as fast as she could, eager to get the smell of old-ness and cats off of her.