Harry stood on the floor of the death chamber looking up at the dais; a thick silence permeated the room.  As he moved hesitantly forward through the still suffocating air, his steps took him upward toward the stone archway; its veil fluttered gently despite the stillness. In front of the veil stood Sirius.  His godfather watched as Harry made his way toward him.  Coming face to face, the two men stood and silently gazed upon each other. Then Harry lifted his hand until it came to rest flat against Sirius's chest. The older man stared down at his godson's hand then he slowly looked up and with a questioning expression, Sirius stared into green eyes which were full of sadness and regret. Harry shook his head slightly as he leaned forward and pushed Sirius backward into the veil.

Harry awoke with a start and sat up abruptly. He was covered in a cold sweat and was panting. He shook with fear while trying to recover from his latest nightmare.

It had been another miserable night; a miserable night that had followed yet another miserable day. And now, another miserable morning greeted him with the familiar pounding in his head and stinging of his scar. 

He had lost count by now: lost count of the days, the nights, the headaches and the nightmares.

He lay back down and pulled the covers closely around him, trying to offset the cold that seemed to permeate every part of him and replayed the scene from his nightmare over and over again, watching as Nightmare Harry pushed Sirius into the veil — into death.

Familiar tears began to slide down his cheeks and Harry's thoughts moved from the nightmare to his conversation with Nearly Headless Nick the night of the Leaving Feast, and then to his breakdown just after the ghost left the classroom. 

He remembered being overwhelmed with grief; its intensity had been so great that it took away all his strength and left him sobbing. It had taken some time, but he'd managed to rein in all those emotions and pushed them down deep ... where they needed to be, where they had to stay. 

Ever since that night, Harry had managed to keep the sobs under control. Yet despite all his determination, the irrepressible tears had taken on a life of their own. They would start up without warning, silently sliding down his cheeks, betraying his resolve. But if their presence was what it took for him to avoid the wrenching sobs, he'd take it.

It was just after dawn and the house on Privet Drive was still quiet. Sick of lying there thinking of Sirius, sick of his head aching, sick of everything and everyone; Harry quietly dragged himself out of bed. He pulled on the clothes he had worn for — how many days now?  It didn't matter. 

He padded downstairs to the kitchen; prepared breakfast for the Dursleys then was out the back door by the time they started to stir.

This had become his routine since returning to Surrey that summer. 

His uncle, livid and agitated after the warning delivered to him at King's Cross, decreed that Harry was to "stay out of sight for the entire summer, or there would be hell to pay", and then proceeded to give him a taste of what that 'hell' would be. The bruises had not yet faded from his Uncle's demonstration.

Of course, he was to complete his many chores, the "means for earning his keep". No matter how fast he worked, it was always afternoon before he could finish all that his Aunt had assigned him for the day, and by then his room was like an oven.

So Harry would leave the house to wander during the heat of the day. He never wandered far, as he had to stay within the security wards; but at the end of each day he'd slip quietly back into the house late each evening and retire to his hot room. 

Harry sat in the garden shed, half-heartedly munching on a piece of toast while his family finished breakfast.

And as he ate, he sat and listened to the voice in his head, scolding him for getting friends injured and his godfather killed.  Bit by bit, that incessant voice wore at Harry's spirit.  The guilt robbed him of appetite, just as the wanderings and chores chipped away at his already slim frame.  The sleepless nights, the headaches and the nightmares were also claiming their toll. 

The descent into the miasma of his depression was slow and specious.  The days following the disaster at the Ministry and the Headmaster's revelation of the prophecy; Harry had been in shock, and those first few days in Surrey he had walked around in a daze. 

As he went through his daily routine of chores and walks, Harry had only his inner voice with which to process all that had happened: the loss of Sirius, his injured friends, Voldemort taking possession of him and being inside him, his mind and his very soul. 

Just thinking of that experience made him nauseated.  But as horrible as that experience had been and as awful as was the prospect of never seeing his godfather again, there was one glaring truth that threatened to crush Harry; the fact that everything that had taken place had all happened because of his terrible mistake in judgment. 

It nearly killed him every time he thought of this fact, but he couldn't stop himself from doing it.

Over and over again, the voice in his head would chastise him. It's your own stupid fault. You did this to him. You hurt your friends. You deserve to be alone and miserable. 

It wasn't long before Harry completely agreed with this reprimanding voice, and he felt that this place where his mind and body were, this state of misery somehow felt right —  sad, but right.

He was so miserable and depressed that at times he thought about ending everything.  A couple of times he'd even gone to sit by the tracks and watch the commuter train barrel on by. 

It would be so easy to step up onto the tracks just in front of the train. But he knew he couldn't do it; not that he didn't want to, but because he had to live to defeat Voldemort.

 Maybe I'll get lucky and die at the same time Voldemort dies. That convoluted thought was the only thing that brought a smile to his face these days.  He held onto the idea that when and if he could bring down Voldemort, then hopefully his life would also end, justice would be served and he would join his Mother, Father and Sirius.

Ron and Hermione sent their letters as promised, but his guilt about their near deaths precluded him from reaching out to them.  Remus hadn't written and Harry believed that Remus probably held him responsible for what had happened to Sirius. 

Harry sent off his required letters every three days, always stating the same platitudes — that he was fine and such.  He really didn't want any of them coming to check up on him.  He was content living in his realm of isolation and sadness. He just knew that this was where he should be.

~~~~~~

Returning to his dark, stifling hot bedroom late the Saturday night preceding his sixteenth birthday, Harry noticed an envelope lying upon his nightstand patiently waiting his attention. Picking up the missive, he tore back the flap, pulled out the letter and began to read.

Hey Harry, 

You know what today is?  It's the last time you'll ever be fifeen years old on a Friday.  We're all set for your big sixteenth birthday party. Four more days, I can hardly wait.  Mum's going to bake the biggest cake, and Fred and George made some special fireworks (don't tell them I told you, it's supposed to be a surprise!) It's going to be a blast. Anyway, Dad will fetch you the night before your birthday.  He says for you to make sure you're all packed and ready to go when he gets there.  No worries mate, he knows not to use the Floo now.  He's going to Apparate over, and then Side-Along you back here.  Know what else, Harry?  Dumbledore said you could stay here the rest of the summer!  Isn't that great? We can fly everyday and throw gnomes at Ginny. We're gonna have so much fun.

I can't wait to see you,

Ron

Harry stood frozen, just staring at the letter.  No matter how long he looked at the writing, the words all remained the same, nothing changed. 

What am I going to do?  He’d completely forgotten about this planned party and he definitely didn't want to celebrate his birthday, knowing that Sirius would have no more. 

He decided then and there that he wouldn’t go; that he’d stay in Little Whinging, away from the Burrow and well away from the Weasleys.  

He sighed and walked over to the open window.  Hedwig, who spent most her time outside because of the heat, had not yet returned from the night's hunting.  Alone as usual, Harry was left with only his inner voice to process this latest dilemma.

~~~~~~

Early the following morning, up in his bedroom at the Burrow, Ron was pulling on a pair of shorts when Hedwig swooped in through his open window. He nearly toppled over when she landed decidedly upon his shoulder.

"Hedwig, you bloody bird; you almost gave me a heart-attack!"

Not one to be deterred from her duty, let alone be chastised by this redhead, Hedwig responded by firmly shoving Harry's letter right under Ron's nose.

"All right, all right already.  You don't have to be so pushy."

Relieved of her parcel, the snowy owl flew over to sit on the window sill and set her gaze to stare intently at Ron.

"Look, I'm opening it already. See?"

Satisfied, Hedwig hooted her farewell and took off without any further delay. If there had been any possibility of success, she would have grabbed hold of Ron's hair and brought him with her.  She was so worried about her Harry. The best she could do was to get back as soon as possible, and keep an eye on him.

"That bloody bird is insane," Ron muttered to himself as he tore open the envelope and pulled out Harry's letter.

Hi there Ron,

Say, thanks for the invitation but I've got a bugger of a cold. I’ve had it for weeks. You lot don’t want to catch this, so I think I’ll just stay here until it’s time for school to start.  Don’t worry about me. Aunt Petunia’s been great. I’m just going to rest up until September 1st. See you at King’s Cross.

Harry

Ron stared dumbfounded at the letter trying to make some sense out of it. Harry?  Not want to celebrate his birthday for once in his life? Not want to come to the Burrow for the rest of the summer?  His aunt being nice? 

This letter didn’t make any sense, not one bloody bit.

Ron jumped into action, raced out of his room and headed for the kitchen.

Bounding down the stairs and sounding like a herd of stampeding Hippogriffs, he made it to the kitchen in two shakes time. He knew that his dad had been called into work this Saturday and Ron wanted to be sure to catch him before he left.

"Oi Dad, hold up!"

"Ronald Weasley!" bellowed his mother. "How many times have I told you not to run through the house!"

"Sorry Mum, but I had to catch Dad before he left." Turning, Ron held out the letter. "Dad, look at this. Go on, read it!"

Arthur took the proffered letter and sat down. With Molly peering over his shoulder, they both read Harry's letter. "Molly, what do you think about this?"

"He's lying, or trying to hide something."  She took the letter from Arthur and scanned it again. "I don't like it Arthur.  Harry would never not want to come here.  And his aunt … I ask you, when has that woman ever shown him an ounce of kindness?” She sat down next to him. "I think you'd better go and check on him. Something is wrong ... I just feel it."

"But I was supposed to go into work today." 

"Arthur, this is Harry we're talking about.  The Ministry can wait."

Arthur toyed with his lower lip while thinking things over. "You're right, of course.  I'll just Floo-call Perkins and tell him I can't make it in today. Then I'll check with Albus to make certain it's all right for me to go check on Harry."

After Arthur called Perkins, he then Floo-called the Headmaster and everyone in the kitchen listened on with anticipation as Dumbledore answered. 

"Albus, I apologize for disturbing you so early, but may I pop over and have a word with you?"

"Of course Arthur.  Is everything all right?"

"Well, yes and no. We are all fine here.  It's Harry, we're worried about him."

There was a long silent pause.  "What's wrong?"

"I'll show you when I get there.  May I come through?

"Of course Arthur, come right through." 

~~~~~

Albus Dumbledore stood expectantly beside his desk. When Arthur Floo'd in he immediately asked, "So what is all this about Harry? Last we spoke, you were to fetch him the night before his birthday." 

Reaching into the pocket of his robe, Arthur removed Harry's letter and held it out towards Dumbledore. "This is the reason Albus.  It's a letter from Harry.  Ron had written him a letter referring to the upcoming party and Harry coming to stay at the Burrow. This was his response."

Dumbledore read Harry's words declining the invitation. "Well, certainly this is odd.  He hasn't mentioned in any of his letters that he was ill.  Additionally, the reports from the Aurors guarding his neighborhood haven't noted that anything was amiss.  Has he made reference to illness in any of his previous missives to your family?"

"No, he hasn't.  All he ever says is that he's fine.  That's about it."

Dumbledore sighed.  "Curious."

"Yes it is. Albus, I...  Well we...  That is to say Molly, the children and I think something must be wrong.  Harry has never not wanted to come to the Burrow; so I was wondering if I could go check on him today, perhaps I could even bring him back with me to the Burrow?  It's only a few days earlier then we had originally planned." 

"I suppose it would be all right,” he mused then nodded decidedly. “Yes Arthur, of course. Perhaps Madame Pomfrey should accompany you."

"Oh, no. I honestly don't believe Harry is actually ill.  I think it best if I just go alone and talk to him, if he'll oblige me."

"Very well, but please update me with your findings."

"I will Albus, of course"

~~~~~

It was about mid-morning now, and the stifling summer heat was already making its presence known.  Arthur Apparated to the perimeter of the wards, covertly acknowledged the Auror stationed at this particular spot, then proceeded toward Privet Drive and eventually made his way to number four. When he finally arrived at the front door, he looked around for what should be the door bell.

Mortified over the fiasco that had transpired when he had come to fetch Harry for the Quidditch finals, Arthur vehemently addressed his rusty knowledge of Muggle studies to assure nothing of the sort ever occurred in the future. Recalling the diagram from his Muggle Studies book, Arthur spotted a round button beside the door. 

That must be the doorbell, he thought and with a giddy sense of anticipation, Arthur pushed on the round button in question. Low and behold, a chime could be heard from within the house. His eyes grew wide with wonder.  "It worked!"

Now for the next part. Thinking that this would be infinitely more challenging than the doorbell, Arthur waited for Harry or one of his relatives to open the door, but nothing happened. Mildly perplexed yet still determined, he decided to try again.  Sure enough, when he pushed the button, the chime sounded once more inside the house but still, no one came to the door.

There was however an odd sound emanating from the rear of the house, so he decided to walk along the side path which led toward the rear of the property. Reaching its end, Arthur came to an abrupt halt as he took in the unbelievable sight before him.

There was Harry.  He was pushing some sort of contraption along the grass, presently heading in the direction opposite from where Arthur stood.  If it hadn't been for what else greeted his eyes, Arthur would have been giddy with curiosity for the odd device. But sadly, Harry had taken off his shirt, no doubt because of the heat, and quite visible was the fact that Harry had lost a significant amount of weight.  Indeed, if Arthur had wanted, he could have easily counted every one of Harry's ribs.

Reaching the end of the grass, Harry turned the lawn mower around to make his next pass.  About halfway across the yard, he glanced up and froze. 

For a few moments, both Harry and Arthur just stood and stared at each other.  Then, ever so slowly, Arthur walked toward Harry.  As his approach brought him closer to the young man, he could now easily see every blatant, protruding rib, and what appeared to be an assortment of both fresh and fading bruises. 

"Mr. Weasley! What...What are you doing here?" Harry could barely get the words out for shock and embarrassment.

Standing directly in front of the teenager, Arthur took in the dark circles under Harry's eyes, and it was quite apparent that he had recently been crying.  Obviously, all was not well with Harry Potter. 

Arthur's chest tightened as a wave of guilt washed over him.  He should have listened to Ron and Ginny when they insisted that Harry come to them earlier that month.  Just as his children had foreseen, Harry was not coping well with the loss of Sirius.

The lack of response prompted Harry to repeat his inquiry. "Mr. Weasley?" 

"Harry, is there anyplace where you and I could talk?  Just talk for a bit?"

Talking to Mr. Weasley was definitely something Harry did not want to do. "Um ... I don't know if that's such a good idea Mr. Weasley.  I really need to finish my chores, and ..."

"Why don't you let me worry about that, all right? Arthur placed a gentle hand on the teenager’s bony shoulder. “Harry please, can’t we just talk?”

The arrival of Mr. Weasley was so unexpected; Harry was caught completely off guard. He had to think of some sort of excuse, fast.  "I really don't have time.  Perhaps if you came later and ..."

Arthur interrupted again. "Harry, I'm not going to leave, not until you and I have a talk." 

Harry's resolve was weakening. This was simply too much.  As long as no one showed him any sort of affection, affection that he wholeheartedly believed he did not deserve, as long as he was isolated in this way, he could handle his despair. This kindness being offered by Mr. Weasley upset Harry's delicate balance of reason and emotion.

Not able to look the older man in the eyes, Harry looked down at his keds and tried again. "Mr. Weasley, can't you just... Just go ... please?"

"No, I'm sorry.  I am not leaving until we talk." Thinking that perhaps an indirect approach might work better than this stand-off, Arthur offered a diversion. "Tell me.  Exactly what chores do you need to finish?  The lawn?  Yes, yes of course." 

Pulling out his wand, Arthur performed a simple charm to finish the cutting of the lawn. "There, that's done.  Now, what else is on your agenda for the day?"

"Um ... I'm supposed to wash the outside of all the windows."

Another wave of the wand with a spoken charm and all the windows were clean, outside and inside. "And?"

"Nothing.  That was it."

"Good.  Now, where can we go and talk?"

Exasperated by Mr. Weasley's persistence, Harry simply sighed then went to turn the lawnmower around.  "I need to put this away first." 

"Splendid! Where do you store this magnificent contraption when it is not in use?"

Harry was taken aback.  "What are you talking about? What..."  Comprehension dawning,  "Oh, you mean the lawn mower?"

"Is that what it is called?"  Fascinating!"

Harry shook his head and pushed the lawnmower back into the garden shed.  When he turned around, he was greeted by the sight of Arthur Weasley sitting on a half barrel next to the doorway.

Despite the smile and kind expression upon Mr. Weasley's face, he might as well have been Aragog guarding Harry's exit from the cave of Acromantulas. After a moment of quiet desperation, Harry surrendered and sagged down upon a nearby stack of bagged fertilizer.

"Now Harry, what is all this nonsense about having a cold and not coming to the Burrow?"

How in Merlin's name could Harry verbalize all the thoughts spinning around in his head: that he didn't want to place any of the Weasleys in more danger, that he was ashamed with himself and regretted all the havoc he had caused everyone already, that he was worthless and didn't deserve to be loved, that…

“Harry?”

Startled from his personal diatribe, Harry decided it would be impossible to convey all this misery he was carrying around; so instead, he settled for something short and direct. “Mr. Weasley, I just think it would be better if I stayed here.”

“Better for who? Certainly not us, we all miss you and want you to come stay with us.  So you must be speaking of yourself.  Why would it be better for you to stay here?”

Unfortunately, Harry’s scar chose that exact moment to jab him with a particularly burning sting.  Grimacing, he started to rub his scar. 

Mr. Weasley moved to his side instantly. “Harry, you’re in pain. What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing Mr. Weasley; just my stupid scar.” Resting his forehead in the palm of his hand, Harry stared at the ground and decided to try and explain. 

“Look Mr. Weasley, I feel really bad about what happened to Ron and Ginny.  So many people were hurt because of me; I just feel like I should stay away, before anyone else gets hurt or d…”  The remainder of his sentence caught in his throat, and all that he could manage to do was bury his face in his hands.

Harry’s words and actions confirmed Arthur’s suspicions. Without preamble, Arthur wrapped Harry up in a strong embrace. 

Hobbled by his guilt, Harry found it difficult to accept this offering of love. He tried to pull away, but Mr. Weasley wouldn’t let go. “Please don’t. I…”

Holding on with determination, Arthur cut off Harry’s plea.  “Harry, I know you are upset, but cutting yourself off from everyone that loves you is wrong. We were wrong to leave you here alone after everything that happened. We love you son, and we are worried for you.  We all want you to come home.  Please, come with me to the Burrow.”

As Arthur spoke, Harry’s resolve to hold back his tears broke and he released the grief he had held within for so long.  Arthur continued to hold onto the young man as he cried, occasionally whispering words of support.  Eventually, when Harry had cried himself out, Arthur pulled back just far enough to look upon the tear stained face.

“Now you listen to me Harry James Potter; I refuse to leave you here. You and I are going to pack your things, and you are coming with me to the Burrow today.  That is final!”

It took a few minutes for Harry to dry his tears and pull himself together. After he calmed down, they headed toward the house to collect his things.

“Let’s see,” began Arthur, “first we’ll pack your belongings and then…”

Harry interrupted, “Mr. Weasley, I… Well I really don’t have anything to pack.  You see, my uncle…” Embarrassed, Harry looked down. “My uncle locked my trunk away when I got here. Everything I own is in it, except for Hedwig.  Her cage is in my room.”

Arthur may have been meager in funds, but he was bountiful with discernment. Realizing the magnitude and implications packed within that one humble sentence, Arthur asked with infinite gentleness, the whereabouts of the trunk.

This was all so mortifying, but Harry couldn’t see that he had any choice in the matter. “I’ll show you, but we need to hurry.”

"Why?"

"I'll tell you later. Okay?  Let's just get my stuff and go."

 Entering the house, Harry led Arthur to the locked cupboard under the stairs. "It's in there."

Arthur stared at the small door, then to Harry and then back to the cupboard door. "Ron mentioned something about your room being a cupboard under the stairs, I always assumed it to be a sort of storage room."

"No, this is it.  Can we please just hurry?"

Arthur pointed his wand at the cupboard door.  "Alohamora.” The door opened and the redhead leaned forward to look inside the tiny area.  Deciding it best not to say anything just then, he shrunk Harry's trunk and placed it in his pocket.

"All right Harry, let's go get Hedwig."

As the Weasley patriarch followed Harry up the stairs and then watched as the troubled young man called his owl to him from a nearby tree, questions began racking in his brain:  Harry being kept in that tiny hole in the wall? The stifling hot bedroom? The weight loss and bruises? No one helping the young man to deal with his grief? How could Albus have allowed this to go on?

"Okay Mr. Weasley.  She's on her way to the Burrow.  If you could just shrink her cage, we can go.  I don't have anything else."

That being done, the two wizards headed toward the stairway, but sounds from below caused Harry to stop in his tracks and cringe. "Oh, no."  He muttered under his breath.  

Arriving back from their trip to the grocers, the Dursleys entered through the front door but stopped when they saw Harry.

"Boy?  What are you doing inside?  You know you're not allowed...."  Just then, Vernon Dursley spotted Arthur standing behind his nephew. "What are you doing here?  I will not have freaks in my home.  One is bad enough!"

Harry's uncle marched up the stairs to continue his verbal attack, while Petunia stood with her mouth agape, by the doorway. Dudley headed toward the kitchen for cover.

"Uncle Vernon, please!  We were just leaving!  Mr. Weasley is taking me ..."

"I did not give you permission to speak to me, Boy!"

"Now see here Dursley," interjected Arthur. “Don't you think you're being a bit harsh?"

The dressing down at King's Cross still fresh in his mind, Dursley countered with a vengeance.  "I will not be told what to think, or how to speak in my own home!"

With all of the shouting taking place, and his purple-faced uncle getting closer and closer; Harry began to panic. As he did, his magic started to swirl and the windows began to crack, the sounds of which could be heard all throughout the house. 

Turning, Vernon Dursley watched as window after window cracked before his eyes. His already inflated form grew even larger, now with ire.

"What have you done? You ... freak!" Irate, he moved to shove his nephew, but inadvertently pushed with much more force than intended and Harry was sent flying headfirst down the flight of stairs.

Petunia Dursley's shrill scream pierced the air as she watched her nephew's head slam into the wall at the base of the stairs.