Who to call? Who could he ask for help? Harry sat pondering those questions for a long time. The first person he thought of was Sirius. Merlin! How he missed his godfather! He had been waiting to really grieve until he had some time alone. Well, Harry thought, I’m alone now. The young wizard allowed his head to fall forward and hit the table. All of his friends had told him that it wasn’t his fault, but he couldn’t help feeling it was.

If only he had refrained from looking in Snape’s pensieve. If only he had taken Occlumency more seriously. If only he had trusted Snape. But he hadn’t. And now the one person who had always wanted him was dead. His fault. These thoughts repeated themselves over and over in Harry’s brain, an endless refrain.

As the sun continued its daily trek across the sky it shone in the kitchen window onto Harry’s back. With the power turned off the air conditioning had stopped. Soon Harry began to notice that not only was he very slightly hungry, he was uncomfortably hot. It was these realizations that eventually pulled him out of his stupor.

Alright, he told himself, so I can’t call Sirius, there’s still an entire Order of people who are willing to help me. Maybe Professor Lupin could come or Mrs. Weasley. Running up to his desk, he pulled out paper and pen. He sat down to write his letter, only to realize that he didn’t know what to say. “Sorry to bother you, but I can’t take care of myself?” Harry muttered aloud. “I don’t think so.” Sighing, he put down the pen and began to think some more.

The refrigerator, he reasoned, would only keep the food in it cold so long without power. He couldn’t cook it because the stove wasn’t working either.

“Unless...” he began, unless he used the fireplace. It would be hot, but he could pretend he was camping or something. He had never really been camping before, and for a brief moment he irrelevantly wondered if it was fun. That’s what he would do, he decided. He would cook all the food in the refrigerator and make it last as long as he could.

Purposefully he stood up and headed down the stairs. When he reached the kitchen and began actually pulling out things to cook, he saw that there was far less than he had originally thought. Some of the things he simply had no use for, like the Worcestershire sauce, or the half bottle of ketchup he found in the door. Also, some of the fruits and cheeses looked decidedly questionable, and he couldn’t really cook them. He slumped for a moment, but then straightened. I will just have to make do, he told himself firmly.

Gathering the items he was able to salvage, Harry walked to the fireplace in the front room. Carefully he started a small fire and, after making certain it would burn steadily, walked back into the kitchen to collect a couple of pans.

Cooking over the fire was very different than cooking at the stove, and different from potions class, too. For one thing he had to hold the pan up himself with one hand; he didn’t want his aunt to be angry about a burned pan when she got home. All in all, the operation was far more difficult and tiring than he had expected.

He continued, however, in part out of Gryffindor stubbornness, but also because it was the only way he could see to keep going without asking for help. And Harry did not want to ask for help. He could just picture what Snape would say about that, how the precious boy-who-lived needed someone to coddle him at every turn. When he was finished frying the various bits of meat and eggs he had found, Harry carefully carried the pans back into the kitchen and deposited them in the sink. Then he wrapped his food and stored it in one of the empty cabinets. By this point he was feeling rather hungry, but he knew he had to ration out his supplies, so he resolutely drank a glass of water and then headed out to weed and water Aunt Petunia’s flower beds.

Just before dusk fell, Harry wearily trudged back into the house. He was so hungry his stomach hurt, but he didn’t want to give in yet, so he had another glass of water, then dragged himself up the stairs and pulled himself into the shower. The water felt good and eased his muscles, allowing him to release some of the tension he had unconsciously been holding on to all day. Unfortunately, the tension seemed to be all that was holding him up. As he slumped against the shower wall Harry turned the water off. He dried himself and crawled into bed thoroughly tired.

After another restless night filled with guilt-laden dreams, Harry awoke to a sunny and already warm day. Sighing, he stretched and reached for his glasses. When he had slipped them up his nose, he glanced over at Hedwig’s cage. The snowy owl had just returned home from a night of hunting and blinked tiredly at him. She hooted softly, and then hopped into her cage and tucked her head under her wing to nap for the day.

Harry walked into the bathroom and drew a glass of water from the tap. He carefully poured the liquid in the bowl at the bottom of the wire cage. He petted Hedwig’s head and said to her, “at least you can stretch your wings this year, girl. That’s one good thing.”

He stumbled downstairs into the kitchen, grabbed some fruit, and looked over the list his relatives left with him. He figured he could wash the car and mow the lawn today. He still wondered how he was going to clean the chimney, and why they wanted him to do it in June anyway.

Oh, well, he thought, he’d better just get started on the list. He worked all that day, and that evening had water and a little cheese. He had to come in earlier than if his relatives were home so that he could actually see to take a shower. Then again, if his relatives were home, the electricity wouldn’t have been turned off.

That night was as torturous as those previous and the next day was just as tiring. At noon he stopped for a few minutes and realized that it was the third day since the Order had met his uncle at the train station. He had a letter to write unless he wanted them breathing down his neck. And he definitely didn’t want that. After sending Hedwig off with a brief note saying that all was well on Privet Drive, Harry decided that he should make a calendar of some sort so that he didn’t forget a letter. He soon fell into a routine. Work; eat a little, try to sleep, and every third day write to the Order. He tried not to think too much about Sirius during the day, but at times it was unavoidable. He tried to keep busy, but sometimes apathy overtook him and he simply lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling.

Harry continued in this manner for about two weeks. Then one day he passed out in the garden. When he awoke later that evening he crawled into the house, ate the last of the food, and fell asleep slumped over the table. What Harry didn’t realize was that it was a third day, the day he had to write a letter to the Order.

At the headquarters in Grimmauld Place, several members of the Order of the Phoenix were very concerned that they had not heard from Harry Potter. Remus Lupin, normally calm, paced back and forth in front of the kitchen fireplace while Molly Weasley sat at the table playing with the handle of her tea cup. Albus Dumbledore, head of the Order dedicated to fighting Voldemort, was speaking from the fire. “You haven’t heard from him today?”

“No, Headmaster, not a word,” Molly responded.

“To tell the truth,” Lupin said, “I’m nervous. His letters don’t sound right. I think that there is something he’s not telling us. And last summer those muggles locked him in his room! Also, Mrs. Figg says she has seen Harry, but she hasn’t seen any of the Dursleys. I think we should send someone.” He turned toward the fireplace. “I’d like to go and get him.”

“You and Molly, Tonks and Moody, go and check on him. Don’t let him see you. If everything is fine, leave him there for a little longer. If not,” he paused. “If not, bring him back.”

“Yes, Sir.” As the flame in the fireplace went back to its normal orange and gold color, the two left in the kitchen snapped into action. “I’ll go and get Moody and Nymphadora,” Remus said.

“Right. I’ll just let Arthur know we’re going and round up some brooms,” replied the Weasley matron.

“Good, meet you back here in fifteen minutes.” Nodding, the pair moved off to complete their tasks. Exactly thirteen and a half minutes later, the four witches and wizards took off into the night, heading for Little Whinging, Surrey.