In his life, the Dark Lord attacked not him, but those around him, because friends are the supports that give a man strength. With them, he can withstand anything. Without them, a breath of wind will knock him down. But until all of them are gone, he will look for a way to continue. Such was the way of the boy-who-lived, despite a lapse in effort.

-from The Boy-Who-Lived, A Biography by George Fiddler

Harry walked down the stairs and entered Petunia’s perfect kitchen. He rummaged through a shelf and found a package of cookies. Taking a few, he placed them on a plate and prepared to sit in the living room. His own bedroom had begun to trigger memories of Sirius even without any of his wizarding belongings visible. It had been a week since the last update when he had learned of Crabbe’s death. He would receive the next set today, and did not look forward to it. The Daily Prophet had reported twenty deaths, which meant there were at least thirty, plus more no one knew of.

Vernon was in the office, Dudley was playing videogames, and Petunia was out in the garden with the roses. Dudley walked by as he was finishing the first cookie, and said nothing, but passed on and out the door. With nothing better to do, Harry stood by the door and listened to the conversation.

“Can I go out tonight?”

“Of course Diddy-kins. Where are you going to go?”

“Just to hang out with my friends. Nothing special.”

“Alright then, when do you think you’ll be back?”

“Around midnight.”

“That’s awfully late, Diddy.”

“I’ll be fine. I can go.”

“Yes, you may.”

Harry rolled his eyes at the worthless conversation, but before he had left, they continued.

“Dudley,” Petunia said. It made Harry freeze; she never used his name. “I want you to be sure to be nice to Harry.”

Harry felt like he had been punched. There was no way she would say it otherwise.

“Why? He’s one of them. He’s a freak.”

“But he is going through something, and I think someone may had died.”

“So?”

“Well, I think that this person was important, and I think that Harry is blaming himself.” That was it. Harry didn’t hear anything else. He dropped the plate, and distantly heard it shatter while he ran up the stairs. Even Petunia knew that it was his fault. And for the first time in his life Harry was not disagreeing with his Aunt.

It was his fault, and he knew it.

“It is my fault. It is my fault.” He whispered over and over. He wrapped his arms around his legs, drawing them to his chest and cried. It went on for almost an hour. Fitful choking sobs and long periods of silent tears.

He cried himself dry and then went on in unrestrained pain. His clock had just changed to noon as he stood and took a breath. The cube was in his pocket and he felt a minor desire to touch it, but he was too emotionally lost to find enough strength. He prepared to write a letter to Ron, keeping him constantly updated on the progress of his failing sanity, and heard a muffled shout.

Jumping to his feet, he ripped the window open, and distantly knew that his reflexes had not faded.

“Help!” He heard again as the breeze entered.

Petunia was still in the garden and before Harry could think, he was down the stairs and outside. She was being attacked by a Knarl, but she had no idea how to react. Harry dealt with the creature, and only as he moved to his Aunt to help her, did he realize what he had done.

He was out of his house. He had been told a thousand times by a thousand friends not to leave his house for any reason.

And now he had.

Harry jumped and dragged Petunia inside. She was shaking in fear from the Knarl, an dh was shaking worse. He knew that he was in no state to fight or defend himself, and for all the peptalks he had imagined Sirius giving him, he could not find the strength. The thought of Sirius shattered him on the inside as it always did, but he managed to avoid crying while he helped Petunia calm down.

Dudley waddled in from the kitchen, and stared at the scene, completely at a loss. Once Harry was sure she would be fine, he left her in the kitchen with a cup of tea, and retreated to his room and wept.

*~~~*~~~*

Uncle Vernon returned that night to find Petunia still in the kitchen, mud on the floor and tea spilt on the table. Harry was called down instantly, and Dudley’s name quickly followed. Dudley was out on his nightly romp and could not answer, so Harry walked down alone, and met the icy glare of his Uncle.

“What did you do to her, boy?” He hissed.

“I didn’t do anything. I helped her with a minor problem.”

“She’s not acting like it’s minor now.”

“No.” Harry looked at her slowly, “She isn’t.”

“WHAT HAPPENED?” Vernon screamed

“She was attacked by a knarl. They look like hedgehogs, but they hate it when someone offers them food. I ran down and got it away from her.”

“What was some ruddy KNARL doing in my YARD?”

“They live everywhere.”

“All because of you and your ruddy abnormality, no doubt.”

Harry’s emotions were still too thin. He had cried all afternoon, his eyes were still bloodshot, he had not received his post, he was weak in body, weak in mind, weak in spirit, and afraid of his mistake. Vernon’s words stabbed through to him like knives and tore his veil of protection to shreds.

“If my wife gets hurt again because of you, you’ll leave this house. And the same is true of Dudley. I don’t want some death magnet living beneath my roof and if you think–”

“Vernon, stop.” Aunt Petunia calmly interrupted him. “Harry helped me, nothing more. I was attacked by one of these things before, I overreacted today. Harry does not need to be punished. Hand me that dish towel so I can clean this up, and Vernon, you and I will be going out to dinner tonight, go get changed.” Vernon looked flummoxed, but moved despite it. “That’s all I can do for now Harry, do not leave the house, and do not make a mess in my kitchen. Cook whatever you please for your supper, but the kitchen had best not have a speck of dirt when I return.” She nodded brusquely and went to change.

*~~~*~~~*

Harry watched their car turn around the corner of Privet Drive from the front window of number four. He waited until he heard a faint tap to his side and had to open a window for a sleek black owl. The letter it carried was on regular parchment, so it was not the death count, but carried an air of supreme importance.

He ripped it open.

Mr. Potter,

I had always known you to be an insufferable fool before this time, but now my belief is concerned. Did I not say NOT to leave your house? Did I not clarify to you how imperative it was that you stay where you are? Perhaps your over-inflated ego decided that you were mighty enough to fight off whatever the Dark Lord threw at you when he had located you.

I can personally say that you would not, and as I would be one of the ones assigned to attack you, I would not hold back anything if you are so useless as to reveal yourself before we have granted you the time to do so.

The Dark Lord does not know your exact location, but thanks to your idiotic jaunt today, he knows the approximate area, and has planned to severely attack Little Whining tonight. Even if every person you know and love is dying outside your door tonight, DO NOT LEAVE. If you do and the Dark Lord does not kill you I will complete his task myself.

DO NOT LEAVE YOUR HOUSE.

Continue to work on your essay.

Professor Severus Snape

*~~~*~~~*

In Harry’s life it seemed that no message came too early. Only a few hours after the correspondence with Snape, and when the entire Dursley family was once more in the house, Harry was in the kitchen searching for a glass of water. He heard a series of cracks and his head snapped up fearfully. His still bloodshot eyes scanned the room fretfully.

Silence hung accursed over the house, and Harry put his back to the wall as he shook violently. The night was cool for mid summer, and the breeze moved a tree and danced shadows over the room. Harry’s mind went immediately to his earlier stupidity and the warning he had received. Voldemort could easily be there, and Harry wasn’t even armed. He would die, and there was nothing he could do. So much pointless loss, just like Sirius’.

Harry collapsed and curled into a half fetal position with tears streaking over his cheeks. He could do nothing but wait, and hope he had luck. After a few minutes he saw a dim flash of green light, like it was from far away, and he managed to claw his way up. Pain seared through the scar, and he saw Mrs. Figg’s house. The light had come from there, and he then heard the cracks of Disapparation. There were the same number as before.

He knew because he counted.

Running out the door and across the cul-de-sac, Harry threw the door open and saw the worst. Mrs. Figg was lying on her side and her eyes were scared. She had clearly tried to fight back, based off the number of ornaments and photo albums that opposed her, but she was only a squib and in the end she was as defenseless as a Muggle.

Her cats had been killed as well, all but one. The kitten was pure white and pawed in bewilderment at her owner and fellow pets. Harry watched as the cat moved one to the next, to the next, and could not help but hold his own vigil with her until she was done. The kitten somberly moved to his side and rubbed against his leg.

Harry picked her up.

“Cleopatra.” He read off her collar. Cleopatra’s eyes were warm and golden, and were the saddest things, Harry had ever seen. She was no more than five months, and small. She sat comfortably on his shoulder. She mewed once for the loss, and it sounded like a heart breaking.

He should have cried again. Tears should have once more streaked his already wet face. Sobs should have wracked his body, and moans of fear should have rent the air. But they did not. Harry turned from graveyard and walked back to number four. He stood by the window and waited a few minutes for an owl with Cleopatra on his shoulder.

One swept in with a small black envelope. He opened it and scanned down. Seventeen Muggle Deaths. Six Wizards. Three Witches. And one Squib.

He placed it calmly into the file he kept, and was about to begin condolences when he froze. He had finally realized what he had to do.

And what was at stake if he didn’t.

Cleopatra licked his cheek.