The truth of it was hidden behind several doors in his mind, but deep down, Harry knew with a certainty that Uncle Vernon wasn't going to kill him. And if Vernon, with his habit of raging before thinking wasn't going to kill him, then his aunt certainly wasn't.

However, even as he reassured himself, Harry could not deny that his aunt looked ready to kill him, or at least seriously maim him.

Her eyes, which had never held fondness when she was looking at him, suddenly held nothing. It was as if this new horror in their lives (this time in the form of a dead cat) had killed something inside her, it had taken her to the edge. He'd seen the same look in Sirius's eyes when he hadn't know he was being watched. It was the look of someone who had forgotten himself, a deep aching tiredness, a longing to walk away from it all.

Seeing this, Harry found that he was afraid. Not just for himself, but even more so, he was afraid for his aunt.

"Aunt Petunia?" His voice was soft and she left the room without meeting his eyes. He was sure she had not heard him. Still, Harry stood there, careful not to look down at the blood stained floor as he awaited to see if his aunt would return.

Within five minutes, she did, and with her she brought a cardboard box, a trash bag and several cloths made from retired T-shirts of Dudley's that had been passed to Harry and then much later, once they had started to rip, been turned into cleaning rags.

"Clean this up. There's a bucket for water in the bathroom." Her voice was emotionless, but Harry saw the twitches in her hands and knew that this was a facade of calmness. Under the surface was a torrent of emotion that was barely held in check.

She turned to leave, shoulders tight with tension. Harry found himself desperate for some sign from her that would show her belief in his innocence. Why hadn't she even asked where the cat came from? She hadn't asked him anything, just heard the words of Dudley's new friend and immediately accepted them as the truth. Shouldn't his words count for something? Her disdain of him had never been felt more heavily. It was almost suffocating and he couldn't help himself from stepping back a bit, as if distance would ease the weight that had settled on his chest.

She was almost out the door when Harry blurted the truth out, his voice almost desperate, "Aunt Petunia! I didn't do this--"

He'd hoped she would be surprised, and say, 'Well of course you didn't! If I had even the slightest thought of you doing something terrible you'd be out of here in a quick minute. No, of course you didn't do it, Harry.'

What she did next killed those thoughts. The speed in which she turned around surprised Harry, but when she raised her hand and struck him across the face, he was shocked. Any words Harry had thought of to defend himself were suddenly nonexistent, as if the sharp sound of her hand striking his cheek had scared them off. She'd never slapped him before.

"Don't." The one word was harsh, and stung as much as the slap had. Because behind that one word was disbelief. Petunia followed it with a small shake of her head, her eyes rimming with tears and then as she glanced at the empty owl cage in the corner of the room, fear.

She fled the room.

Staring after her in surprised hurt, Harry's already miserable mood dampened beyond repair. Why was it everyone on Privet Drive seemed intent on harming him? Their words, actions, the things they didn't say, the things they shouldn't have said...even some of the looks they gave, all of it focused on causing him pain. Seeing the fear in her eyes stung something fierce. Memories of his accidental magic and their responses to it rose up from the far corners of his soul where he'd hidden them, locked them away because the truth behind it brought forth such a burst of emotion that he thought he would choke from it.

To not be wanted was a terrible thing.

Eyes shifting to the carcass at his feet, Harry wished he could feel numb. But no one had granted him that yet, not when Cedric died, not when Sirius died and left that guilt filled pit in his stomach...and it wasn't about to happen now.

Harry clenched his fists together, his teeth grinding with such a ferocity that his gums were sure to be sore later.

What the hell was wrong with Brent? What kind of sick, messed up mind did he have to think of doing something so dreadful? There was no way around it, Brent had to have a hand in killing that poor cat. Even if he hadn't done it himself, he must have had someone do it for him. Had he been able to believe that this was just some poor animal hit by an automobile and later found by Brent, Harry might not have felt so sick. But this was the same Mr Puss that Harry had mentioned while trying to antagonize Brent yesterday.

"You and Mr. Puss will get along great," he'd said. The result of those words now lay at his feet. Was he now to be held responsible for the death of his godfather and for a cat, if not out loud by someone than at least in his own head? Harry closed his eyes slowly, relishing in the darkness behind his lids that held the strange, cruel world from view.

It was only with pure willpower that Harry made himself focus back on the matter at hand. Would Brent really do this by himself?

Had those few words exchanged between them really brought about this hatred? For only a deeply settled hatred would provoke the other boy to go to such lengths, not even Malfoy or Snape had gone this far to try to make Harry's life unbearable.

But perhaps, they just hadn't known what actions would result in the most pain. That brought another question to mind; how had Brent known that the best way to get back at Harry was to make his relatives distrust him more? And worse, would he try to do it again, this time with even more drastic results?

Harry swallowed, and slowly knelt to the floor to put the cat's body in the black plastic bag. Covering his hands with the trash bag, he picked up the carcass the same way Petunia had taught him to put up raw meat without getting it on his hands. The comparison made him feel like gagging, and the smell didn't help. As he picked up the heavy carcass, blood dripped and landed in the already considerable puddle on his bedroom floor. Who knew a cat had that much blood in them, especially elderly Mr Puss.

Next, he left his room on weak legs to go fill the bucket up with hot water. He filled the bucket with the first cleaning product he found, something scented with lavender, and then added a hefty amount of bleach to the mix. He had no desire to get sick from some dead-cat-disease, though that would really just round up the whole event quite nicely.

Snorting in disgust at the whole thing, Harry carried the bucket back to his room and worked on getting the blood off the floor and not vomiting in the process. Man, Ron and Hermione were not going to believe this.
"How'd your summer go, mate?"
"Oh, it was fine--until a loony Muggle planted a dead cat in my bedroom and my barmy relatives decided I was doing Dark Magic...so, yeah."

The rags from Harry's old T-shirt had gone from gray to burgundy. The bleach in the water caused his hands to tingle and ache as he scrubbed at the persistent stain where the blood had started to congeal.

He knew with certainty that the punishment his aunt and uncle decided upon for this new freakiness in their home would only be worse if there was a irremovable stain to remind them of it for the next few years

Sitting back on his haunches, Harry sighed heavily and his low fringe floated up momentarily revealing his scar.

It wasn't a complete crime scene any longer. There was no way an unknowing person could walk in and shout, "Aha! A cat lay there, after dying in a most gory way!" but, there was a large patch of floor a darker shade than the rest.

Maybe it would be different once it dried. If not, then nothing else could be done for it, he'd just have to cover it up with a mat. Harry stood, and took the bucket to the bathroom to dump it down the drain. The red of the water seemed supremely bright as it flowed out of the bucket and into the platinum white tub. Taking precaution not to leave any residue and inspire the Dursley's ire, Harry finally turned to the sink to wash his hands.

It was like he had dipped his hands in red dye, the color had settled on his skin, making every line and crease more noticeable. It was surprising how much this bothered Harry; he'd thought of the figurative 'blood on his hands' before, even quite recently...but to see actual blood on his hands was something else entirely.

For a heart stopping moment, he had a flash of surety that it wasn't going to come off.

Harry increased his efforts, and after using a heavily concentrated liquid soap, the color of his skin returned to normal.

When he got back in his room, it was only to find that the box with the cat inside was gone. Harry blinked at that, and then slowly closed his door, and sat on his bed. He wanted to be ready when Vernon came home so he kept himself turned toward the only entrance.

To calm the emotions stirring inside, Harry reached for his wand that he had hid in a wand holster under the baggy T-shirt.
It had been a gift from Moody given to him at the train station, 'Don't want to take anymore risks of blowing your cheek off than you need to,' he'd remarked gruffly, and Harry had smiled slightly in return, murmuring his thanks. The Dursley's greedy eyes had burned into his back when they'd seen the generously wrapped gift. The gift wrap must not have been Moody's idea, Harry was quite certain the older man could not have been the one to pick it out due to the gold snitches that glided across the surface. It drew too much attention, unwanted attention, he would have said.

Homesickness creeped into the forefront of Harry's mind again. He missed being around people that actually liked him. People that cared whether he lived or died, even seemed concerned when he arrived back in the Wizarding world skinnier than when he had left it.
A large portion of the Order had come to see him off, to warn the Dursley's against treating him unfairly...though, Harry had never mentioned that they had a tendency to be unkind. He wondered momentarily how they knew he wasn't exactly thought of as prince-like in his relative's residence...Hermione and Ron wouldn't have talked about it, they didn't know too much anyway.

There was Mr Weasley to consider, he had come to pick Harry up the summer before his fourth year, and he'd seemed awfully surprised that the Dursley's hadn't the slightest inclination to say goodbye to their only nephew.

At that moment, the door to the front of the house opened and closed loudly.

Talking about things getting worse....

Uncle Vernon hummed loudly as he set his briefcase down beside the door, and then made his was past the stairs toward the kitchen where he would proceed to eat his dinner with gusto. After the meal, he would collapse happily in his favorite recliner situated perfectly in front of the television. Or, at least that is what would have happened on a normal day.

Today, unfortunately, was quite different. Having been closed in his room for the past hour, Harry had not thought about how he was supposed to cook. He'd reckoned Petunia would have handled it.

Vernon asked a question, and Harry strained to hear a reply. He almost sneaked to the door to peer out into the hall, but his legs seemed suddenly incapable of any such movement.

It must have been a long reply, for there was no forthcoming sounds of silverware clanging, or pots being bustled about. There was only the quiet sound of his aunt's voice as she talked...and talked...and yes, continued speaking.

The near silence was worse than yelling, at least a raised voice would be a fair warning as what he had to expect.

Harry had just closed his eyes, still resigned to staying in the exact same position until something happened, when the heavy trod of his uncle's footsteps made his eyes open. Vernon ascended quickly, much too quickly for him to be going to the bathroom to wash himself up for dinner.

The door slammed open, bouncing off the peach wall and seeming to vibrate with rage. Harry jerked up to stand warily before his heavily breathing uncle. Vernon stared at Harry, his beady eyes taking in the stain on the floor, and then the wand clenched in Harry's whitening fingers.

A decision flashed in Vernon's face, his mouth tightened with determination and he held out one hand.

"Give it," he snapped.

Harry's mouth dropped a bit, and then followed Vernon's eyes to where they kept glancing...and he had to blink rapidly.

"Er..."

"Give me your....wand," though he had difficulty saying the word, Vernon still managed it which only proved just how determined he was prepared to be. The fact that he was even willing to touch a magical thing in the first place spoke volumes. His large purple face was twitchy with nerves, his mustache bristling and moving about enough to make Harry think he was hiding an animal among the many hairs...like a cat.

Harry grimaced. Perhaps that was not the best animal to think of at the moment.

"I..." Harry rapped his brain quickly, his instincts screaming at him that he'd better ruddy not let his wand anywhere near Vernon's large, unkind hands.

"Boy!"

"I can't! If...if any non-magical person touches any wizard's wand, an alert will be sent out to the Ministry of Magic, remember them? The ones holding all the power? They'll send out...er, magical police men to find out what's wrong--and probably take your memory away. You aren't supposed to know too much."

There was a momentary stillness to Vernon, and Harry knew he was considering his words and probably imagining large wizards breaking down his door to steal his memories.

"Fine," he growled, and Harry mistook that word to mean that Uncle Vernon had given up. "You'll put it in the trunk. I'm locking it away, you won't see it again until you go back to that freaky place."

Harry swallowed, the idea of locking away his wand was like being without his glasses. It would be like wallowing in helplessness. He'd be even more at their mercy than before. Harry wasn't sure he'd survive with those chances.

"But--"

Uncle Vernon seemed to grow in front of Harry's very eyes, but all he did was step closer. He leaned in close and Harry flinched as he noticed the red veins in his eyes, and could smell his uncle's foul breath as he breathed in his face.

"Petunia told me all about today, boy. That woman in the grocery store, the--the neighbor's cat!"

Harry had been sure Vernon would not touch him, but as he spoke and his voice rose, his heavy arms reached out and grasped Harry's arms roughly.

"We've been through enough! Took you in out of a sense of responsibility. Clothed you and fed you, gave you all you could ever need! Taken food away from our own son's mouth in the process--ungrateful!" He gave a mighty shake, his face contorting with rage.

"Now you're killing our neighbors animals! And Dudley could lose his friends all because of your unnaturalness--I thought it was bad before, oh no, you had to do this! Well, no more! No, I won't let you tread all over our kindness any longer boy." Uncle Vernon released Harry with a last mighty shake that made him lose his balance.

Harry sprang up quickly from the bed, eyes wide. His wand had come loose and landed on the floor. Uncle Vernon saw, and with a wide grin, he picked it up between two fingers and flung it in Harry's open trunk. While Harry watched, he brought a padlock out of his trouser pocket. He bent down and it clicked into place, ensuring that Harry would not see his belongings again until Vernon allowed it.

Harry had a moment of relief though, at least his wand would still be in his room, even though he couldn't get to it at the moment.

"Don't think I'm leaving this in here," Vernon told Harry with a snort, seeing how he'd been eyeing the trunk. And with that he hefted the trunk up to carry it right outside the doorway where he dropped it. The jarring bang made Harry wince, and Uncle Vernon turned back to him.

"Petunia told me what Dudley's friend said, about you--you tossing him into the air! I won't have you harming my family, or our neighbors! If I was less of a man I'd be tempted to throttle you! After all you've put my family through--taking you in when no one wanted you. You're a freak, boy! Threatening us, trying to make us bend to your wishes. You're to write to those people regularly, I will be checking to make sure you don't say anything distasteful about us...and if you do," Uncle Vernon took a huge breath, and whispered the next words harshly, "I'll break that bird's neck!"

Harry flinched back, the words lashing out and striking him hard.

"You are not to write about this incident to anyone, you hear me boy? No one! You are to stay in this room, and be quiet and grateful."

With that, Vernon turned, his chest puffed out as he strode from the room and slammed the door shut behind him. The sound of several locks turning could be heard clearly. One, two, three--honestly, why they thought it would take that many to keep him inside, he didn't know.

It was safer in his room than it was out there anyway, why would he want to leave?

Shaken, Harry sat staring at the door long after the footsteps of his uncle had faded away, and the sounds of dinner being made downstairs replaced them.

 ~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~

Potter didn't stand a chance in that house. He already looked broken...but maybe that had more to do with the death of his 'flea-bitten godfather' as he'd heard him called.

Draco sat utterly still once again and stared at Potter who was blankly gazing down at the floor. His entire person seemed to radiate resignation, from his shoulders which bent down in a slump of pure dismay to his arms which hung limply across his knees. Even his hands, which Draco had often caused to clench in anger, were lifeless.

After several seconds of staring, in which neither of them moved, Draco found that his glee had been dampened significantly. Instead, a lump of lead seemed to have settled into his stomach causing queasiness and then...confusion. A frown creased Draco's forehead as he realized what had caused this sudden change.

Potter's home situation had made him sad. Damn.

Before he could delve into why he felt this way, a sharp popping noise startled him and Draco stood up and spun around.

"Moppet! Didn't I tell you to knock on the door first? I don't want you invading my privacy without my explicit permission!"

Moppet the house else cowered over the tray he held, eyes not meeting Draco's as he stuttered out an apology.

"No, Master Draco! You isn't telling Muppet to knock first! Muppet is sorry for not thinking of it, so sorry Master Draco!"

Draco waved the apologies away, annoyed that the house elf had not just pretended that he was supposed to knock and taken the blame.

"Just leave the platter and get out of my sight--oh, and Muppet?"

"Yes, Master Draco?" The words were said with quiet defeat, and it reminded Draco of how Potter had sounded so strongly, that for a moment he forgot what he was going to say.

"Er...don't speak of anything you see in this room. Understand? If you even think of it, I'll have you hung up by those horrible ears of yours."

"Yes, sir! Yes, Muppet not be saying a word of Master Draco's magic mirror!"

Draco blinked in surprise, and then opened his mouth to chastise some more, something along the lines of, "I said don't mention it!" Muppet, however, had glimpsed freedom and took it without looking back. He disappeared with a terrified pop.

Aggravated now, Draco turned back toward the mirror and crossed his arms.

How many times had he wanted to see Potter put in his place? Just for once to have a figure with some authority knock him out of his high-and-mighty attitude. More times than Draco could count, and honestly, for a few moments there, watching Potter's utter defeat had given a deep satisfaction. Then, it had flitted away like a butterfly in a large garden.

It was surreal, and strange, and something else...uncomfortable.

Yes, Draco shifted in his chair. He felt uncomfortable having seen that, and he didn't know why.

After several long seconds, the answer came to Draco and it relived him so much that he said it out loud. "I'm hungry!"

Of course; hunger could make anyone do or feel strange things. Even make Draco feel sorry for Potter in the face of his disheartenment. Because, obviously, Potter deserved a lot more than a rough shaking for all the discomfort he had caused Draco alone. The Dark Lord would see to that though.

Draco nodded to himself, ignored the last few tendrils in his stomach that said he wasn't being truthful with himself, and turned to take the tray Muppet had left to the nearest table. Mother seemed to have told the house elves to make up for Draco's current lack of a father with enormous amounts of food. Ever since he'd been imprisoned in Azkaban, dinner had become something for Narcissa to involve herself in. She planned the meals weeks ahead, trying new things that Draco wasn't sure he wanted to try, and there was always too much left over.

Narcissa had stopped encouraging Draco to eat dinner with her soon after the start of summer. She's originally wanted them to dine together and hold the illusion of a whole family...but he grew tired of her remorseful looks directed toward the head of the table. Bland conversation and a never ending feeling of falseness lingered between them. The way it was never mentioned, but constantly there of course made it impossible for Draco to think of anything else.

He had to find a way to kill Dumbledore.

Taking the cover off his meal, Draco inhaled the scent of steamed vegetables and roasted chicken and fresh herbs. He sat down, napkin at hand and utensils at the ready--when he happened to glance up. What was a quick glance up, turned into another stare he was quickly finding himself doing a lot.

Potter had stood up from the wobbly bed, walked around to the other side and was now kneeling on the floorboards. At first, Draco thought he was praying, and that stunned him. But, no, Potter was now leaning forward and reaching one skinny arm under the bed.

Mouth thin with effort, Potter sighed and then lay down on the floor, head almost completely out of sight. He reappeared moments later, wrappers crinkling in his hands and he withdrew a couple of pastries from some hidden compartment underneath the bed.

The bed frame creaked ominously as Potter leaned against it, quickly unwrapping one pastry and inhaling deeply with a contentedness Draco had never seen before on his face. He ate it slowly, head leaned back, and eyes closed. It was like the bloody prat had never had a sweet before.

Why would anyone take thirteen small bites out of a pastry that could easily be finished in six? Draco had never taken so long to eat something so insignificant, he ate with grace expected of him, but not at a snails pace! And meanwhile, his own food was going to get cold. Draco started eating quickly, keeping an eye on Potter all the time.

When he was finished, Potter folded the pastry wrapper up into a small square, and then he looked at the other pastry. A battle was going on inside his head, with the moonlight streaming through the window, Draco could see it even though he did not understand it.

Finally, with a regretful look, Potter snatched up the other pastry and the empty, folded wrapper and stuck them both back under the bed in whatever hiding place he had.

Chewing his chicken thoughtfully, Draco's eyes turned to the small wastebasket in the room clearly within Potter's reach, even sitting on the floor. Why did he keep a wrapper? Didn't he know that could draw all sorts of vermin to his room looking for food? Potter was looking out the window now, his hand rubbing his eyes.

A growl emerged from his stomach, hidden under those horribly droopy clothes. The universal sign for hunger. A sound where when mother's heard it, they worried and ran to feed their children, a sound that when it came from Draco, his friends would suggest summoning a house elf for a snack.

An un-amused smile came upon Potter's face, and he muttered something that sounded terribly like, "Better get used to it," as he continued to stare out at the night sky.

Any appetite Draco had left, dried up just as soon as Potter said those words. His mother's carefully planned meal now seemed outlandish and unappealing. He laid his fork down carefully, and then cast the spell that would cancel the spell. His view of Potter melted away, and yet, he still could not bring himself to eat his favorite custard when Muppet brought it in for him.

It was carried toward him on a silver tray, and the custard itself incased in a fine stemmed glass and decorated with fresh berries and a sprig of mint so green it had to have been freshly picked. Yet, looking at it, all Draco could see was a sticky, unhealthy pastry pulled out from under a bed and eaten with the delight only one who never knew when their next meal would be could have.

"Is Master Draco upset with Muppet? Muppet announced himself first before entering, just as Master asked!"

Draco sighed, feeling ill and confused, "No, I'm not mad at you--but I will be if you don't get that out of here now!"

Muppet squeaked and did exactly that.

Unfortunately, what Draco did not think about, was the fact that with now no Muppet or his dessert to distract him, he had only his own situation to think of.

"Why should I bloody care?" Draco asked himself fiercely.

He shouldn't, was the answer he came up with. What did it matter if Potter was hungry and feeling depressed. Maybe he'd off himself and do the whole Wizarding World a favor. Tension still made his fingers tap a steady beat atop the table's surface, and Draco blew out a breath and closed his eyes.

He was just too soft; that was it, and it had to stop. Death Eaters couldn't be soft, they were respectable and severe, feared and rejected by those who didn't understand. If he was ever going to be one, he had to stop feeling so much, and that meant not caring about those people who were all going to end up dead or prisoners in the end anyway.

This was more than he had expected. He'd hoped to use information on Potter to achieve the highest forms of payback. Instead, he found that Potter was already getting payback, in more imaginative ways than Draco could have imagined. What in the world had happened to make his relatives despise him so?

Draco shook his head, whoever had started that was genius. Had they planted poison in their morning tea and blamed it on Potter, had the cousin been scalped and a razor found in Potter's hand while he was sleeping? Or, had Potter brought this animosity upon himself?

Now that was an incriminating idea. Potter, after years of taking his relatives for granted finally pushes them too far. Isn't that what the uncle had suggested? Yes, that did seem a far more likely concept. So why did Draco feel like he was trying to fool himself?

Gritting his teeth, a horribly un-Malfoy thing to do, Draco pushed himself away from the chair and marched out of the library. There was simply only one cure for a befuddled mind and a tense body; a long bath followed by at least eight hours of sleep. Then, in the morning, he had to start looking for a way to get rid of Dumbledore once and for all.
No more peering in on Potter. Draco got caught up in his life too easily, what with all the weird mannerisms of the Muggles and Potter's strange lack of stubbornness around them. He seemed completely different compared to everything Draco had seen in school...and the thought of missing out on some new Muggle inflicted drama was almost too much. Fine, maybe he could look in on Potter once or twice tomorrow...but no more than that.

~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~

Harry started awake. Disoriented, he wasn't sure what had woken him at first, he just knew it was loud and he desperately hoped it didn't mean more bad news.

The shrill sound of a drill bit grinding into stone continued and Harry slid off the bed. His bare feet touched the floor just as someone spoke outside his window.

"You sure you only want it on one window Mr Dursley? Looks a bit odd, I have to say."

Harry's teeth clenched together, even his sleepy self able to put together the pieces of this puzzle.

"Never you mind that! Just do you job."

Peering out his bedroom window, Harry saw the eye roll of the security man and heard the whispered insults that his uncle on the ground below would never know about. But, he couldn't think too much about that. The bars on his window were back. Even with the early morning light still shining through, Harry's room seemed somehow darker and even sinister.

The grimly sarcastic side of himself thought it was rather appropriate turn of events. He'd already felt like a prisoner, but now his room was decorated like one too. Goody.

Done with his task, the security man had climbed down his ladder, and was now talking with Vernon on the lawn below Harry's window. The stubborn look of Vernon's face made Harry sure that the conversation involved the price; for a moment, Harry really did feel bad for the worker who was already looking a bit peeved.

Then, someone else caught Harry's eye. They stood on the corner of the yard, starting at the window--no, staring at Harry through the window.

Harry met Brent's eyes and instantly wished he'd turned away instead. He could have done without seeing Brent's slow, thin smile and the glint in his eyes that clearly read, I win.