If misery had a name, then Harry Potter was it; if misery had a face, it was the face of a teenage boy with untidy jet-black hair and bright green eyes. For that's what Harry Potter was just then, plainly and simply miserable. He was stuck back at the Dursleys with no answer when he'd be allowed to leave and this summer was shaping up to be, if possible, even more miserable than the last. Last summer, he'd been angry, so angry. No one telling him things, no news, stuck here with Dursleys. This summer was the same. Except that this summer, there was no Sirius to write to. No letters from his godfather to be had. Harry would have been grateful this summer for even the uninformative ones he'd gotten from Sirius last summer. But this summer was different. Sirius was dead. Dead, dead, dead. Harry was never going to get another letter from Sirius again, and it was his fault. He tried not to think of it, but the images kept flashing by at the most unexpected moments. He'd be trying to eat, and the flash would come, Sirius laughing at the death eater, Bellatrix Lestrange. The red light from her wand striking him, and the look of surprise on his godfather's face as he fell through the curtain into the thing in the Department of Mysteries they called the veil. Into death, never to return.

Misery consumed him. His trunk was open on the floor beside his bed. Books spilled out, and his wizard robes were a jumbled mess tangled with his broom, squashed into his cauldron, wrapped around the Sneakoscope Ron had given him for his thirteenth birthday. He could be studying up on Defense Against the Dark Arts, so he would be better able to defend himself if Voldemort were to attack again. He could be practicing Occlumency, the difficult art of sealing one's mind against magical invasion, which he had failed so abysmally to master last year. Which he had almost deliberately failed to master because he was so curious to know what his dreams were about, despite every warning that he must learn to block out the mental connection he shared with Voldemort. And because Snape had been teaching him.

Wasn't it the most miserable thought of all, besides the plain fact of Sirius's death, that Snape had been right. Snape, whom he loathed as much as anyone besides Voldemort, had been right about him. He, Harry, had been puffed up, arrogant, sure of his own rightness, sure that he could handle things, that he could solve anything. And he had brought Sirius to his death because he had failed to listen to everyone. Hermione had told him it might be a trap. He had tried to check, but it hadn't been enough. He had been tricked by Voldemort, tricked by the venomous house-elf Kreacher, into believing Sirius had been captured. And he had gone to the one place Voldemort wanted him to go, just like a stupid mouse hopping right into the mousetrap, thinking he would save Sirius. Only he had killed him instead.

He rolled over and checked the clock. Almost time for the seven o'clock news. The Daily Prophet had had article after article on keeping oneself safe now that Voldemort was back. Fudge had sent out a series of pamphlets on what to do if attacked by Death Eaters. Harry thought they were a joke. If you were attacked by Death Eaters, you were going to be tortured by the Cruciatus Curse until you wished you were dead. Then you would be killed by the Killing Curse, and you would be dead. Just like Sirius. And that was if you were lucky. If you weren't you might be put under the Imperius Curse and made to do things you would never, in your right mind, ever consider doing. Very few wizards could throw off the Imperius Curse. Barty Crouch hadn't been able to, and he was a great powerful wizard. And no one could defend against the Cruciatus Curse; you just had to endure it, and wait for the pain to stop. There was no defense against the Killing Curse. Nobody ever survived that. Nobody except Harry. And just now, Harry rather wished he had not.

He rolled off the bed and jammed his feet into his trainers. They were too small and had holes at the top of the toes. By contrast, his jeans were too short and too wide and his T-shirt was gigantic. You would never know he had grown again. Aunt Petunia had handed him several new hand-me-downs from Dudley when he got home for the summer. The pants were from one of Dudley's fat stages. They were at least a couple of years old, and kept threatening to fall off, because Harry would never in his life be that wide. he actively considered just throwing on his school robes, which were also too small but not nearly as bad. Except he'd never be allowed out of the house with them on.

The thing that he really wanted to know was still missing from the Daily Prophet. What was Voldemort doing? Where was he? Had he gotten the giants on his side? How many wizards had he recruited or coerced to his side now that he was publicly back? Had there been more killings? He didn't know. It wasn't in the paper, and Ron had written saying that they had no news. The letter had been full of anxiety for Harry. It had cheered him up for just a few minutes, even though there was no news. At least one person still thought he was worth talking to. He scuffed his way downstairs in time to hear the opening theme music for the seven o'clock report. Predictably, Uncle Vernon threw him a ferociously nasty look and made shooing motions at him as if Harry were some annoying and possibly dangerous insect coming to sting him. Harry pretended not to see and waited for the report with the barely subdued anxiety that never seemed to abate these days. Aunt Petunia seemed to share his anxiety, although some of it was directed at him.

"There's not going to be anything about him on our news. He's not interested in normal people like us." She said this every evening that Harry ventured down to watch the news on the big screen with them. And every evening so far had proved her right. So far. Harry answered, as he had every night,

"That's all you know. And anyway, what makes you think wizards are any less normal than Muggles?" He had given up avoiding the mention of magic and wizards, despite Uncle Vernon's infuriated rages over it. Since last summer, when Harry and Dudley had been attacked by dementors, their careful avoidance of the subject had been shattered, and Harry wasn't up to pretending any more. He wasn't hiding flowerbeds just to listen to the news. He wasn't avoiding mentioning the very word, magic. And he wasn't doing what Uncle Vernon said, because he just didn't care any more. He was staying here because Dumbledore had told him he must. And he was doing what Dumbledore told him to because not doing so had killed Sirius.

The reporter had started. The bland public school voice ticked off the daily stew of tragedy and mess. A bomb had exploded in Belfast and police were looking for terrorists. The Prime Minister was speaking at a conference in Kyoto. The Metropolitan Police had created a Special Task Force to investigate a possible serial killer. Three teenage girls were dead in the same mysterious fashion. Harry's attention started to drift. None of this sounded like Voldemort's work. The usual Muggle mayhem and madness. The announcer was saying,

"And now, a word from Superintendent Masters of the Metropolitan Police Authority. Is it true, Superintendent, that there's a possible serial killer at large?" The plumy voice of the Superintendent answered,

"It's early days yet. Early days, to be saying this is a true serial killer. What we do have are three teenage girls dead in three very different locations. We have to look at these things seriously, in terms of prevention. As you know, we have a new policy of interdistrict cooperation as part of the push to centralize information and increase the efficiency of policing across the country."

"But Superintendent, our sources indicate there was some peculiarity about these deaths. Is there some new drug on the market that the public should be warned of?"

"We have no knowledge of such a drug," the Superintendent replied sharply. "You can be sure that if we do learn of such a thing, we will release the news immediately." The Superintendent was walking away from the interview as the reporter posed the final question.

"Superintendent, is it true that all three girls were found dead with no apparent injury at all? No known drugs and not a mark on them? And no health problems either?" The news report now flashed up the faces of three girls, none of them older than Harry. There was girl from York, Margeret Miller. There was a girl from London, Janet Smith. There was a girl from Great Hangleton, Nancy Bell. That one had died just yesterday. All three of them had died within the last three weeks. The Superintendent turned.

"We have not established the cause of death, no. At the moment, there is no reason to think these are linked at all. The Task Force, as I said, is being set up for preventive purposes and as part of our new policy. The public will be informed, of course, should any new information come in that suggests otherwise." Harry felt a twinge of discomfort. The Superintendent's answers reminded him of Cornelius Fudge, who had denied Voldemrot's return for a whole year. And then there was the reporter's question. Was it true that all three girls had died without a mark on them, of no apparent cause? Could this be the news he ahd been looking for? Was it likely that Voldemort would have killed three muggle girls, one from York, one from London, One from...wherever that third place was. Harry tried to think why that one sounded familiar. They were reporting the latest sports news now. Another profile of an Olympic hopeful. He got up and scuffed over to the front door, not caring that he was making marks in Aunt Petunia's carpet as he went.

"Where are you going?" demanded Uncle Vernon.

"Out," said Harry as he opened the door. He shut the door on his Uncle's annoyed demands and his Aunt's monologue on crime and thankfulness that Dudley was a boy.

Harry walked up Privet Drive toward Magnolia Crescent. He was thinking of stopping by Mrs. Figg's house. She was the batty old lady whom he had been stunned to find out was actually a Squib. Born to wizard parents, but having no talent, it seemed. He thought there was a good chance she might be able to tell him what Dumbledore was up to, or that she would get a message to him that he wanted to talk. As he crossed the street, he was confronted by five teenage boys. In the front was his cousin, Dudley Dursley. The formerly fat boy had been transformed by dieting and boxing into a true menace. His vast bulk cast a huge shadow. The four other boys were not so small themselves. Harry stopped and considered pulling out his wand. Dudley stopped and Harry could see the wheels turning. The piggy eyes were weighing the odds that Harry might use magic on him. Dudley knew, of course, that Harry might be expelled if he did. He also knew that Harry had been disciplined last year, and nearly expelled from Hogwarts for using magic. Dudley still, deep down, believed that the dementor attack was Harry's doing, even though it had been Harry who had defended Dudley when the dementor had nearly given him the final, absolute kiss--the one that would suck out his soul. Harry stood still. He stared unblinkingly at his cousin, knowing that if all five boys attacked him, he was in trouble for sure. Whatever happened, he must not use magic this time. There would be no more excuses for him now. He was almost sixteen and knew better. Dudley stared back at him. His hands were curling into fists. Harry could almost see it, the fear, the loathing. Which would win out? In the end, it wasn't Dudley who decided things. Next to him, Piers Polkiss said,

"Well, if it isn't the tatty little cousin. Haven't seen you around in a while, Potter. So what do you get up to, when you aren't going to the school for delinquents. That's what you are, isn't it? Pathetic, isn't he?" There was a general rumble of agreement from the others. Harry felt rage rising. So what if he got expelled. Voldemort was going to kill him anyway. If he didn't kill Voldemort. And he was dead tired of the story about him being some delinquent.

"Takes one to know one, Piers, doesn't it?" he replied.

There was a hush among the group. Clearly, no one had answered back in a long time. Not since they'd taken to scaring the neighborhood kids for their entertainment. Dudley's eyes widened. He hadn't expected Harry to answer like that. Harry waited, just watching Dudley's malevolent, fearful eyes. The one called Gordon said, "Look who's talking back, now. You didn't used to be so brave, did you Potter? Used to run for it, didn't you?" He grinned at the rest of them and Harry could feel it, the build up to violence.

"Dudley knows why I don't have to run anymore, don't you Big D? or should I say, Ickle Duddykins? Didn't know that's what Mummy calls him, did you?" Dudley made a move, something halfway between a punch and a slap, but it landed on his own hand, not on Harry. He looked around at his friends and yawned loudly.

"All words, aren't you, Potter? Going to take me on like a man, then? Or are you just jealous? Maybe you're just dying to have some friends who can back you up?" Gordon and Piers, however, were looking for action.

"Maybe we'd like to see him," Gordon suggested.

"Yeah," said Piers. "Let's see how fast you are these days, Potter." As if a signal had been sent, two of them were now behind him, and one had struck at him from behind, before he could pull out his wand, if he'd even intended to.

Harry ducked, but the blow caught his head just the same. He threw himself to the side, but was blocked by Gordon and Piers together. In the back of his mind, he thought, what can they do? I'm destined for Voldemort to kill me anyway. "Either must die at the hand of the other." He smashed a fist into Piers Polkiss's ratty face, putting behind it all the weight of fifteen years of anger. It didn't matter to him that they were five and he was one. Each of them wore the face of Voldemort now, or maybe Bellatrix Lestrange. It didn't matter that he hadn't drawn his wand, and he was so furious, he couldn't have remembered a spell if he had to. A huge fist caught him on the cheek and sent him flying into another one. He bounced off and kicked out, catching someone somewhere, and didn't care where. There was an opening now, but he didn't run. He balled up his hand and found another target for his rage. He fought blindly, not caring who he hit. Every bit of his anger, every bit of his misery was poured out. And he had one advantage that none of the rest had. Not one of them had ever been in a serious fight. Not one of them had faced a murderer and escaped. He found another target and another. When someone pulled his glasses off, that didn't matter either.

Someone, Gordon maybe, said, "He's mad, isn't he? A real nutter. Just keeps going." There were only two left now, Piers and Dudley.

Dudley said, "Hold him Piers. I want to break his nasty face. Let's add a new scar to the old one, shall we?"

Piers wrapped an arm around his neck from behind. Harry tried to elbow him. He sank his fingers into Piers' arm and yanked and Piers yelled and let go clutching at it. It was down to him and Dudley.

"Well, go on, then Dudders. Do hit me again. Only just remember. Next time a dementor comes, maybe I'll just leave you to him, Dud. Maybe I should've left you last time, Dudley. I don't know why I didn't. I mean, have you even got a soul in there, in that huge piggy body, that's worth saving?"

A voice said behind them, "Here, now. What's all this? Breaking the Anti-social Behavior regs, are we?"

The boys all froze. Harry tried to see who it was. A blurred form held out his glasses.

"Whose are these?" the voice said. Harry swallowed and reached for them.

"Mine," he said. He put them on and everything came back into focus. It was a police constable. They were all in trouble now, he thought. And Dumbledore was going to kill him before Voldemort ever could. No, Uncle Vernon would kill him first, and take turns with Aunt Petunia at skinning him alive. He, Harry, had provoked Dudley into the kind of altercation that drew the attention of the police. The neighbors would all talk about him and Dudley and them. The wrong kind of talk.

The policeman said, "You all right, son?"

Harry took stock of himself. His hand was swollen from hitting someone or several someones. His face was numb where Dudley had hit him. His jeans were seriously ripped as was his T-shirt, but who cared about that? He said, "I'm fine, sir." He added quickly, before the officer could start arresting them all, "It's not what you think, sir."

The officer said, "Oh? What's not what I think? Disturbing the peace and fighting is what I think. Enough for all of you to be written up, is what I think."

Harry said, "Well, yeah we were fighting, but not to disturb the peace or anything." Dudley and the others were gaping at him. They must not have had much need to make up excuses either.

"Fighting, but not breaking the regs?" the officer looked at them all skeptically. "How do you make that one out? You were the one they were beating up on anyway. I'd think you'd want this lot brought in. Been keeping an eye on them, actually. Heard a thing or two."

Harry said, "I don't know what you heard, but really, it was just my cousin showing me some boxing moves. He's a boxing champ, you see. We don't do any boxing at my school, so he was...erm…teaching me some moves."

The officer was looking at him with the same disbelief that Snape always did, but of course, he couldn't magically read Harry's mind. Harry fixed an expression of utmost sincerity on and tried to calm his mind as Snape had taught him. The officer looked at Dudley. "That true? You're some kind of boxing champ? Giving him lessons?"

Dudley almost ruined it. The presence of the officer had scared him witless. He managed to say, "Yeah. That's right." He added for good measure. "That's my cousin. He lives at my house, y'know."

Harry thought they needed a bit more. The officer was still suspicious.

"So, Dudley. How'd I do?"

Dudley narrowed his beady blue eyes at Harry and said, "Not bad, but not great either. You're a lot stronger than you look, but you're too wild. No control at all." He demonstrated in the air. "See, you have to keep the jabs short and straight, like that." Harry imitated him. A short, little jab in the air.

Dudley said, "Not bad. But I think we'd better save it for tomorrow. Mum's gonna be mad if we're out too late." The rest of his gang snickered at that, but quietly. Dudley would make them pay tomorrow if they messed up now.

The officer eyed them and said, "Well, why don't you take that to the gym next time, instead of practicing on street corners. I'm warning you, though. If I catch you lot again, I will cite you even if you are just boxing." He watched them suspiciously all the way up the street.

Harry thought, well that's one policeman that knows his job. He checked his pocket where he'd stored his wand. Miraculously, he'd managed not to lose it. That was the only good thing that had happened so far. Dudley made sure the police officer had gone before squaring off again.

"Looks like you left that thing behind this time. Guess you'll think twice before you go without it again, won't you?" He was grinning with satisfaction at the mess he and his friends had made of Harry.

Harry glared at him and said, "Think again, Duddykins. That's if you can."

"You do not," Dudley blustered. "You would've used it otherwise. Even you're not that stupid that you'd let five bigger guys go at you and not use a weapon."

Harry drew his wand and said, "Think again, Dudders. Even I'm not stupid enough to get myself expelled without at least needing to save my life as an excuse." Dudley gawped at him.

"Put that thing away," he said. He looked fearfully at the sky, checking to see, Harry supposed, whether the stars and all the lights would go out, as they had last year when the dementors had attacked them.

Harry said, "Don't worry Dudley. I've got enough real enemies to wanting to kill me to want to waste any energy cursing you. Just do me a favor and keep your stupid friends away from me. Next time I might really lose my temper and forget that, you know."

Dudley paled and looked ready to bolt. It had finally occurred to him that Harry had ways of getting back at him that were much worse than a blackened eye. He said, "You wouldn't. Dad'll throw you out and then that voldy guy'll be able to get you. You wouldn't dare."

Harry said wearily, "No. I won't just now. And trust me, I really don't care so much if Uncle Vernon throws me out. It'll disappoint my friends and Professor Dumbledore more than me." He was frankly astonished that Dudley had remembered even part of Voldemort's name considering what a state Dudley had been in after the dementor attack. Striving for some kind of truce, he said, "Listen. Do me a favor and shut your big mouth about this, okay? I won't tell that the five of you ganged up on me if you keep your mouth shut about it. If your Mum notices I'm a mess, I was running and tripped is all. Think you can remember that?"

Dudley looked at him with some remnant of the old malice and said, "Why not? They'll believe me, not you. And when did you get to be so good at excuses anyway?" Harry just looked at him and waited.

"Never mind, then," Dudley said. "That was pretty quick thinking, that boxing excuse." Some of the nastiness had disappeared and he was looking thoughtfully at Harry again, his beady eyes narrowed almost to slits in the effort. They slid in the door, one after the other. Harry headed straight for the stairs and had got his foot on the lowest one before Aunt Petunia shrieked at his appearance.

"What's happened? Where's Dudley? You were attacked again, weren't you?" She grabbed his arm and shook it. Harry sighed and considered for just one minute telling her the truth.

He said, "I was running and I tripped and fell. There wasn't any attack and Dudley's perfectly fine. I think he's eating or something." He pulled away from her and went up the stairs as she exclaimed fearfully, "Dudley! Dudley! You are okay, aren't you?"