Troubled over the loss of his godfather, Sirius Black, Harry finds himself drowning in depression and fear; until he gets a visitor with a gift even Harry would never have imagined. A gift, which gives him hope, and faith in himself; a gift, that would bring Harry Potter, power beyond his imagining, and make Harry's sixth year his most eventful yet. And hopefully bring him the strength needed to win over his enemies, and fulfill the Prophecy in his favor…

A/N: I own nothing this is all J.K.R.'s, what a brilliant mind she has.

Chapter One – Lost…


The boy awoke wide-eyed and sweating. The moon showed in through his bedroom window, gleaming off his abnormally pale skin. His bright green eyes darted around the room as he reached to the thin wooden object on his nightstand, with fear flowing through him, making him tremble. Suddenly he relaxed, realizing that it had just been another dream.

It wasn't the first time that the not so ordinary boy awoke from the nightmares that left him physically and emotionally drained. Sadness shrouded his thoughts and clouded his heart with the memory that he wished was a nightmare. It had been four weeks and he hadn't gotten a decent nights sleep since the night that his godfather's life had been claimed by the deadly veil in the Department of Mysteries, deep within the Ministry of Magic. Why he hadn't taken to not sleeping at all was beyond him. It would be better then the nightmares.

Harry Potter, 'The boy who lived,' as most deemed him, had fallen into a pit of depression and fear since he had left his friends at Kings Cross Station three weeks previous. He had become dangerously thin and if it were possible, paler then anyone had ever seen him. Harry had become increasingly paranoid over the weeks following the incident at the Ministry of Magic, he was sure that Voldemort was out for retribution, he could feel it.

Harry held his breath and listened to the sleeping house on Privet Drive, waiting for any indication that he had woken up anyone in the house with his plea in his sleep, as he had so many times in the past weeks. He let out his breath in a sigh; thankfully, the only sounds were those of his cousin's snores in the next room. Harry could only imagine what his uncle would do to him tonight if he had woken him up again, especially because Uncle Vernon had to be up at the crack of dawn to pick up his sister at the train station.

"Aunt Marge," Harry hissed to himself. The last time Harry had seen her was near the start of his third year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He had quite literally blown her up after she had insulted not only him, but also his family. Not the family he lived with, but his mother and father, who had given there lives to protect him when he was just one year old. That was the same year that he had met Sirius.

'Stop thinking about him,' Harry ordered himself as he threw aside his thin useless blanket and grabbing his glasses from the nightstand, he rolled out of bed, having given up on sleep for another night. He crept from his room and tip toed to the bathroom across the hall. Closing the door behind him, he switched on the light and squinted at the brightness.

Harry walked to the sink and letting the water run for a few minutes, waiting for it get ice cold. He looked at himself in the mirror through squinted eyes as he placed his glasses on the side of the sink with one hand, and waited for the water to numb his fingers with the other. Harry cupped his hands under the running water and splashed the frigid water over his face. He looked back up to his refection, water dripped from his raven hair and his near translucent face. He didn't want to admit it to himself, but there were tears mingled among the droplets of water.

Both his parents and his godfather had died in the pursuit of trying to protect him, and look how he was repaying them. He looked feet from deaths door and he saw no way of getting himself out of the pit of despair that he had so easily fallen into. Amazingly enough, even his Aunt Petunia was starting to worry for him, or at least worrying about what the Order might do when they came and found him in the state that he had put himself in.

Harry dried his face, and without looking at himself in the mirror, he put on his cracked glasses, thanks to his oaf of a cousin, and made his way down stairs to the kitchen, where he planned on sitting until sunrise. He had found himself doing this almost every night since returning to the Dursley's. He found a certain peace and calm sitting alone there, with nothing but the dark and silence as his companions for hours.

Harry sat down and cleared his mind of all thought, emotional or otherwise, he did not wish to think. When he thought his mind would fill of memories of Sirius Black. Though all he wanted to do was remember the good memories of his godfather he found that the only memory left to him was that of his death, and the thought that he had inadvertently caused it.

Harry balled his hands into fists as tears threatened to fall from his moist eyes. He had allowed Voldemort to manipulate him, to make him believe things that weren't real. Yes, Harry could lay the blame on Voldemort or even Bellatrix Lestrange, who had literally killed him, but only he was responsible. If only he had used his clouded brain and thought about the situation, he never would have gone to the Ministry that night, and Sirius would still be alive today. But he had acted rashly and nearly got his friends and himself killed in the process.

Harry's eyes became stone cold with anger; it was all because of Voldemort. The man that had killed his parents nearly sixteen years ago, the man that had tried to kill him on that same night, and the man that had used him to gain access to the prophecy that had smashed unheard in the same room where his godfather had died. Harry closed his eyes and bit down tightly on his lip to keep himself from crying again. The prophecy, it still reverberated loudly in Harry's mind. 'Either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives'. Dumbledore had shown him it, that same night of Sirius' death, and now Harry wished that he had not. All he ever wanted was to be normal, at least as normal as one could get being a Wizard.

Why did he, of all the Wizards in the world, have to be the one destined to kill Lord Voldemort? Or rather die trying as it seemed to Harry that it was more likely to be. But then did he really want to hold stock in a prophecy made by Sybil Trelawney? Dumbledore certainly believed it and so did Voldemort.

Fear and panic gripped at him again as the lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead lurched slightly with fresh pain. He knew Voldemort was pressing in on his mind, through the link they shared and Harry was powerless to do anything about it. Harry was almost certain that the Dark Lord could not read his thoughts, but it still frightened Harry that he could feel Voldemort's emotions, which probably meant that Voldemort could feel his. The bond they shared was frighteningly intriguing to Harry, but it was also scary as hell.

Harry was used to the prickling sensation, but the fear that came with it was new to him. He knew that he was safe there with his aunt in Privet Drive. But that knowledge brought him little comfort. He also knew that somewhere out there, the most powerful of dark Wizards was gaining more power daily. He knew that Voldemort was waiting for the moment when Harry Potter was left unprotected and then he would make his move to kill him. What frightened Harry the most was not dying, but that he knew that he had no where near the power to destroy Voldemort and that he would die in his attempt, leaving no one to stop the Dark Lord from taking over the Wizarding World and killing not only the Muggles but his friends as well. Somehow, though he didn't know how, he knew that when Voldemort killed him he would gain Harry's power and would gain back the part of him that Voldemort had inadvertently given Harry the night that he had first tried to kill him. Harry wondered slightly if the reverse would also be true. If out of some sheer dumb luck he managed to actually kill Voldemort and live through it, would he gain all of Voldemort's powers or would the Dark Lord just simply cease to exist?

Harry so consumed in thought had not heard the door to the kitchen open and his aunt enter the room. "Potter, what are you doing down here?" his aunt Petunia asked, her words monotone and devoid of emotion. Harry flinched as she flicked on the bright overhead light and headed towards the cabinets. "Vernon's going to be down shortly, I suggest that you go back up to your room," she said pursing her lips making her look like she had tasted something sour.

Harry looked up to the kitchen windows. He must have been sitting there for quite a while because the sun was slowly creeping into the sky. Without looking at his aunt he pushed himself away from the table and stood up to leave, he was just near the door when Uncle Vernon came into the kitchen. He barely looked at Petunia before turning on Harry.

"Boy, one wrong move on your part while Marge is here and you'll wish you'd never been born," Vernon spat at him harshly. This was about as much words as Harry had gotten from his Uncle since he had returned from Hogwarts.

Harry looked up into his uncles eyes unflinchingly. "I already wish I'd never been born," he whispered coldly to his uncle and then left the kitchen, ignoring the look of disgust on his uncle's face. Harry had no intention of even being anywhere near Aunt Marge or the rest of the family while she was there. He walked back up the stairs and gathered a towel from his room so he could take a shower before his cousin Dudley got up demanding all the hot water.

After his shower, Harry took a good look through his glasses at himself in the mirror. His friends were going to die if he did not stop Lord Voldemort, and the pale skinny boy that looked back at him had no chance of it. It amazed him that only in a few short weeks he had managed to make himself this bad looking. Harry smirked as he combed through his lengthening black hair with his fingers, it was still as unruly as ever, but what was he to do about it?

Harry traced his finger over the ever-stinging scar on his forehead. The scar that marked Harry as Voldemort's equal, though Harry felt far less then the Dark Lord's equal. How could he possibly be his equal, when Harry was just a boy, and now a weak skinny boy at that? Harry turned away in disgust, from the mirror that seemed to be mocking him.

A/N: I hope you enjoy the story so far.