This story is quite different from my usual ones. I hope that readers enjoy.

Disclaimer: No scrap of anything is mine except for the plot, which might actually happen, everything belongs to our dear J. K. Rowling.

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It was hard to breathe. His breath was ragged and irregular.

Another nightmare.

Harry Potter tossed and turned fitfully in his bed, sweat soaking through the dirty clothes that he had worn almost the whole summer.

Everything was dark, he couldn't see anything.

His hands desperately clawed at the dark air, trying to find something to grab onto; to find something that was solid.

Cold, hard, rock. Harry traced its outline which was cut into a crude, rounded rectangle. Beside it was another, and another. It was a wall.

He was in some sort of room.

Yelling, faint yelling.

Harry squinted at the sudden intrusion of light that poured from beneath a door on the other side.

He slowly made his way over, not wanting to trip and give away his presence.

Harry leant down to the floor and spread out, turning his head and inching his face towards the crack beneath the doorway.

His breathe hitched and eyes widened.

Not this dream again.


Not again.

"SIRIUS!" He bellowed.

"He can't come back Harry," said Lupin, his voice breaking as he struggled to contain Harry. "He can't come back, because he's d -"

"HE – IS – NOT - DEAD!" Roared Harry. "SIRIUS!"


"BOY! Stop that racket! We're trying to sleep!" Growled Vernon from the doorway.

Harry jerked awake, gasping and rubbing hot tears angrily from his eyes with tightly-closed fists.

He waited for Vernon to go away before getting up.

Harry had been screaming; his throat was almost painfully dry.

Sitting on the side of his bed, Harry shook the wet hair, drenched from sweat, from his face and peeled the shirt off him.

This was a terrible summer night to have nightmares, he sweat enough already.

Harry took a deep breath and let it out slowly, isolating the terrible memory of the Department of Mysteries in its own little place in his mind.

He had to give it its own place.

Forgetting had never worked.

The only problem was the nightmares, the memory doors always opened in his dreams.

Knowing that he couldn't possibly get back to sleep and desperately needing some water, Harry stood up slowly, aware of the squeaky boards, and made his way across the room to his door.

Vernon, Dudley, and even Petunia were all snoring in three-part harmony, if you could call the half snorting, half log-sawing din harmony.

He reached towards the handle and turned.


It was locked.

Harry rolled his eyes; they honestly thought that locks could hold him in?

He reached into the pocket of his baggy, grey flannels and took out his wand.

"Alohamora." He whispered, his voice slightly cracking with his dry throat.

All the locks opened as one and the door swung back fiercely.

Using his Quidditch reflexes, Harry's hand shot out and grabbed the door before it slammed against the wall.

Hearing the snores continue, he let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

Using a spell with high emotions was never very safe with Harry Potter.

After creeping and tip-toeing past his aunt and uncle's bedroom, Harry approached the stairs.

"Not the stairs…" He whispered as he wiped the sweat from his brow that had been about the trickle down his nose.

Harry pushed aside the awful memory of the last time he had tried to go down the incredibly squeaky stairs.

Vernon had caught him.

Blinking away the thought of being starved again, Harry sat on the banister and nervously listened to the steady snores that could stop at any moment.

"What am I afraid for?" Harry chastised himself, "I'm nearly seventeen bloody-years-old."

He stepped down from the banister and jumped hard on the squeakiest stair.

Vernon's snore jumped, and then went back to the regular pattern.

Harry waved his hand in Vernon's direction in a careless manner, and then proceeded down the stairs like he normally would when he went down to make breakfast.

He had made it to the kitchen.

Opening the cabinet next to the sink, Harry snatched the first cup and stuffed it under the stream of water that he had turned on full-blast.

His throat had gotten even drier with the thought of water.

Gulping down the cold, sweet liquid with a little too much vigor, water dripped down his chin steadily and made a content puddle on the floor.

Finishing the whole glass, he set it down on the counter and gasped for air, it was hard to drink without breathing for a whole two minutes.

Harry started breathing normally, then grabbed the towel from the bottom cabinet door and wiped the water off his chin and chest.

He really needed a shower.

Harry set the glass down in the sink and looked out the window, the late night was dark and only lit by the occasional streetlight.

Where could he get a shower?

He shrugged, that could wait. Right now he really felt like a walk; the cool air would feel good against his hot skin.

Balling-up the towel and tossing it in the sink, Harry walked to the door, opened it and inhaled the sweet, night air.

It was only at night that he could be Harry; that he could go outside and not have to worry about being seen.

Aurors were still constantly watching him; they felt it was their duty to Dumbledore.

Stopping abruptly, Harry's face clouded over.

He shook his head violently, pushing that memory to the very deepest and darkest recess in his mind.

Now was not the time.

Now was the time to stray away from these thoughts, of haunting memories.

Pulling back his hair and yanking slightly, Harry continued his walk slowly down the street.

Smirking, he got an idea as to how he could get a shower.

Mr. Westerly was a portly businessman that Vernon had over for dinner once, he lived not too far down the street.

It was a well-known fact that the Westerly's were a very wealthy family.

And, almost indefinitely, had a pool.

Running now, partly because the Dumbledore-memory was trying to resurface and partly because of the thought of cool water, Harry bolted down the street towards their house.

He easily vaulted over their small fence and stopped just in time to see a very angry rottweiler.

Harry stopped in his tracks.

The dog growled low and viciously snapped at his ankles.

Harry jumped back and tripped, landing in the bushes.

The light turned on and the dog started barking.

Harry flinched and tried to move.

The rottweiler growled even lower and made a move to pounce.

Harry stayed put.

"Támera?" A voice asked from the porch. "Támera, what is it, girl? Not another gnawed neighbor, I hope."

Harry looked up into the man's face as Támera, the rottweiler, trotted obediently to the man's side.

"What are you doing here, Potter?" Asked a very recognizable voice.

This was not the Westerly house.

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I hope you liked the first chapter, I needed to take a break from my IWOHP2 story; but don't worry (for those of you who like it) I'm going to finish it this week and maybe continue this one.

Review if you would like for me to continue, I'm not really sure if I'm going to...