Disclaimer: I own nothing...well except for what I actually own, but I own nothing to do with the Harry Potter books.

Chapter One

Blue, all he could see was blue, a rich velvety navy blue that reminded him of that colour of the night sky just as the first stars were coming out... but then it had been that way for an awful long time, or had it? He wasn't entirely sure. He could remember not remembering and then all the details in his life coming slowly, almost painfully back to him in no particular chronological order. The memories seemed to be grouped into feelings and sensations. He had, in fact,, spent quite a long time on the contemplation of chocolate, his first memory, and every sensation it provoked, one of which was surprise as a chocolate frog was the first piece of chocolate he had tasted.

Once he had remembered far more and was therefore more coherent, if such a term could be applied to a person existing in a big navy blue but otherwise entirely un-remarkable void. Aside from the lack of existence of everything else, he had spent some time worrying over the fact that chocolate was the first thing he remembered. It was not even his favourite sweet, for crying out loud, they were Berty Botts every-flavoured beans and the grudge they seemed to have against Dumbledore. His second favourite were lemon drops... well, more the contemplation of what exactly he would like to add to them for the delectation of the headmaster.

Sitting, or existing, in the big navy blue space had given him plenty of time to think of everything he would like to do to the damn headmaster, starting with the lemon drops. Oh, those evil little bits of sugar, wasting valuable sweet making ingredients that could have been used to make sugar quills, essential for keeping any student awake in history of magic class. The first thing he would put into the lemon drops was Muggle laxatives, he bet they wouldn't test for those, or if they did they would not for some time... He focused, irritated with himself, he had never had this much trouble focusing as a child. Events such as escaping Dudley and stealing food had required quite a lot of planning and concentration, a fact that was making him suspicious.

In fact a lot of things were making him suspicious, like the fact that the bloody boy-who-lived, who had been marked as the equal to a dark lord of the extremely evil, incredibly cunning and intelligent, and last but not least, enormously powerful persuasion. I mean, he could not even say he got the looks out of the pair, before he had gone all snake-ified Voldemort had been a good looking chap.

The decreased concentration had taken away his enjoyment of reading. He had been no Hermione, but he had been no Ron either, before Hogwarts and books on magic were certainly far more entertaining than books on geography, and he had not been too bored reading those at a young age. Being locked in the cupboard meant he often read to stave away boredom. Being locked in a bedroom was only slightly more interesting and yet, he felt no desire to read his school books.

Even more suspicious was his over-whelming desire to save people. Living at the Dursleys had thought him not to trust anyone but himself and to look out for number one first. That's not to say he wouldn't save someone in need, but he would not dive dramatically in front of someone to save them from a curse they were too stupid to avoid.

A plus to this void was the grief he felt at the death of Sirius was almost completely gone, dulled with all emotions. On some intellectual level he knew he missed Sirius and would for some time, but it was more what Sirius represented that he missed. Thinking about it, he realised that he had not known Sirius too well. They had written to each other yes, but they had never truly gotten to know one another. What he missed more than the man was the idea of someone putting him and all his worries first, before all others. He knew Sirius had not been an ideal guardian, discounting the on the run accused of mass murder issue, he had been far too child-like and impetuous and Harry began to wonder if he had ever recovered from his stay in Azkaban.

Sirius had seemed to throw himself almost desperately headfirst into the enjoyment of every situation, as shown by the enormous risks he insisted on taking time and time again, as if trying to make up for all the fun he had missed in Azkaban.

Truly, the death of Sirius was the death of what little remained of his childhood.

The dulling of his emotions brought to his attention how much he now depended on decisions governed by emotion and gut-feelings in his daily life. As a child he had been able to mostly suppress less desirable emotions, especially the pain he felt at the indifference and dislike of his guardians. He had always had a dreadful temper, but it had run more along the smart comments and hidden rage. Thinking now, he was surprised he had not been the only seven year old with ulcers. He had carefully avoided outbursts and shouting, the fear that he would become even a little like his uncle had seen to that.

To be fair though, last year had been more trying than he could have guessed, and he had constructed a mental list of those he was going to do unspeakable things to with a spork and potions. He quite liked the idea of potions, but he found the teaching of them aggravating and incomprehensible. While he knew potions was probably as alike to cooking, which he was very good at, as chemistry, he could find no rhyme or reason to many of the most basic concepts.

That was perhaps the reason he was stuck in this big blue void. Concocting his own batch of a difficult and complex potion and presuming it was correct as it had looked to be, seemed to have been one of his worse ideas. He felt a slight tinge of shame at his own stupidity. He should have brought it to Hermione for verification, but could not bear to hear another of her officious and irritating lectures. There is only so much a normal human being can take, and his temper had been on a hair-trigger last year as it was.

He had found a reference to the potion when he had dropped his potion books and it had fallen open on the calming potion page. The simple calming potion was apparently related to the potion of mental tranquillity, something which he thought would help him deal with the Dursleys this summer and hopefully help him clear his mind of the ever-present interfering emotions. While Occlumency seemed far out of his reach, peace and quiet did not. The potential relief from nightmares and mental intrusion just cemented the deal.

It had been simple to creep into the restricted section of the library during dinner one day to charm a quill to copy the recipe verbatim. He had taken so much care to follow each and every instruction he was mildly surprised he had failed.

To be fair though, he was feeling very tranquil so perhaps the potions had worked. He wondered if when he ever woke up he would have all his limbs or whether he was doomed to spend all existence as a piece of lint.


Sweet puffskeins in a pile it was cold! Harry pried open his eyes to see his aunt staring at him with an empty bucket and a look of mingled disgust and slight fear. After a few moments listening to her illogical ranting Harry learned that for the past five days he had been doing everything he had been told to do which was not the problem. The non-stop singing about marmosets, unevenly dilated pupils and manic grin were what had concerned her. Apparently it was creepy.