This Year it Will be Different

CHAPTER ONE - MUSINGS ON THE ROOF

It was amazing what one could see when sitting upon one's second story roof. The tiles upon said roof would have been quite hot after the days scorching weather, but Harry Potter of 4 Privet Drive didn't seem to mind in the least. He was, it would appear, surveying the neighborhood, as one might if they had something specific they were looking for - either someone or something. Those in residence along the quiet street, or surrounding streets for that matter, were unaware that at this moment in time, a fifteen year old wizard with unkempt black hair and a scar that ran across his forehead, was watching with a quiet disinterest, the comings and goings of the people below him.

Harry thought for the first time since moving to the roof several hours ago, that it probably wasn't the best way to wait for Hedwig to return with his mail. Although he didn't need to worry about the Dursley's finding him (Harry snickered to himself with the sudden image of his very overweight cousin Dudley trying to climb from the balcony to the roof and then falling into his Aunt Petunia's garden below), he didn't particularly fancy spending all night sitting on the roof which was, when all was said and done, highly uncomfortable and prone to making his legs cramp. Harry had discovered early into his holidays that this was the one place at the Dursley's that they couldn't find fault with him for being there. Although he did have a suspicion that his Uncle Vernon was waiting for him to fall and kill himself, and so almost encouraged him to be up here as much as he liked. It was a good place to think, or not think, or to just watch the Muggles go about their days in an uncaring manner.

The first time he'd ventured to the rooftop was after receiving an Owl from Professor Dumbledore midway into his second week of his holidays. He'd had to read it five times altogether to grasp was being said.

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Dear Mr Potter,

I trust this letter finds you healthy and well rested. Although there is nothing that can be sad to ease your loss - this piece of news might make it all the more bearable. A number of wizards have approached the Ministry of Magic (including one Lucius Malfoy) with information in hopes of reducing their imprisonment within the walls of Azkaban. The information they presented towards the Ministry indicates that on October 31 1981, Peter William Pettigrew was not killed within the Muggle community by Sirius Black. It has also been made know that Sirius Black was also not responsible for the deaths of James and Lily Potter on that same night.

Harry, I to do presume to understand your grief, however know this, he was truly loved by many, and even in death, has been set free at last.

Professor Dumbledore

PS. Congratulations on your upcoming O.W.L. results.

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Time had stood still for the moments that followed reading this, or at least that's what Harry had felt. He wondered if it was possible for the world to cease moving for brief periods of time, and then shock his head as if to clear the thought from his mind. With a heavy heart he'd looked for an outlet, an escape, and found the roof the most obliging and accessible place that could be found. As he watched the sun go down on that steamy June afternoon, he'd felt a sudden surge of anger towards Voldemort, both terrifying and powerful in nature. The bile had risen to the back of this throat and he'd falled to his knees gasping for breath, which had left to retching so violently it left him shaken.

It didn't matter that the charges against Sirius had been lifted, he thought angrily, it didn't make him any less dead. He was alone. Everyone who loved him ended up dead.

Harry burned with shame as he recalled having burst into tears that same evening during dinner while watching the Muggle news about a prize-winning black Labrador who could communicate with other animals. The Dursley's had looked at him, in what seemed a combination of shock and wonderment at what could have caused such an outburst. Luckily for him, Aunt Petunia had ushered him from the table, led him upstairs and tucked him into bed. She treated him like she would a sick child, he supposed, a very un-Dursley thing to do. She'd sat on the edge of his bed and waited until she thought he'd fallen asleep before leaving his room. When he came down for breakfast the next morning, it was apparent that she'd warned Dudley against making any remarks about the night before, or saying anything to upset him further, for his cousin kept his eyes adverted and continued to shovel food into his mouth at an alarming rate. Even his Uncle Vernon, whose ideal household did not include nephews who became distressed over prize-winning Labradors, was oddly reticent about the whole affair, for which Harry could only be grateful.

And it had only been two weeks ago that he'd begun the day in what could only be called an unconventional manner. Jack Simmons, of Number Six Privet Drive had been reversing out of his drive on his way to work, waved to his wife Maggie and daughter Sarah as usual and had happened to glance at the house next door. What he saw was enough to startle him out of his early morning stupor. If his eyes weren't deceiving him (and he'd always prided himself of having perfect vision), then on the roof of one of the more respectable neighbours' houses was a tall, yet slight teenage boy with a mop of black hair and spectacles, who looked like he was dancing! This sight befuddled poor Mr Simmons so much that stead of acceleration gracefully out into the street, he reversed into the front yard across the street, demolishing several pot plants and a large statue of some dubious looking gnomes that belonged to old Mary-Jane Herbert. Much to the horror of Jack's wife, old Miss Herbert had borne witness to her husbands misdemeanor and had immediately begun ranting about her favourite azaleas and hitting poor Jack over the head with her wooden walking stick. The combined racket of the car hitting the statue, and Miss Herbert yelling at Jack Simmons had, of course, piqued the interest of the entire street, and many curious onlookers including Petunia and Vernon Dursley had made their way out, eager to discover what had caused such a commotion. (Petunia was hoping that she'd finally have some interesting gossip to share when she met with the other ladies who formed the Surry Hills Gardening Committee, which was meeting next Monday). Her joy, however, was short lived once she heard the tale from Jack, who pointed with a shaking finger towards her house, that there had been a boy dancing on her roof. A boy who eerily matched the description of her nephew, whom she was convinced was turning stranger every year that passed. She could here the neighbours tittering. After all, it wasn't a very normal thing to have people dancing on your roof now was it? With a glance at her husbands face, which had turned an interesting shade of purple, Petunia looked with trepidation towards to house and saw..... just her roof. With no Harry in sight.

Harry having seen his aunt and uncle on the lawn had decided that it would be wise to get back inside before they actually saw him on the roof. If wasn't that he'd been dancing really. Because really, Potters just don't dance. It was more of a victory cheer he told himself later after his aunt and uncle had told him exactly what they thought about his early morning activities. It wasn't his fault really about the accident. He didn't know that Jack was going to look up at the roof this morning, it wasn't like he'd ever looked any of the other mornings that Harry had watched him leave for work. It was just an uncanny coincidence that the morning that Harry had received an owl from The Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry with his exam results (ten O.W.L.S, thank you very much!!), that so much had be caused to Mary-Beth Herberts yard. Even his uncle's ranting could wipe the smile off his face when he though about his results. He couldn't honestly remember a time whilst at Hogwarts that he'd really cared one way or the other about his exam results, unlike his best friend Hermione Granger.

Harry frowned slightly as he thought of one of his best friends in the whole world. He hadn't heard from her at all since leaving school. He couldn't remember if she was traveling with her parents like she sometimes did, and Harry's frown deepened as he realised that he had no idea what her plans actually were. It hadn't occurred to him before they parted for summer break to ask. He'd sent her an owl just after he'd received his results, but hadn't gotten a response, which was unlike her. If anything, he thought she'd at least want to know how we went with our O.W.L. results (and probably boast about her amazing result) but he hadn't heard from her. It seemed a little strange the more he thought about it, that although he pretty much knew how Ron had spent each day, he didn't even know if she had kept in contact with Ron. Hedwig had been sent off just a few minutes ago, towards The Burrow, with a letter for Ron. He'd considered asking Ron if he'd heard from Hermione or knew where she was, but he didn't want to advertise the fact that he hadn't particularly been the best kind of friend in the last year. Harry remembered vividly each time he'd taken his temper out on Ron and especially Hermione. They'd taken it fairly well, but he wondered if Hermione's silence had, in part, anything to do with his being a prat for the majority of last year. He had, however, asked Ron if there was any chance of being able to go to the Burrow for the rest of the holidays. He was sick doing nothing. Or at least The Burrow was where Harry assumed the Weasleys were staying, Ron hadn't told him otherwise. He hoped that after last year, people might actually stop treating him like a child and actually tell him what was going on.

Heaving a sigh, Harry stood and stretched his legs, which were vehemently protesting about being in the same position for so long. With a quick glance over the snoozing town he turned, in order to begin edging his way towards the far side of the house, where it was the easiest to climb. A sudden movement to his left caught him by surprise and, in order to prevent himself from falling headfirst into his Aunt's bushes, fell to his hands and knees instead, scraping them along the rough tiling. Quickly rising to his feet again, he turned to look at what had startled him.

"What on earth are you doing here?"

"It's nice to see you too, Harry".