Harry Potter and the Clash of Souls

Harry Potter and the Clash of Souls

-CHAPTER ONE-

Lonely Privet

The stormy weather raged on every night since the month of July began, a complete contrast compared to last year's boiling summer. The rain lashed furiously against the windows that were lit only by the occasional bolt of lightning, which flashed brilliantly lighting the night sky for a split second, each time illuminating the window of the smallest bedroom at Number 4 Privet Drive. It splashed the bed with a frail light, making the boy who was lying down blink.

He was on his back, his eyes staring unseeing at the ceiling. His shirt was covered in mud and his jeans were ripped and torn, but Harry Potter seemed unaware of his dishevelled state. His head hung off the end of the bed as his trainers rested on the headboard making his scruffy black hair fall away from his forehead, revealing a thin scar zigzagging across his skin. His glasses hung unsteadily in front of his green, bloodshot eyes, and dark shadows marred his pale skin.

This was supposedly his resting day from doing chores, his Uncle said. Conveniently, he noticed it fell on the same day he had to write to the Order, just like three days ago. He didn't mind the usual chores he had to do since he was younger; actually, he welcomed the extra distractions, because it left him too exhausted at night to dream. However, it was when he had to write to the Order that everything changed; it was amusing how one's family can go from ignoring you for two days to giving forced smiles and making sure you're comfortable on every third day. It was all an act.

The Dursleys didn't forget the threats they got from his friends at the train station, and the reminder to write every third day too was the reason why he hadn't slept tonight. He watched the sky darken instead, listening to Hedwig's calming hoots now and then before she left to hunt. He was all alone in this small room and having already finished reading his fifth year Transfiguration book three nights ago, he felt he deserved a break from the work he was voluntarily doing; at least it took his mind off things for a while. Besides, it didn't look like he would be able to do much studying tonight anyway; his mind wouldn't quit churning long enough for him to focus on the complexities of Transfiguration.

He struggled, hour after hour, to remember the good times instead and to prevent his thoughts from drifting towards that moment. To try and recall the dark hair and mischievous, haunted eyes in its place, but lately he couldn't even remember that, let alone the sound of his voice and the smell of Snuffles' fur. The few photographs he had of Sirius were before he knew him, when his parents were still alive. It was only a small comfort, but he still found that this Sirius looked like an absolute stranger compared to the one he had lost.

He made himself feel sick every time he realised he was actually waiting for the nightmares to start again, where he could see Sirius, even if it meant watching his surprised face as he fell through the air into the black veil. But this small bittersweet comfort he had found was soon replaced with nightmares of walking through the Department of Mysteries alone, only to hear the dying screams of his friends echoing off the walls.

He was roused from his moody thoughts by the incessant tapping coming from his window, forcing him from his oddly comfortable position. The small owl he let in was Pig, and he was once again carrying a single letter from Ron. Lately he had grown tired of the letters he would receive from him; they didn't help much either, Ron skirted round the whole episode trying to write about general things, never commenting on what had happened except to say; "Hang in there mate, don't let the Muggles get you down." Whereas Hermione had been writing him quite a lot this summer, more so than Ron, to check up on him and make sure he wasn't blaming himself for what happened to Sirius. He promised himself he would try to reply to the letters, but he always found something else to do.

A whisper of noise brought him back to reality, glancing up to his right hurriedly but relaxing when he recognised Hedwig swooping gracefully back through the window he left open to let Pig out. He noticed as she flew over to him and nipped his ear affectionately, before settling in her cage and drinking delicately from her water bowl, that he was spending more time thinking about the past. He had been too wrapped up in grief to focus much on the future at Hogwarts, but once he had come back to the Dursleys, it had really hit home, the predicament he was in. He understood now though that he would never get the chance to live with Sirius and he nearly lost...

"I nearly got them killed, Hedwig, and for no reason," Harry said out loud. "How can they still want to be my friend?"

They had all been in dangerous situations in previous years, but each of those times, there were real, valid reasons for the risks. This time there was no reason; they had blindly followed into a trap, which could have killed them all. He mentally shook himself out of the stupor he put himself in again and turned to look at himself in the small wardrobe mirror.

He had noticed some changes in his stature since he had been back at Privet Drive, he had definitely gotten taller now standing a few inches over Dudley, and even filled out a bit, thanks to the regular meals he was finally getting from his Aunt, even though they were slightly smaller then Dudley's, who was now on a special carbohydrates diet for his boxing training. Considering he was the champion boxer for his school, Smeltings, he had turned most of his fat into muscle. If Harry wasn't going to Hogwarts he was sure he'd be scared of this new change. Luckily for him, Dudley wasn't about to take any of their disagreements past name-calling.

Whenever Dudley was out, and after he finished his chores, he would sneak into Dudley's room to try out the new exercise equipment he had got for an early birthday present. Though he wasn't completely sure if he was using it correctly, Harry still thought it was somewhat amusing to see how much he could lift in each of the intervals Dudley was away. He didn't get the chance to do it today though; Dudley had cancelled his hair cut appointment to supposedly play his new fighting game. Harry knew he hadn't got a new game for years and he wasn't surprised to see Dudley raking his hand through his slightly long hair admiring himself in the down stairs mirror. Aunt Petunia suggested Harry take the appointment instead, but he had subconsciously made a decision to let his hair grow out, so that he looked less like his father, but his hair still stayed the same messy length.

A sudden flash illuminated his room giving way to a rolled up parchment floating in the air, due to the phoenix feather that was sealed to it. Harry hesitantly touched the feather, feeling the warmth he associated with Fawkes, and suddenly the quiet joy of a phoenix's song played through Harry's head. Opening the letter he wasn't surprised to see Dumbledore's long flowing handwriting.

Dear Harry,

Due to the unpleasant incident last year in a certain extra class I have concluded that the arrangements that were made cannot continue without proper supervision, which I do not have the time to give. Nevertheless, until this small detail is worked out, it is still an important lesson that must be learned, and hopefully this book will review the fundamentals you have already gained so you can further your success at this particular skill when the time comes for your lessons.

If the events at the end of last year are not adequate motivation for you, then it is wise to tell you that if you master the basics of this technique, then it will also help you to control your anger or any other conflicting emotions you are experiencing now. If you do not have the will to do so for yourself, then remember how you treated your friends; you need them more now then ever.

Please listen to my words carefully Harry,

A. D.

P.S. I do believe Fawkes' feather can easily be Transfigured into a highly effective quill.

If Harry wasn't tired he was sure he would be furious; if he got this message last year he would have been shouting his head off cursing Dumbledore this moment, after all, it was his fault for not saying the lessons were important for keeping Voldemort out of his head. But the guilty shame of what he put his friends through stopped him from feeling angry now, if he worked past his hatred for Snape he wouldn't have fallen into that trap. His 'saving people thing' acted up again, but how could he have just sat and done nothing? This must have been how Sirius felt when he had to stay at Grimmauld Place, left to wallow in almost forgotten memories of guilt and despair. No wonder that haunted look was always in his eyes, the same look he always saw when he now looked into a mirror.

He longed to see Ron, Hermione and even Ginny, at least she would know what he was going through and wouldn't be too shocked at the state he was in. It didn't feel good to be constantly tired from chores just so he could get some sleep without any nightmares. He knew he wouldn't be able to lie to his friends in person, not this time. He had to shake himself out of this stupor for his friends' sake; he would not let them see this weak person he had become.

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Harry had only managed a few hours of tortured sleep before he woke up to a cold breeze flowing through his still open window. Not really wanting to get up just yet, he reached for the book Dumbledore had given him last night on Occlumency, although he only had a few moments to skim through the small text before Aunt Petunia was calling for him to start his chores.

Working in the garden wasn't usually too bad, but he must have caught a cold last night by sleeping with the window open. He really did feel sick, but he had to finish working on the rock garden Aunt Petunia wanted so much because both Number 2 and Number 6 had one. Of course, they got professional help to make theirs; he would never be able to build one as well, not even if he had the proper materials.

One thing Harry liked about working in the gardens was that he never noticed the time fly by unlike painting the shed and fence another colour, which was painstakingly slow. Aunt Petunia's loud shrill of a call soon told him to come into the house, but he was sure he misheard her when she said the phone was for him.

"Hello?" he said, not knowing who it could be.

"Harry, its me, Hermione, are you ok?"

"Hermione!" he said with surprise "I'm fine, why are you calling?"

"I'm calling because you haven't replied to any of mine or Ron's letters, we were worried that the Dursleys were stopping you or aren't you getting our letters again?"

"No, I've got all your letters," he said, not liking where this conversation was going.

"Then why didn't you reply to any of them?" she said, confusion evident in her voice

"I haven't had the time, I've been doing a lot of chores"

"Why those Dursleys, I'll write a letter to the Order and then they'll be-"

"NO, I mean it's OK, it keeps my mind from wandering to things..." he said drifting into silence.

"Oh, Harry, please talk to me about how your really feeling, I miss him too."

"I-I, no I can't talk about it yet."

"Please, Harry, talk to me, you don't have to suffer by yourself. You're not alone."

"I'm n-not alone?"

"You're not alone, Harry, we're here for you, I'm here for you."

"Hermione, I, I..."

"Harry, please don't shut me out."

"I'm...It...hurts, please," Harry was too distressed to notice the small sobs coming from over the phone.

"It hurts me too, Harry, but please, write me, I'm going crazy and my parents can't help me, we need each other. Harry, promise me you'll write."

"Ok...I promise you...I'll write."

"Good and if you're just saying that, I'm going to come over there in person!"

"I mean it. Hermione, I'll write you."

"Good, and write to the Weasleys too, Ron said Mrs. Weasley has been having kittens about you, Harry. She really didn't want you to go back to the Dursleys."

"Ok, Ok, I've got to go now Aunt Petunia wants me."

"Goodbye. Harry, write soon please."

"I will, bye."

Harry didn't have long to think about Hermione's caring words before his aunt dragged him outside to finish up on the garden. He had to admit though that hearing Hermione's voice did make him feel better and it wasn't till now that he realised that it wasn't just him who was missing Sirius. Was he being selfish for not writing to his friends, they must be going through the same grief?

He hoped that he wouldn't have to put his friends through what they're feeling now again, but with this prophecy looming over him he had to be careful. The luck he'd been having since he'd entered the Wizarding world ran out last year when Sirius was taken from him, now that he was finally told his fate, he had only one decision to make.

He did not want to die. Both for his sake and because of what his death would mean for the Wizarding world and for his friends. For this reason he decided that afternoon, not long after his initial phone call with Hermione, that it was time to make a new resolution for his next year.

Years of living with the Dursleys, well, Dudley mostly; had trained Harry to internalise his feelings. A target that refused to react wasn't as much fun to torment, so he had learned to bottle his feelings keeping a neutral face, even when he was practically seething with bottled-up emotion. But now it wasn't just the Dursleys irritating him, and he thought back over the past year. Everything finally had gotten to him and he had spent so much of it angry, angry with his friends, angry with Dumbledore for ignoring him, and angry at the world for not believing the truth.

He forgot his lesson he learned due to the Dursley's treatment and he had lost his temper, blown up at his friends, lashed out, with both words and fists. All it had gained him was nothing, nothing but trouble. Getting frustrated at Umbridge because she refused to listen to the truth had led to detentions, pain, and new scars. Not to mention getting a life ban from Quidditch for attacking Malfoy after the first match of the season, which led to the custody of his prized possession, his Firebolt. The same pattern repeated over and over throughout the year, but this time he would learn from his mistakes. Dumbledore was right about one thing; if he wanted to live he would need his friends. Sitting down at his desk he took out the collection of letters he had received this summer from his friends and began to reply.

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