"You heard me, Wormtail."

Slowly, with his face screwed up, the small man walked forward toward the chair where the voice had come from, and began to turn it. A snake, lain across the back of the chair, lifted its ugly triangular head and hissed slightly as the legs of the chair snagged on its rug.

And then the chair was facing a man, Frank Bryce, and he saw what was sitting in it. His walking stick fell to the floor with a clatter. He opened his mouth and let out a scream. He was screaming so loudly that he never heard the words the thing in the chair spoke as it raised a wand. There was a flash of green light, a rushing sound, and Frank Bryce crumpled.

He was dead before he even hit the floor.

My eyes shoot open before I can even comprehend what had just happened. I lay flat on my back in my bed at Privet Drive, drenched in cold sweat. My breath is heavy, as heavy as it would be if I had just run a marathon. My left hand is clasped around my wrist. The lightning bolt scar underneath my hand is burning like mad, as if someone is pressing a white-hot wire to it.

I sit up, and keeping one hand clasped over the scar, I run my hand through my hair, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness. Everything comes into focus within a few moments, and I reach over to my bedside table to turn on the lamp.

I scramble out of bed and walk over to the window. I open it, and stick my head out, leaning my arms on the windowsill. Perhaps the cool night air will help my scar. I stare out onto the lamp-lit street, at all the quiet houses, their residents sound asleep.

As I stare, I try to recall what the dream had been about. There were two people...one I knew, and one I didn't. My mind begins to fill with a darkened room...on a hearth rug lays a long, slimy snake...Peter Pettigrew was one of the men...and a high-pitched, cold voice...Lord Voldemort. A cold shiver runs down my spine at the thought.

I close my eyes to try and remember what Voldemort looked like, but nothing comes. All I know, is that when that chair was swung around, what I saw had frightened me awake...or it was my scar. I'm not sure which, but both seem logical enough to wake a person.

And who had the old man been? For there had definitely been an old man; I'd watched him fall to the ground. I put my face into my hands, blocking out everything in sight, trying to hold on to the picture of that dimly lit room. But it's like trying to keep water in cupped hands, the details now trickling away as fast as I try to hold on to them...Voldemort and Wormtail had been talking about someone they had killed, though I can't remember the name...and they had been plotting to kill someone else...Harry and I.

My mind a whirlwind, I peel my hands from my eyes and step away from the window. I move over to the bed and sit down, running my fingers through my hair. I look around my room; the floor littered with dirty clothes and shoes. Parchment, quills and open books scattered across my desk, beside the section where the cage for my owl, Swoops, is. My wooden trunk lying open at the foot of my bed, revealing a cauldron, broomstick, black robes and assorted spell books. And my cat, Snow, sleeping soundlessly on the edge of my bed.

I run my finger over my scar. It's not the pain that's bothering me; I'm no stranger to pain. In my second year, I had all the bones in my arm removed and had them grown back overnight. Months later I was petrified by a Basilisk, which didn't exactly hurt, but it still counts. And the just last year I fell fifty feet from an airborne broomstick. I've gotten used to the buzz are accidents and injuries; they're just unavoidable if you attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and if you have a knack for trouble.

No, it's not the pain that's the problem. It's why. The last time my scar had pained me, was because Voldemort was near...but he can't be now, can he? The idea of him lurking around Privet Drive is absurd, impossible...

I listen intently at the sound around me, expecting to hear the swish of a cloak or sparks of light creep under my door. I jump as I hear a loud snore from Dad's room.

I roll my eyes. What was I expecting? Voldemort to turn up to Privet Drive with Wormtail in tow to kill Harry and I? I'm being stupid.

The only people in this house are Dad, Bonnie and myself. No Voldemort, no Wormtail. Just Dad, Bonnie and I, who are all plainly asleep, their dreams untroubled and painless.

Telling either of them about the dream or my scar isn't an option. It'd only worry them, and when Dad or Bonnie get worried...it's just not an option.

And yet it was because of Voldemort that I'm living with the Lupin's in the first place. If it hadn't been for Voldemort, I wouldn't have this lightning bolt scar on my wrist. It it hadn't been for Voldemort I'd be living with Harry. If it hadn't been for Voldemort, I'd e with my real parents.

I was only a year old the night that Voldemort killed my parents. Dumbledore had Harry and I separated. I was sent to the Lupin's and Harry off to our aunt and uncle's, our only living relatives. At least we live near each other, next door in fact, after Dad, Bonnie and I moved from Godric's Hollow to Little Winging. Quite a coincidence you would say.

Harry and I are famous for being the ones to bring upon Voldemort's downfall, and for being the first people to survive the killing curse.

It was enough of a shock to know that I had a brother, when I'd grown up believing Bonnie Lupin's was my twin sister, but even more of a shock to know that I was famous without any knowledge of it. I'd arrived at Hogwarts to find stares and whispers. I've gotten used to it now, even though it still bothers me. At the end of the summer I'll be returning for my fourth year, which will be most likely as eventful as the last.

There's still a fortnight until September first. A fortnight until I board the Hogwarts Express at platform nine and three-quarters. I look hopelessly around my room, until my eyes latch onto the stack of birthday cards that my best friends had sent me at the end of July. What would they say about my scar hurting?

At once Hermione Granger's voice fills my mind, shrill and panicky.

"Your scar hurt? Sarah, that's really serious...Write to Professor Dumbledore! And I'll go check Magical Ailments and Afflictions...maybe there's something in there about curse scars..."

Yes, that'd be Hermione's advice; go straight to the headmaster, and in the meantime, consult a book. I can't really say anything, that'd be something I'd say too, but I get the feeling that there isn't anything in curse scars in Magical Ailments and Afflictions. Apart from Harry, I'm the only person to have survive a curse like Voldemort's.

As for informing the headmaster, I have no idea where Professor Dumbledore goes during the summer. He could be anywhere from Australia to London. Wherever he is, I don't doubt that Swoops wouldn't be able to find him. Swoops hasn't failed to deliver to anyone, even without an address. The thing is, what would I say?

Dear Professor Dumbledore, Sorry to bother you, but my scar hurt this morning. Yours sincerely, Sarah Potter.

Even in my head the words sound stupid.

And so I try to imagine either Ron Weasley's or Amy Fields' reactions. They'd be quite similar. It'd be something along the lines of:

"Your scar hurt? But...You-Know-Who can't be near, can he? I mean, you'd know if he was, wouldn't you? He'd be trying to hurt either you or Harry, wouldn't he? I dunno, Sarah, maybe curse scars always twinge a bit..."

Ron's probably ask his Dad about it. Mr Weasley is a great wizard and all, but I don't think he'd know much on curse scars. He works at the Ministry of Magic in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, I don't think curse scars are his area of expertise.

I don't even think Harry would understand the situation. He's never had a nightmare which resulted in his scar burning. The only time his scar has burned is the same as the last time mine burnt. He'd probably shrug and say it was nothing.

I grimace. No one would understand. None of my friends, not my brother, not Bonnie...I really need an adult to talk to, who would have some ample advice.

And then it hits me - Sirius.

I jump up from the bed, jolting Snow awake, causing her to leap off the bed in fright, hurry across the room, and sit down at my desk. I pull a piece of empty parchment toward me, load my eagle-feather quill with ink, write Dear Sirius, then pause, wondering how best to phrase this strange problem, still marvelling at the fact I hadn't thought of Sirius straight away.

But then, perhaps it isn't so surprising. I'd only found out Sirius was my second Godfather - my other being Dad (Remus) - two months ago. The reason he was out of my life for so long is because he had been in Azkaban, the terrifying Wizarding prison, guarded by sightless, soul-sucking fiends called Dementors, who had come in search of Sirius at Hogwarts last year.

Yet Sirius had been innocent. The murders that he was convicted for were actually been committed by Wormtail, Voldemort's supporter, whom nearly everybody now beloved dead.

Only Harry, Ron, Hermione, Bonnie, Amy and I know otherwise, having come face-to-face with him last year, though only Professor Dumbledore believed our story.

For one whole hour, we all believed at Sirius would soon be cleared of his charges, with Pettigrew as evidence. And Sirius had offered to let Harry and I live with him once he was cleared, which seemed awesome. But the chance had been snatched away from us - Wormtail escaped from our grasp, having turned into a mouse and scattering away. Sirius had to flee for his life, so with Harry's, Hermione's and my help (and a time turner)m we were able to send him off on a Hippogriff called Buckbeak. Ever since then, Sirius has been on the run.

The home that I could have shared with Harry and Sirius still haunts me. Even though I can't live with either of them, I'm still doing okay. I couldn't have asked for a better home, living with Dad and Bonnie. But Sirius and Harry would have been the dream.

I've received two letters from Sirius this summer, and Harry undoubtedly has too. Neither letter was deliver by usual owls (used by wizards), but large, brightly coloured tropical birds. Neither of my pets had approved of these intruders. Swoops refused to let them drink from his water tray and Snow tried to chase them out. I had to quickly detach the letters from them before they flew off in fright.

However, I liked them. They reminded me of the time Mum, Dad, Bonnie and I travelled to Hawaii when we were seven. They put the images of palm trees and white sandy beaches in my mind. I hope that, wherever Sirius is (he won't say in case the letters get intercepted), he's enjoying himself and keeping out of trouble.

I can't imagine Dementors surviving for long in bright sunlight; perhaps that's why Sirius has gone south. I keep the letters in my jewellery box on my nightstand. In both letters, Sirius had told me to contact him if I needed, and right now, I need to.

My lamp seems to grow dimmer as the cold grey light that precedes sunrise slowly creeps into the room. Finally, when the sun rises, when my bedroom walls turn gold, and when sounds of movement can be heard from Dad and Bonnie's rooms, I clear his desk of crumpled pieces of parchment and re-read my finished letter.

Dear Sirius,

Thanks for your last letter. That bird was enormous! It could hardly get through my window. Things are the same as usual around here. Harry and I meet up almost everyday. Well, whenever Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon let him out of the house. We always hang out at the park where we first saw you. There's no particular reason for it, it's just the closest park. And everyone is doing okay, even Harry on his strict diet at the Dursley's.

A weird thing happened this morning, though. My scar hurt again. The last time it hurt, Voldemort was at Hogwarts. But he can't be near here, can he? Do you know if curse scars sometimes hurt years afterwards?

I'm sending this with Swoops, so I hope you'll know that it's for you and not some random owl. Say hi to Buckbeak for me!

Sarah.

Yes, this seems okay. There's no point putting in anything about the dream, that's not too worrying, as it was only a dream. I fold up the parchment and wait for Swoops to awake from his sleep.

I get to my feet, stretch my arms, and open my wardrobe to get some clothes. Without glancing at my reflection, I get dressed, and head down to breakfast.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N:

Hey guys! Welcome to book 4! As you already know I am s excited to write this, because there's just so much!

Anyway, so, in this books be prepared for a few things: more character development (especially Bonnie), plot twists (well, slight ones) and love :)

I dearly hope you guys will enjoy this book, because I'm going to enjoy writing it :)

Byeeeeeee,

~Elise