Simon Says
by
Thunderspeak

Disclaimer: I do not claim any of J.K Rowling's wonderful work. Hence, the disclaimer.

Summary: During the summer after his fourth year, Harry learns about the darkness within himself, discovers the power the Dark Lord knows not, and makes a new friend. Snape/Harry/OC
Eventual Slash

AN: Review please? I want to know if I should continue this fic or not. It is rated M for language, adult themes, and eventual smut.

"It's terrible!" Hermione gasped as she saw the Daily Prophet headline, "HARRY POTTER: MURDERER OR MADMAN?" She snatched the article form Harry's hands and ripped it in half, breaking through the numerous protective charms on the paper. She wasn't sorted into Gryffindor for nothing, after all.

Harry miserably sunk further into the cushions and wished he would be swallowed up. It was terrible. Added to his many problems, now he had to worry about being accused of murder?

The whole situation stank like hippogriff shit, but Harry had his mind on a matter much more worrisome—the approaching summer with the Dursleys.

"Yeah, it's terrible," he whispered.

Minister Fudge was accusing him of murder and Voldemort was plotting his demise—but Harry didn't give a flying snitch. His thoughts were panicked, circling around a dozen horrible scenarios starring the Dursleys.

"Kill the spare…" Harry shook his head in an attempt to clear his morose thoughts. Harry knew that so soon after Cedric's death, enduring the Dursley's hate and anger would shatter the cold indifference he showed them each summer.

This summer, Harry thought, I'm simply not strong enough.

Harry lingered by his bed, touching the gold and red curtains with fondness. He wished he could stay. This was home. In his hysteria he had pleaded with Dumbledore, even offering to help the house elves clean and cook. But the answer remained the same.

"No. But Harry, it will get better."

"It will?"

"Yes. It will," the headmaster assured him, his blue eyes roaming over too-large clothes for a too-small frame. Dumbledore frowned.

Harry wondered if they were talking about the same thing. He was thinking of the Dursleys, but knowing Dumbledore, the old wizard could be talking about Voldemort or even the state of Harry's messy hair.

Optimism? Harry shrugged, and decided that being a little optimistic couldn't hurt.

During the train ride he repeated the mantra it will get better at least a thousand times. He barely heard Hermione excitedly talk about a trip to Venice with her parents or Ron's groans about cleaning his room.

He ignored them both.

Harry didn't talk much during the train ride. When his friends didn't notice his silence or somber mood, he felt an unexpected sting of disappointment. Rationally, Harry knew they couldn't be blamed. Hermione was lucky to have a family who took her on vacations and Ron… he was acting as anyone his age would, feeling as if the world would end if he had to clean his room.

Harry started a new mantra; I will not resent them for having loving families, who at most, make them clean their rooms. This mantra didn't work so well, because Harry could only think of the numerous chores he got and all the vacations the Dursleys went on whilst leaving him behind.

Harry's dark thoughts were interrupted when they finally arrived. He searched the crowds for his Uncle and seeing him, red-faced angry and impatiently checking his watch every few moments, Harry shoulders drooped in disappointment. Uncle Vernon looked the same as always.

Optimism? Harry scoffed. He should have known better to feel hope.

Gathering up his courage, Harry walked to Vernon with hesitance, as if approaching a wild animal. The car ride back to Surrey was surprisingly quiet. However, the peace didn't last long.

It seemed his Uncle's unusual silence was just an accumulation of air because as soon as they stepped into the house, Harry was yelled at for being a freak and a nuisance and was harshly thrown into the cupboard.

The cupboard had been tiny when he was ten. Now, Harry was forced to curl up into a ball. It was uncomfortable and he had the sudden urge to cry.

His situation was not better—it was worse. The Dursleys were more hateful towards Harry then ever before. His previous threats of a murderously protective godfather no longer worked because when Dumbledore contacted them, he had casually mentioned that Sirius was in hiding. Thanks, Headmaster.

Days passed.

Harry's stomach constantly clenched in hunger and unless he managed to drink from the hose, his throat was parched. He was also covered in grime and sweat the majority of the time because they deemed showers too luxurious for him.

After the first week, the Dursleys decided they didn't want to look at his ugly face anymore, even to have their house cleaned, so he spent most of his days curled up in the cupboard, lonely and forgotten.

Harry waited for letters from Hermione or Ron, but Hedwig always returned with mournful eyes and an empty beak. Harry waited for Hagrid to knock down the front door, but the door remained ugly, yellow, and most importantly, unbroken.

Someone to save the savior! Harry chuckled darkly and almost hysterically at the irony.

He waited, but weeks passed and nobody came to rescue poor Harry. They all assumed he was safe, because in their eyes, Voldemort was the only threat to the Boy-Who-Lived.

"FUDGE SPEAKS: YOU-KNOW-WHO HAS NOT RETURNED"
by Rita Skeeter

"After the terrible events that occurred at the TriWizard Tournament, Minister Fudge graciously spoke to me, Rita Skeeter, to clear the heavy fog of fear.

Fudge: You-Know-Who has not returned.

Skeeter: Harry Potter seems to believe otherwise. Is the Wizarding World unsafe?

Fudge: Mr. Potter is simply mistaken. The Wizarding World has never been safer. If anyone was to be under scrutiny, it should me Mr. Potter. How can we take his word as the truth?

Skeeter: The Boy-Who-Lived, a liar? Do tell, Minister.

Fudge: I believe with complete certainty that the Boy-Who-Lived is using his reputation to avoid punishment.

Skeeter: Are you saying… Harry Potter murdered Cedric Diggory?

Fudge: Without any doubt, I believe Harry Potter is nothing more then the Boy-Who-Murdered.

Skeeter: Scandalous! Why have you not taken action to have him arrested, Minister?

Fudge: When Mr. Potter returns for his fifth year at Hogwarts, he will be heavily questioned by top Aurors under Veritaserum. Until then, we must respect Amos Diggory's wishes. The father of the deceased believes Mr. Potter should have a peaceful summer.

Skeeter: He doesn't believe Mr. Potter murdered his son?

Fudge: No, but we must remember that the grief stricken are not always rational.

Skeeter: Very true. Well, thank you for your time Minister…

Fudge: My pleasure. I just want what's best for my fellow Wizards and Witches. They must know that Mr. Potter can no longer be trusted.

Most people are afraid of the dark. Not Harry.

When he was thrown into the cupboard and locked in, Harry relaxed. He was in a bubble of warmth and darkness that protected him from the Dursleys.

When he was younger, Harry would press his ear to the air vent and listen to his Uncle and Aunt go about their day—the hum of the refrigerator, the splash of water, and the buzz of the telly. All the sounds represented a normal, suburban family. It was during those moments that Harry thought being locked up was a good thing, because he would be horrified with himself if his ugliness ever tarnished their beauty.

When he watched their love for each other, Harry thought that their hate towards him must be well reasoned. He never questioned that there might be something wrong with them.

Sometimes, Harry would close his eyes and imagine he was with his relatives. He would fantasize eating pizza with Dudley while they watched the newest sitcom and letting Aunt Petunia wipe tomato sauce off his face.

In reality, Dudley always squealed and pushed his mother away when she tried to wipe his face off. Despite his behavior, Petunia never looked at her son with anger. When she looked at Dudley, even if it was after he received straight F's on his report card, her eyes were always filled with affection and an infinite amount of love. Harry imagined that before Lily died, his mother looked at him just like that.

When Harry caught a cold he was looked at with disgust and when he came home with straight A's, they yelled at him. Harry wished…

Now as a boy of almost 15 years, Harry was not as ignorant. He knew they would never give him the love he so desperately craved. He watched them hug and laugh and smile, and sometimes Harry hated them. That was fine because they hated Harry back. He was different and strange and when he levitated food, he was dangerous. Their feelings towards Harry began as fear but soon morphed into hate.

So they locked away their fear and hate into a cupboard. Harry's only companions were the dust bunnies under his cot and tiny spiders, clinging to their webs.

Harry's fear of silence was one aspect of his youth that never changed. During his fourth year summer, the first night back at the Dursley's was the worst. His relatives were asleep and Harry didn't have Hedwig's comforting hoots because Vernon had thrown her out the window earlier that day.

Silence crept across the house, huge and suffocating.

Locked in the small cupboard, he could hear his rapid heart beat and his shallow breaths. Harry wanted to hear something else, anything else, because those sounds were nothing special.

Kill the spare, echoed a thousand times in his head.

In a panic, Harry told stories to himself to break the silence. He whispered tales about flying motorcycles, men with red eyes, and goblins in the earth. He even spoke the forbidden word—magic.

Eventually, Harry ran out of stories to tell. He shivered in the silence, ashamed of the fat tears rolling down his face. Then, an image blossomed out of the darkness with warmth and presence and sound. Simon arrived in his small cupboard, choking and sneezing on dust.

Harry thought Simon was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

A/N: I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. Please give me feedback on whether to continue it or not. Cheers!

-thunderspeak