Harry Potter and the Finality

Chapter One: Worst Summer Ever
Little Whinging, Surrey was a perfectly normal town. Privet Drive was a perfectly normal, very neat and well-kept street in a perfectly normal, neat and well-kept neighborhood. Number Four Privet Drive was a perfectly normal house. Petunia, Vernon, and Dudley Dursley were perfectly normal people, if somewhat on the fat side.
But Harry Potter was not.
For, you see, Harry Potter was a wizard. Actually, he was a wizard-in-training; he had two more years to complete at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry before he could graduate as a fully-trained wizard.
Harry, however, wasn't even your average wizard-in-training. He was the only person to survive the Killing Curse, the boy who had faced Lord Voldemort himself and lived to tell the tale, and it was prophesized that he was the only person in the entire world who could truly destroy the dark lord.
Not that he looked the part at the moment. His already thin frame was horribly emaciated, bones nearly bursting through pale white skin. His black hair, usually somewhat shaggy, was now beyond the bounds of unruly; it had grown out past his shoulders and gone unwashed and uncombed for at least a month, so that now it was a hopeless rat's nest. Harry's eyes were tired and sunken, sporting dark bags that revealed his exhaustion. They were currently closed in a fitful sleep.
Lily and James Potter glared with baleful eyes at the small lonely figure before them; neither moved when a third well-built silhouette stepped from the shadows. The new arrival wore a Hogwarts cloak, Hufflepuff insignia emblazoned on the chest. It was Cedric Diggory. He too directed a fierce gaze to the trembling form. Time crawled by, immeasurable yet impossibly slow, and finally a fourth figure appeared.
The face that Harry had known for so long as a friend, as a godfather, was once more transformed into the murderer escaped from Azkaban. He shuddered under Sirius Black's accusing glare. The five sat in silence, four hating and cursing while one wept and begged silently for forgiveness, begged and begged and recieved no answer...
Harry was suddenly jerked back into wakefulness by the beating of wings over his face.
"Hedwig?" he asked blearily, sitting up. But it wasn't his pale-feathered snowy own flapping around his head; it was Pigwidgeon, Ron's tiny owl. The ball of feather-fluff soomed to the ceiling and dove back down to nearly crash into his head. Harry caught him just in time and pried the letter from his leg, then released him again; Pig fluttered over to Hedwig's empty cage (the larger owl was gone, carrying a note to the Order of the Phoenix) while Harry unrolled the letter. It was from his best friend Ron, the third this week, and read:
Harry,
You haven't written back all summer, and Hermione and I are getting worried - what's wrong? As soon as Hermy gets back from her vacation we're coming to visit you. I don't care what the Muggles say. In the meantime, happy birthday from both of us - we'll bring your presents when we come. See you soon, and I hope you're all right.
Ron
Harry read the letter twice, hoping he had misunderstood it, but no - Ron and Hermione would be arriving at his house, most likely very soon. He crumpled up the parchement and dropped it into the wastebasket beside his desk. His head fell into his hands of its own volition. He sighed; he didn't want Ron and Hermione to see him like this. They'd realize something was wrong, and then the quiet he craved would be impossible. But there was no way he could tell them not to come without proving their suspicions. Pushing himself to his feet slowly, he stumbled across the room and fell into his bed, staring blankly at nothing in particular. He didn't notice Pig flapping out the window and winging away through the night.
He was in much the same position when Hedwig returned two days later, fluttering over to dig her talons into his chest. She had another letter tied to her leg.
"I seem to be very popular all of a sudden, Hedwig," he muttered, fumbling with the string. His shaking fingers couldn't seem to undo the knot; finally she nipped at him and plucked at the twine with her beak until it came undone, and then she held the parchement still for him. He stroked her snowy chest as he read.
The handwriting was Lupin's. He was writing to say that Hermione had returned early, and that he would be coming with her and Ron to see him on his birthday; his best wishes, and he hoped everything was well.
"My birthday...but that's tomorrow? Hedwig, why didn't you bring this earli - "
The door swung open suddenly to admit a towering stack of presents with legs. "I'm afraid your calendar is a day off, Harry," the owner of the legs said. Lupin set the parcels down on the desk and turned to face him, still talking; "Happy birthda - why, what happened?" Dark eyes flared wide in surprise.
Harry averted his own gaze quickly. The werewolf already knew; that penetrating look made him too uncomfortable. "I'm...just sick," he lied. "A cold."
"In the middle of summer. I see." The flat tone said otherwise. Lupin raised his voice and called through the door, "Hermione, Ron, you two come on in. And close the door behind you." The duo bounded in, faces alight with excitement; they paled as soon as they stepped into the room.
"H - Harry!" Ron exclaimed.
"Shut the door, Hermione," Lupin said quietly. "We're going to have a little chat, and it would be best if the Dursleys didn't listen." The bushy-haired bookworm nodded wordlessly, mouth still hanging open, and closed the door with a soft click. Lupin casually pulled the chair over from the desk and swung it around to sit in it backwards, arms folded on the backrest; only the peculiar tightness of his face showed that he was at all concerned. "Now, Harry. I believe an explanation is in order."
He closed his mouth tightly, glaring at the ceiling. His message was clear: I don't want to talk.
The werewolf's frown conveyed his retort equally clearly: I don't care if you don't want to talk, I'm not leaving until you do.
Ron and Hermione stood motionlessly, watching the silent battle of wills. Lupin was the first to break.
"Have it your way, then. You two may want to leave the room," he said, turning to face the other teens. "You probably won't like what I'm about to do."
Ron's hand instantly found Harry's shoulder. "What are you planning?" he demanded.
"Nothing that will hurt him," was the reply. Lupin's eyes sparked in amusement, and a hint of long-borne grief; Ron wasn't the only person who had ever been so protective of the black-haired boy. "I promise. I'm just going to...ah...loosen his tongue a bit."
"No," Ron said flatly. "No. Whatever's bothering him this much...I'd give almost anything to know, but still, it's his business, not ours. You - we - have no right to pry into his mind like that. Right, Hermy?"
Hermione hesitated, but then nodded. "He's right, Professor Lupin. We can't." Her hand fumbled for Harry's.
"Thank you," he murmured.
Lupin frowned. "Well, all right, since you're so adamant about it...but certainly you won't object to my putting him to sleep? He needs it."
It was Ron's turn to hesitate; Harry shook his head violently and opened his mouth to protest, but Lupin didn't wait for permission. Before he could so much as draw a breath he felt the familiar tingle up his spine that meant someone was using magic, and then his eyes were closing on their own and the hateful black was closing in around him. He could still see Ron's worried face when the nightmares began.

[A/N] Gaaaaaah! This is the second time I've lost part of this! *growls* At any rate. I have a fair amount of it written, but I want to edit the beginning parts extensively and fix parts of the plot before I continue writing it. I doubt it will be ready for publishing before book six comes out. We'll see.