Rule Breaker

HOGWARTS SCHOOL

of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,

Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Ms. Malfoy,

Although Hogwarts follows a strict policy on the acceptance of transfer students, we have an exemption on your part, and are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

We request that you report to Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress, as soon as you arrive to make the proper arrangements.

Sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

Hogwarts Headmaster

For the first time in his life, Harry Potter did not feel too keen to return to Hogwarts. It was strange, how he suddenly dreaded receiving that letter that announced his acceptance to his sixth term, and how it took him several days to finally pull himself up to read it when it did arrive.

Summer had not been spectacular. Aptly described, Harry's summer had been dull. The Magical World was still in frenzy because of the last attack to the Ministry of Magic. Though they said nothing, Harry knew the Order would be keeping tabs on him all summer. His suspicions were confirmed when he saw a blue porcupine lurking about the lawn at the start of the summer which attracted a mild crowd of children to the Dursley's lawn.

The security did not really matter, though, since most of the time, Harry simply stayed in his room, much to Dursleys enjoyment, that they practically forgot he was even there. Eager to keep him in his room but not wanting to wake up the next day with a dead nephew in the house, Aunt Petunia always brought his dinner, which consisted mostly of dried porridge, to his door and then returned the next day to take it, only to find that Harry had barely touched it.

"Do you think he's killing himself?" Aunt Petunia asked Uncle Vernon worriedly as she brought down another untouched porridge. "He hasn't been eating anything for a week now."

Uncle Vernon stared at the bowl of porridge and rushed upstairs, his massive footsteps stumping up the stairs towards Harry's room.

"Boy, you're not going to ruin everything that I've worked for by going on and killing yourself!"

Harry glanced up at the large, red, fuming man that had burst into his room and suppressed a smile. Uncle Vernon was breathing heavily, and he gave a puzzled look when he saw his nephew lying on his bed, still with some fat in his body and looking just like he always did. Harry could never tell his uncle that the reason he had not been eating Aunt Petunia's porridge was because Hermione had been sending him cakes every week since the start of the summer.

Harry had no idea why Hermione was sending him cakes. Of course she sent letters along with the cakes but he never read any of his owls now. He simply threw them to the side of his bedroom, and they fell one on top of the other, creating a small mountain of unopened owls.

"What are you laughing at, boy? You think this is funny?'

"Why should you care, anyway?" he shot back, "I thought you'd be glad to get rid of me."

"Not when you're going to bring us all down! If you're going to destroy yourself, leave us out of it!"

Harry turned away from Uncle Vernon. He was not in the mood to argue with his uncle, even though, he had to admit that he did enjoy seeing him fume just because he thought Harry was going to kill himself.

"You look at me when I'm talking to you. I'm warning you, boy," Vernon threatened, but Harry did not move. He was used to his uncle's threats, his empty words that never really meant anything. He simply laid there, and seconds later he heard Uncle Vernon's heavy footsteps shuffle out of the room and slam the door behind him.

Yes, his summer was not great. He looked up at the bare ceiling above him, a ceiling he had already memorized. There was a comforting feeling seeing that bare, dull, dirty ceiling over him, in everything about his dirty old room. It was the room where he was not Harry Potter, the-boy-who-lived, where he could have been any boy, just any boy with a family.

As he stared up the ceiling, he would imagine how it could have been if things were different. If James and Lily had lived, if he had never spent eleven years of his life living with the Dursleys, if Voldemort did not exist, if Sirius was still alive.

Harry closed his eyes and imagined. The Potters were having a holiday in some tropical country. Sirius would be there, and he'd be taunting Lupin who wouldn't dare get into the water. He could feel the heat of the sun against his face and the smell of the sea (even though he was not sure what tropical seas smelled like).

He imagined living in his own home where the mailbox would say "Potter" rather than Dursley. He'd have his own room, but more importantly, he had his own family. James would take him out to the yard and they'd practice Quidditch while his mother looked on, proud and happy. And he would not have that blasted scar that keeps on burning.

A sudden rap on the window shattered Harry's musings. His eyes shot open and saw Hedwig pecking on the window glass with a piece on parchment on her mouth. Harry rubbed his eyes as he let Hedwig in and took the parchment from her mouth.

Harry,

Moody and I will be taking you to King's Cross Station tomorrow.

Hope you enjoy your new term.

Tonks

Harry groaned and tossed the letter into his "owl mountain". Reality had finally caught up with him, and there was no escape now.