Sarah Potter (Book 4)

Ch1: Nightmares and Burning Scars

"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...