Harry Potters Twin Book Four

I woke up in a cold sweat, hugging my cat, Unicorn, to my chest while low rasping sounds escaped my lips.

The dream I just had was so vivid, so realistic, but it couldn't be true. I wasn't there, I was in bed.

I've been having bad dreams this whole summer, but never about Voldemort.

True, Wormtail had been in every one of my dreams, but he was always much more intimidating in the others, this time he was nothing but a coward. I had dreamt of him taking away all my friends and Harry, I had dreamt of him killing my mum and dad over and over again, I had even dreamt of him standing over me in bed with a bloody knife in his hand while a cut was on my chest where my heart was; but I never had a dream about him cowering from his master in pain and fear.

The dream I just had was of him holding a bundle with a disgusting creature in it, the rest of Voldemort. He had told him that he wished that Voldemort didn't choose Harry to bring him back, but Voldemort wouldn't listen.

I bit my lip and hugged the sleeping cat tighter in my arms, the only comfort I could get at the moment.

Harry's room was downstairs, and Dudley had been sneaking around the house all night to keep grabbing extra snacks from the refridgerator. I couldn't risk getting caught; without Bonnie I might go mad if I was stuck in my room all day because the Dursley's thought I might run away again.

"Meow," Unicron mumbled, her blue eyes opening wide.

I realised I was holding her too tight and let her fall to my lap. My eyes traveled around my blue and orange room and landed on the other bed at the other side. It had been empty the whole summer because its occupant had left to her mother and father and brother.

I missed Bonnie Heart, but I was happy for her. I knew how it felt to loose your parents, I didn't want her to go through with the same pain.

A sign escaped my lips as my heart slowed down, the panic from my dream slowly faded away till I was left with nothing but exhaustion. My dark red hair clung to the nape of my neck and curled from my sweat and I wished that everyone would wake up so I won't get into trouble for taking a shower.

Ever since my prank two years ago on my aunt I had to make sure everyone was awake to go into the bathroom.

Footsteps ecoed in the hallway, too heavy for Harry or Petunia but too light for Vernon. Dudley was awake again.

I sunk into my bed and made soft, fake snores to fiegn sleeping. Dudley didn't stop at my door but kept walking down the stairs. I signed in relief, he had been sneaking in here lately, looking through my stuff. Aunt Petunia caught him one time and ended up locking my wizarding supplies in the cupboard under the stairs so he won't get hurt with those 'freak magic tricks'.

Of course, after he did that I had but a lock on my dressers and stuff, because I didn't want his piggy fingers all over my stuff, but sometimes he found a way in it anyways.

My scar prickled under my bangs, and I rubbed it furiously. The pain wasn't the issue, I was never a stranger to pain.

I had once died by looking into the eyes of a Basilisk, though it wasn't painful, but it sure wasn't comfortable iether. Only last year I had fallen fifty feet from an airborne broomstick. I was used to bizarre accidents and injuries; they were unavoidable if you attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and had a knack for attracting a lot of trouble.

Hermione Granger always told me it was more then a knack.

The thing that was bothering me was the last time my scar had hurt me, it had been because Voldemort had been close by… But Voldemort couldn't be here, now… The idea of Voldemort lurking in Privet Drive was absurd, impossible…

I listened closely to the silence around me. Was I half expecting to hear the creak of a stair or the swish of a cloak? And then I jumped slightly as I heard my uncle Vernon give a tremendous grunting snore from the next room.

I shook myself mentally; I was being stupid. There was no one in the house with me except Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, Dudley, and Harry, and they were plainly still asleep, their dreams untroubled and painless.

Asleep was the way I liked the Dursleys best; it wasn't as though they were ever any help to me awake. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley were my only living relatives besides my twin brother, Harry. They were Muggles who hated and despised magic in any form, which meant that I was about as welcome in their house as dry rot. They had explained away me and Harry's long absences at Hogwarts over the last three years by telling everyone that I went to some ordinary school. They knew perfectly well that, as an underage wizard, I wasn't allowed to use magic outside Hogwarts, but they were still apt to blame me for anything that went wrong about the house. I had never been able to confide in them or tell them anything about my life in the wizarding world.

The very idea of going to them when they awoke, and telling them about my scar hurting me, and about my worries about Voldemort, was laughable.

And yet it was because of Voldemort that Harry and I had come to live with the Dursleys in the first place. If it hadn't been for Voldemort, Harry and I would not have had the lightning scars on our foreheads. If it hadn't been for Voldemort, Harry and I would still have had parents…

Harry and I had been a year old the night that Voldemort — the most powerful Dark wizard for a century, a wizard who had been gaining power steadily for eleven years — arrived at our house and killed our father and mother. Voldemort had then turned his wand on the two of us; he had performed the curse that had disposed of many full-grown witches and wizards in his steady rise to power — and, incredibly, it had not worked. Instead of killing us, the curse had rebounded upon Voldemort. Harry and I had survived with nothing but a lightning-shaped cut on our foreheads, and Voldemort had been reduced to something barely alive. His powers gone, his life almost extinguished, Voldemort had fled; the terror in which the secret community of witches and wizards had lived for so long had lifted, Voldemort's followers had disbanded, and Harry and Nixie Potter had become famous.

It had been enough of a shock for me to discover, on my eleventh birthday, that I was a wizard; it had been even more disconcerting to find out that everyone in the hidden wizarding world knew my name. I had arrived at Hogwarts to find that heads turned and whispers followed me wherever I went. But I was used to it now:

At the end of this summer, Harry and I would be starting our fourth year at Hogwarts, and Harry was already counting the days until he would be back at the castle again, though I was trying desperatley not to, it would only make the days pass by slower.

But there was still a fortnight to go before we went back to school. I looked hopelessly around my room again, and my eyes paused on the birthday cards my four best friends had sent me at the end of July. What would they say if I wrote to them and told them about my scar was hurting?

I signed as I imagined their reactions. None of them would help me, not one...