He sat motionless on the hardback chair, bathed in the dim light spreading from the half closed kitchen door. A whiskey glass held lightly in his hand, although it had been empty for sometime. He knew nobody would disturb him now, not even Ginny. That was probably the only thing he did know right now however. He certainly didn’t know exactly how he was feeling about what he’d just heard.
Sixteen years of torture he suffered at the hands of the Dursley’s. Yet sadness filled him at the news of their death. Sadness and anger. His aunt, the last living connection to his mother, was gone. And all to make a point towards him. How many more would die because of him?
All his emotions where blurred however by one unanswerable question. Who?
Who could possibly still want him dead? And go to the extent of spending weeks leaving messages and killing innocent people.