Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world belong to J.K. Rowling. This story belongs to me.

A/N - Hello and welcome to yet another Harry Potter story from yours truly! I know I should be updating my other stories before posting any new ones, but in my defence, I couldn't help it this time! The idea for this one just stuck in my head, and I couldn't let it go until I at least started to write it down. I promise this story will only be short - although I have said that before and disastrously underestimated myself (See: 1st chapter of "Strength in Weakness" for evidence of this haha). Still, I mean it this time. Probably.

Either way, I hope you like my newest addition to the Harry Potter world. I wanted this is to be a different take on the classic "Harry runs away from the Dursleys" fanfiction tale. Hopefully I achieved that much at least! So without further ado...enjoy!

~ Feels Like Home ~

Part One

Harry took a deep, steadying breath and raised a shaky hand to wipe away the fresh blood from his lip. It was his own blood of course, the result of a swift backhand from his Uncle for daring to voice an opinion in a house that did not care for it. Harry was thirteen now, but that particular lesson had been taught to him a long time ago.

Harry shook his head and carefully pulled the bottom of his baggy t-shirt up, pressing the rough fabric gingerly against his lip in an attempt to stem the steady flow of blood. He grimaced, wishing he had a tissue or a towel to press against it instead of Dudley's ratty cast-offs. It wasn't worth risking his Uncle's ire again so soon after the last time though, so he would make do, just like he always did.

Harry tried to take another steadying breath, the t-shirt still pressed against his mouth, but latent anger from the argument with his Uncle was still rushing through his system. It certainly wasn't the first time Harry had been struck by his Uncle, but this time it felt different.

He felt different.

And in that moment, Harry made a decision.

Harry clenched his free hand so tightly that his skin was white, his other hand still holding the fabric of Dudley's cast-off against his busted lip. Too much had happened in the last couple of years for him to stand for this sort of treatment now. Only a few days after his thirteenth birthday, Harry had finally had enough. His Uncle wouldn't hurt him again, not if he had any say in the matter.

He was leaving Privet Drive tonight, and he wasn't coming back.

With a heavy sigh, Harry sat down on the edgy of his lumpy bed, unclenched his fist, pulled in another deep breath, and took a final, long look around Dudley's second bedroom – a room that he would never see as his own, no matter how many times he slept in it.

He shook his head. He wouldn't miss it. He wouldn't miss any part of his life in this house.

Oddly, despite the life-changing decision he had just made, Harry felt a little bit calmer now. Now that the adrenaline from the fight with his Uncle was beginning to seep away, his hands weren't even shaking that badly anymore. He'd always hated feeling powerless, but now that he was actually doing something, now that he was finally acting on a dream he'd had for years, he felt so much better.

He felt ready.

He was ready.

He was leaving Privet Drive tonight, and he wasn't coming back.

Harry nodded to himself, certain he was making the right decision despite how scary it sounded. The truth was, it was something that Harry had been dreaming about since very early childhood – escaping from Privet Drive, getting shot of the Dursleys once and for all - but he'd only truly started to consider following through with the idea after last summer, when he had stayed at the Weasleys and seen with his own eyes how a real family was supposed to act.

Harry ached to have that for himself with a desperation he was a little bit ashamed of, and he knew with sad certainty that he wasn't ever going to find that with the Dursleys, no matter how long he stayed with them. It was a lesson that had been pounded in him numerous times over the years he had spent with them, but finally the lesson had stuck.

He wasn't welcome at Number Four, Privet Drive, and he never would be, so he was leaving tonight and he wasn't coming back.

Harry sighed and checked on his bloodied lip again. Satisfied that it had finally stopped bleeding, Harry turned his attention to the rest of his body. He tentatively rolled his shoulder and grimaced, trying to work some feeling back into it. It was sore, but manageable. Only a couple of minutes ago, his Uncle had grabbed him there with an iron fist before throwing him into his room and slamming the door shut behind him.

What had really hurt, though, were the words thrown at him by his Aunt Marge – who had been visiting for a couple of weeks and who he hated even more than Vernon - just before that.

"Your parents were a pair of drunk layabouts who deserved what they got. They obviously didn't love you very much or they might've tried harder to stay alive."

She'd said it gleefully; tears pricked at his eyes at the memory, but Harry blinked them away. He didn't care about physical pain, not really, but the words...

He'd always been able to handle his Uncle when it was just the big man on his own. Vernon Dursley had never liked him, had never wanted him, and honestly, Harry couldn't have cared less. He didn't want Vernon to like him, not if it meant being the type of boy that Vernon liked.

Dudley, for example.

But now that Marge was here too, Harry had quickly reached the point of no return. She seemed to know exactly what to say to push his buttons, picking at the very few things he knew about his parents and twisting them into something horrific. Something…tainted.

Harry hated her. He hated them all with a smouldering fury that sank right down into his stomach, and he knew that if he didn't get out of there soon, he wasn't going to last much longer before he blew up. Or before he blew one of them up. There was only so much he could take, and Harry had reached his limit.

So he was leaving tonight, and he was never coming back.

He stood up on wobbly legs, then immediately got onto his stomach, shifting his aching body over to the loose floorboard under his bed and prising it open with slightly shaky fingers. He wasn't coming back – Merlin, he really wasn't coming back – so he needed to make sure he didn't leave anything important behind.

With his album, wand and invisibility cloak safely in his arms, Harry stood up and made his way over to the rickety old wardrobe in the corner of the room. Kneeling down again, he carefully placed his most prized possessions on the floor beside him and reached into the bottom of the wardrobe, pulling out a tattered old backpack.

It had once belonged to Dudley, and Harry had taken it with him to Hogwarts with the vague idea of using it to carry his school books around. He hadn't in the end, only because he would have been embarrassed to use something that was in such a bad condition. Snape would never had let him hear the end of it.

Still, it had been worth taking it to Hogwarts last year all the same, especially the modifications that Hermione had made to it since then.

Because this wasn't an ordinary backpack anymore.

It had been Ron's idea actually. They all knew that underage witches and wizards weren't allowed to do magic outside of Hogwarts – Harry had learnt that first hand during the previous summer thanks to Dobby – but there was nothing that said that using magical objects was banned.

It had sparked something in Ron, who'd been trying to think of ways to help Harry survive the Dursleys – especially after what he's witnessed the year before - and Hermione had run with the idea. They'd wanted to make sure that he had access to enough food and books to survive starvation and boredom if he ever got locked in his room again.

Now, thanks to his friends, Harry had a chance of surviving when he left the Dursleys too.

And he was definitely leaving. Right now. Forever.

Harry shifted the contents of the bag slightly, and placed his invisibility cloak and photo album inside. Normally, it would have been a tight fit, but not with the undetectable extension charm that Hermione had placed on it. It was an advanced charm, and it had taken Hermione weeks of practice before she'd been able to manage it. Still, she had come through for him, not that it had ever been in doubt.

She was the brightest witch of her age, Harry thought with pride. Easily.

It meant that this small, tattered backpack now contained everything of importance that he owned in the world. Before he'd left Hogwarts, instead of filling his trunk, Harry had placed everything of value in the backpack, along with most of his good clothes and a seemingly endless supply of food that would still be relatively fresh come the end summer. Then he'd stuffed the bag inside his school trunk until he got to King's Cross station.

When he'd finally made it back to Privet Drive, and his Uncle had gone to lock the trunk up in the cupboard under the stairs, Harry had managed to sneak the bag up to his room inside a pile of his clothes, stashing it in his wardrobe. He'd been happy just to have a back-up in case something went wrong again – like last year – but now it meant that he wouldn't have to pick the lock on the cupboard under the stairs; he could just leave his trunk behind. He could afford to buy himself a new trunk; what he couldn't afford to do was get caught by the Dursleys before he made his escape.

He definitely didn't want to get caught.

Harry picked up the backpack and pulled it onto his shoulders. It was light – thanks again to Hermione and this time a featherweight charm – and looked ordinary from the outside. It would do.

He pulled his hood over his head and shoved his wand in his back pocket. Then he tried the handle on his door, letting out a sigh of relief when he realised that his Uncle hadn't locked it after throwing him inside. He pushed it open and then crept out onto the landing.

Harry paused, and strained his ears.

The Dursleys were downstairs; he could hear them laughing about something. The T.V. was blaring and for once, Harry was glad; the noise would hopefully mask his escape. Cautiously, he made his way downstairs – avoiding the creaky step – and crept through the hallway towards the front door. The Dursleys laughed again, loudly, and this time, Harry smiled too – although it was in a mixture of bitterness and relief, rather than joy.

Slowly and carefully, Harry opened the front door and stepped outside, quietly shutting it behind him. He waited a moment, heart beating loudly in his chest, expecting to be caught any second. And then…

The T.V. blared, the Dursleys laughed again, and Harry let out the breath he had been holding. He was safe. He was free.

Harry turned towards the road, and then, without even looking back, he walked away from the house he had grown up in and out onto the street. Then he kept walking.

With his heart still thudding loudly in his chest, Harry slowly picked up his speed, walking more and more quickly down the quiet and deserted street until finally he was running, sprinting away from Dursleys as if the devil himself was chasing him. His hood fell off his head, and his hair whipped wildly in the wind as he ran, but Harry didn't care. He'd finally done it; he was truly free for the first time in his life.

Harry laughed into the night air as he ran. He'd left the Privet Drive, and he wasn't going back.

Hermione sighed loudly, lying back onto her bed as stared up at her ceiling. Her favourite book lay open on the bed beside her, but she didn't bother to pick it up, well aware that it would be a futile endeavour to even try and read it. She was in no frame of mind to concentrate on the words at the moment, not with all the thoughts already running through her head.

Hermione sighed again. She was worried. Very worried. And all her worry was focused on one particular black-haired, trouble-magnet of a boy.

For someone who practically embodied what it meant to be Gryffindor, Harry had looked more than a little scared when they'd parted at King's Cross at the beginning of the summer. Not that she could blame him after what had happened at his relatives' house the previous summer, but it still felt a little wrong for someone as brave as he was to be scared of the people who were supposed to be his family.

Harry never talked about what went on at the Dursleys in any great detail – in fact he seemed to make it a point never to talk about the Dursleys at all unless he had to - but she had her suspicions. She and Ron had discussed it at great length over the last year, but whenever they raised the matter with Harry, he would just shut them down or abruptly change the subject.

Hermione regretted not pushing him on it more, especially after seeing how scared he was at King's Cross Station, but there was nothing she could do about it now.

She sighed again. Except worry, of course.

Harry had always had an alarming knack of finding trouble, even when he didn't go looking for it. He was strong, she knew that, but everyone had a breaking point, and she was worried that Harry was moving closer to his. It was a concern that was made even worse by the fact that she knew that his awful relatives wouldn't help; in fact, if anything, they would only make it worse. He'd had a tough year at Hogwarts – they all had – but at least she had a loving family to come home to. She had parents who could comfort her, cheer her up, make her laugh.

Who did Harry have?

The Dursleys hated him, Harry had been open about that much at least. He'd told Ron and her that fact almost nonchalantly, as if it was simply something not to be questioned. As if it was completely normal to be hated by your only living relatives, the people who had raised you since the tender age of one.

Tears pricked at Hermione's eyes, but she blinked them away. She wanted to help him so desperately, but there wasn't anything more she could do. She had no evidence that there was more to it than simple dislike, even though she knew in her heart that there was plenty about Harry's life at the Dursleys that he had never told his best friends. She hoped the bag she'd charmed for him was helping. She wished she could have done more. But it was out of her hands now, and she hated it.

And so instead she worried, and worried, and worried…

Suddenly the doorbell rang downstairs, but even though it was an odd time for someone to be calling at their house, Hermione didn't move from her position on the bed. It wasn't like it would be anyone for her. It was late, but even if it had been mid-afternoon, she still wouldn't have expected anyone to be at the front door asking for her. She didn't have friends here, she never had. It was another reason why she missed Hogwarts so much. Even after coming close to dying last year, she missed it with an ache that sank into her very bones. She missed her friends…

"Hermione," came a sudden call from downstairs. "Can you come down here, please?"

It was her dad. Hermione frowned. He sounded a little stressed, which was unusual for her father. He was a calm, kind-hearted, unflappable man, but right now he sounded quite 'flapped'.

"Love," her mother called as well. Clearly they'd both gone to answer the door. "Now, please, Hermione."

Now Hermione was really worried. It sounded like something was wrong. Quietly, she picked up her wand from the bedside table and stood up from her bed. Then she slowly made her way out of her bedroom and down the stairs.

She could hear her parents in the hallway, so she crept through the living room, wand outstretched in front of her. Her heart was beating loudly in her chest, and it was all she could do to keep walking. The T.V. was still playing in the background; she could hear Stephen Fry's voice as he hosted her parents' favourite T.V. show, QI. She did her best to ignore the laughter of the studio audience, and instead focused on trying to listen for any potential danger.

Finally she reached the hallway door, and with a final, deep breath, pushed it open.

Her parents were there, as expected, standing by the front door. What wasn't expected, however, was the figure at the door; a teenage boy, who had his head down and the hood pulled over his head. He was carrying a backpack on his shoulder that she immediately recognised, having spent so much of the last few weeks of term trying to charm it, but even then, it took a few seconds for her brain to catch up with her eyes. When it finally did, she gasped.

She moved closer, just as the figure lifted his head.

"Harry?"

A/N - So, how was it? I'm about halfway through writing the next chapter already, but any feedback you have would be greatly appreciated. Does anyone out there want to read more? If you can spare a minute or two, please let me know, but for now - and until next time - thanks for reading!