DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter, that's JK Rowling's creation.
WARNING: This is a gay!Harry story and will likely progress into slash. If this is not your cuppa tea, I suggest reading one of my other stories. =)
Re-Awakening - Chapter 1
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'Ugh, what a night,' thought Harry Potter as he woke up in the smallest bedroom of Number 4 Privet Drive. 'Did I get the number of the bus that ran me down?'
To say he was feeling hungover was an understatement. He had yet to open his eyes, but he knew where he was. He could tell by the feel and smell of the place that he was in his bedroom at the Dursley's place.
Oh how he hated having to spend the summers here. Fortunately, this was his last summer here. The Dursleys had since given up treating him like the "freak of nature" they thought he was. Last summer they pushed him too far and he lost control. It took all three aurors to pull him off of Dudley's unconscious form. Since then, they'd realized that it was safer for them to just leave him alone. To be honest, he quite preferred it that way, too.
There was only one problem. Vernon was a man of morals. Regardless of how twisted those morals were, he had morals. Harry'd heard all about it. The only thing Vernon seemed to hate more that his kind - meaning Wizards and Witches - were the sexual deviants that polluted the world. "Homosexuals are evil! They're the Spawn of The Devil!" It was all a load of shit really, and Harry never fell for it.
If Vernon ever found out where Harry was going when he went out after dark, no prodding from Albus Dumbledore or any Order members would change his mind - he would have no queers living under his roof, goddammit.
So Harry kept his local visits to the nearest gay-friendly pub all hush-hush. Granted he had no apparent mode of transportation, so Vernon thought he was only taking late-night strolls to the park. When Harry really thought about it, he was fairly certain that Vernon hoped he'd get run over or kidnapped being out so late at night. It would only serve the freak right. Yup. Vernon was a bigot.
Harry inhaled deeply, taking in the scents of the Dursley household. He could smell the flowers in the hall, the soap in the dish in the bathroom he and Dudley shared, the perfume Petunia wore to bed every night. He'd never been able to smell everything so clearly before, but thanks to the pounding in his temples, the why of it never crossed his mind.
What did happen last night, anyway?
Harry ran through his thoughts. He could remember heading to the alley that connected to Wisteria Crescent, where he usually apparated from. He remembered coming out of the alley next to the pub and entering the bar. He fondly remembered the ruggedly sexy bloke he'd been drinking with that evening.
What was his name? Oh yeah, Frank or something like that. With those beautiful pale blue eyes, that square jaw and his sinfully crooked smile. Sure, he was older than Harry by at least ten years, but they were both above the age of consent.
Well, Harry looked to be above the age of consent. A little charm here or there and he looked of age. A slight transfiguration of one of Dudley's many "lost" ID cards during the previous school year and he had "proof" of age. He never bought liquor, but it got him in the door.
He remembered being offered a ride home with Frank for a nightcap.
...Something about a beautiful blue Porsche...
The flash of headlights...
Oh god! The memory made his blood run cold.
Four skinhead teens hopped out of the late-model sedan. They all wore the tell-tale green jackets, camo pants and army boots. One was brandishing a bat. Two had knives, and the other a pistol.
"We're gonna get us some poofs tonite mates," the one with the pistol shouted. His buddies nodded in agreement as they closed in.
Harry made to reach for his wand but his world went black as a cricket bat connected with his skull.
He woke up some time later to the feeling of warm water being poured on his face. Absently, he opened his mouth to take a drink only to spit it out again. His eyes snapped open to see another skinhead urinating on him.
"Seems your fairy mate buggered off and done run home faggot," the skinhead with the pistol sneered. "Shame, really. Nice Porsche gots bullet holes in it now. Hope he does too."
He paused a minute in thought, then continued, "Lessee... We clubbed ya upside the head, pissed on ya, and now got you tied up. How we gonna finish ya mate? You want stabbed or shot?"
His buddies laughed. The sound grated on Harry's nerves. His head was throbbing and every sound seemed to echo off the inside of his skull, getting louder. He closed his eyes and tried to think, but it was no use. All he wanted to do was go to sleep and never wake up. The pain was immense. The only pain worse than this that he'd ever felt was the Cruciatus.
Yes, at least it could be worse. A slight smile came to his lips as he realized that maybe some prophecies are meant to be broken. It looked like Voldemort would win without having to kill him. Oh the irony of it.
"Bugger off," he rasped.
The last thing he recalled before blacking out was losing count of how many times he'd been stabbed.
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