Author's note: This was originally posted under my sister's account until mine would let me post... It isn't plagiarized. Sorry to have confused anyone.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling foremost, anything you recognize is hers... I can only claim to own copies of the books.
He leaned his weight behind the throw of his fist, his muscles taught and strained. Sweat poured down his face as he beat the heavy bag again and again. Each strike reverbating through his knuckles and up into his shoulders and down his spine. HIs sweat soaked hair lay plastered to his head, one of the only times it had ever lain flat. His scraped and raw knuckles stung with each strike, yet he did not relent in his self torture. Over and over he repeated the same motions, his breaths coming short and quick with harsh rasping quality. His eyes were glassy with unshed tears, wide open and exposed to the world without the obscuring safety of his glasses. Down here in the dark, in the night, he didn't need them. They would have only gotten in the way. He could see well enough without them to hit the bag, and thats all he needed. He jabbed his right fist forward, left hand curled protectively near his face, knuckle connecting firmly with the swaying bag. The bag groaned loudly in protest as the rope it dangled from yanked harshly at the straining beam that held it. Two more jabs and an uppercut, bloodied knuckles landed with unerring precision with each stroke. Harsh sobbing breaths competing with protesting groans of straining wood. Another jab tore open the tender swollen flesh as he finished up with a roundhouse kick. The beam finally lost the battle and the bag came crashing to the ground. He stood over it, eyes blurry with sweat, myopia, and tears. Still he could make out the crude permanent marker drawing that graced the bloodied defeated bag. The crude stick figure seemed almost snakelike with its mad lipless grin and slit like nostrils. Maybe the most curious part was the way the cruel eyes had become splattered with dried blood, making them seem to glow with taunting malevolence.
Harry sat on his worn mattress, staring vacantly at the bandages over his knuckles. Around him the house was silent. It was a quiet day on Privet Drive. It seemed almost as if the world had stopped and was waiting for something. People still went about their business, but it was as if an oppressive cloud hung over them. Even the muggles seemed to move more warily. There was a pensiveness to people's expressions that wasn't there before. For Harry, the waiting was reaching an apex. He felt as if he'd waited enough. He'd been here, in Number Four Privet Drive for a week. His family gave him a wide berth, terrified of what they saw in his eyes. They didn't yell, they made no demands. They merely ignored him. They could sense the end was coming. Odd for them to sense it as they had kept their heads firmly in the sand at all other times. It may have also have been caused by the myriad of witches and wizards that had been in and out of the house on a daily basis, and none of them under the threat of the underage magic law.
The Dursley's seemed to realize that they were dealing with Harry's friends. Not his teachers, not his guardians, his friends; and friends protect each other better than anything else. Dudley didn't even bother Harry when he'd found his punching bag defaced and laying broken on the floor. Vernon had cast one glare in Harry's direction all week. Once the towering red head had gotten in his face, however; he refused to look in Harry's direction. Petunia merely ghosted from one room to the other, cleaning like a whirl wind in and agitated frenzy. She understood the necessity of Harry's presence better than anyone, it was the necessity that scared her.
Finally it was time for Harry to leave. He called Dobby to him requesting his assistance in moving his possessions to Grimmauld Place. He was going to stay there with Hermione and Ron as they researched and searched out locations of possible Horcruxes. The last week had been uneventful. Terrible things had happened in the wizarding world, but Harry was resolute in his promise to Dumbledore. He freely gave his protections to family, though they did not thank him for it, nor desire his presence in any way. He would be damned if any others died if he could prevent it. As he prepared to leave the place he had called home for almost sixteen years, he stood in the doorway gazing around him at the spotless house. Photos of the Dursley's happy family graced the walls, normal in every way. With his leaving, that hope would be true for them once more. He turned his back on them and grasped the small bottle cap that was his portkey home, arranged by the caring Mr. Weasley. And as the portkey activated and the hook pulled behing his navel he smiled. He could have sworn he heard his aunt speaking softly, so that only he could hear.
"God speed, Harry Potter," Petunia whispered. "And good luck."