A Flame's Caress

Summary: For some odd reason, fire seemed to fascinate Harry. It was warm, it was gentle, and it was hypnotizing...

Chapter 1

Fire. What a wonderful thing. It had many uses. It could keep you warm in days of cool weather, cook your food so that it tasted better, provide you light with which you could see, and it could be used as a weapon to warn away those bigger than you.

That's what the cavemen discovered all those years ago. Their small caves were no longer so cold, their food was edible, they could see at night, and they were protected from the animals that thought of them as dinner.

But now in modern times, fire was thought less of. It's fire. It's there. No one pays attention to it. No one worships it. Not unless it caused disasters did people become aware of its might. And this saddened it.

It would wait. Wait for its champion, for its wielder...

-

Two year old Harry Potter was left alone in the house while his family went out for a lavish dinner. His small stomach hungered for sustenance, and the pain of being unfed for so long left him hunting for food. He had seen his caretaker take things off of a big white box, place it in a container of some kind, and hand it to the fat one, who always seemed to enjoy shoveling it into his mouth.

So, little Harry thought that perhaps he could find something on the white box that he could eat.

Climbing onto a nearby wooden stool, he struggled with his weak legs to stand up and grab something that would satisfy his stomach.

His aunt, who had been boiling water only moments before leaving the house, had accidentally forgot to turn the stove off, so it continued to burn.

Harry thought nothing of this as his hand reached towards the pretty red-orange lights that seemed to flicker and dance. He laughed a bubbly laugh as he stared at the mesmerizing movements of the flame, completely forgetting about the roar in his small stomach.

Reaching a hand towards it, his only thought was to play with his new friend. A chubby index finger poked the flame, and he suddenly recoiled in shock at the pain he experienced. His unstable legs collapsed from under him, causing him to fall backwards off of the stool. His finger, black from its burn, was immediately shoved into his mouth to suck on, hoping that the horrible pain would just go away.

At the moment that his finger had touched the flame, something penetrated his food-obsessed mind. It was a voice; a voice of a lady. It was soft, cultured, elegant...Its soothing tones washed away the pain in little Harry's blackened finger, and his sniffles stopped. Unfortunately, the pleasant voice seemed to fade as suddenly as it came.

It whispered three last words; words that would stay buried deep in Harry's subconscious for years to come. "My little champion..."

-

Six years later, little Harry was bigger-but-still-little Harry. That day where he had burned his finger had totally slipped from his mind, and his thoughts these days were only consisted of avoiding Dudley and his gang, doing the chores for his family, and cooking food to the best of his ability so that he could earn a small portion of what he had made. Oh, that and sleeping in his cupboard.

His dreams consisted of hearing that pleasant and warm voice, saying the same three words again and again. It was the same dream, playing again and again every single night. Even though he could remember hearing the words being spoken, when he awoke, the words quickly faded from his mind, leaving his frustrated and confused.

It was due to these feelings of frustration and confusion that he had absently hit something with his foot while running around the kitchen, avoiding his cousin Dudley's massive fists. Dudley, who had started chasing Harry only because he refused to cook him a second lunch, slammed his fist into Harry's cheek, sending the smaller boy flying into the stove.

Harry let out a groan of pain and raised a hand to his tender cheek.

"I'm going out now to play with Piers. When I get back, there better be something on the table for me to eat, or else..." he attempted to threaten menacingly, shaking his pudgy fists at his black-haired cousin.

It was unlucky for poor Harry that his uncle Vernon and aunt Petunia were both out of the house at the moment, or else they would've scolded Dudley for attempting to try to sneak another meal (but not for hitting Harry).

So, Harry picked himself up gingerly, and placed his hand on the oven, pushing himself up. The force of Dudley's punch had knocked Harry's brain around in his head a little, so getting up and staying up proved to be a little difficult.

Taking a few minutes to get his breath back, Harry then walked to the cabinets, where he used a small wooden stool to step up and grab a pan. Stepping off carefully, he placed the pan on the stove and went to the refrigerator, getting a few eggs out. Harry placed the eggs to the side and went to the pantry, where he pulled out a bottle of oil to grease the pan with.

He was cooking the eggs for Dudley when the aforementioned boy pushed Harry.

"You took too long! Now, your face is going to suffer like my stomach!"

However, since Harry was cooking in front of a lit stove when he was pushed, he bent forward over the lit stove, dropping the pan and setting fire to his sleeve at the same time. Frightened, Harry waved his arm frantically. This did nothing except spread the fire, as the curtains hanging on the window near the stove then caught the fire, too.

Within a few seconds, the fire had spread from the curtains to the various rolls of paper towels near the sink, and from there it spread to the small rug in front of the sink.

Dudley immediately bolted out the door, screaming about a fire.

Harry did the opposite, instead curiously gazing at the fire that spread to his arm. The flames licked his arm, but he felt no pain, nor did he see any blackened skin that should've resulted from such a situation.

A familiar voice seemed to echo in his mind.

"Who was that?" he asked, curious. He spun around, trying to locate the source of the voice, but found nothing.

A thought suddenly popped in his head. "Run? Run...away from home? Why would I do that?"

A low murmur sounded, focusing Harry's attention of the source instead of the stray thought.

His attention was then forced back to the stray thought when a second joined it. "Run because this is a bad place? Well yes, that's true...but..." he trailed off, ignorant of the fact that the flames were now consuming the entire kitchen and spreading into the nearby living room.

A third thought joined the other two. "I could do better on the streets by myself? Really? I...I don't think so..."

Another. "O...ok."

His eyes then looked down at his forearm, which was completely covered in the orange flames. "But what do I do about this?"

A fifth thought. "Ignore it? But...won't people notice it?"

The murmur, consistent with the thoughts, seemed to sigh, before another thought popped into Harry's head.

"Will it? I have to...will it away?" A look of constipation crossed Harry's face, before the flames encompassing his arm seemed to die down. He raised his arm to eye-level and stared at it in fascination. "Cool!" he breathed. Suddenly, his head snapped up. "Right, I better get out of here."

Hurrying to his burning cupboard, he pulled out his only blanket and left out the back door.

-

The blaring sounds of the firefighters sounded through the neighborhood, attracting the gossiping neighbors to the burnt down house of 4 Privet Drive.

"A fire..."

"...terrible."

"The...boy...in there."

"...screaming."

Whispers were shared among the shocked onlookers, and soon, rumors started to arise that the Dursleys' nephew was still in there before the house had completely burned down. The rumors then evolved, saying that the Dursleys' were "punishing" their nephew again when it got out of control and they accidentally burned him, before leaving the house to avoid being caught. More and more rumors started to spread, and soon, a whole crowd had assembled around the firefighters that were attempting to search for bodies and the policemen that were attempting to keep the crowd under control.

Off to the side, two pops signaled the arrival of an old man with a beard that reached the floor, and a stern-looking woman with a pointed hat.

The two, ignored by everyone else, whispered gravely to each other.

"What happened here, Albus?"

"I'm not sure, Minerva. All I know is that there was a fire, and the wards around the house fell the moment the house collapsed. They told me nothing of whether or not Harry died in the fire or managed to escape..." he trailed off uncertainly.

"I told you it was a bad idea to leave them with those monstrous Muggles!" Minerva sniffed, dabbing her eyes with a magically produced handkerchief.

"Now, now, Minerva, we have no proof that this was the Dursleys' fault. It could've been an accident, for all we know!"

"Not likely! I overheard some of those people over there talking about how it was more likely that they tried to kill the boy then it being an accident, Albus!"

"In any case, Minerva, we can do nothing now."

"What?! Why not?!" Minerva screeched.

"If we call the Aurors and Obliviators in, it will undoubtedly spread that this was once the living place of the heir to the Potter family, and that would not only put Harry's family in danger, but he himself if he is alive, since there are many families in the Wizengamot that would never stand for having a pureblood child live with muggles. I will check back again in a week, and if he has not been found by then, then we will have no choice but to announce his death," Albus concluded grimly.

-

Young Harry found himself in London after the debacle at his uncle and aunt's place. He had tried to recall that soothing voice, but nothing came to him. With no success, he first thing he thought to do was find a place to sleep. With him being a runaway orphan with no money, the best place he could find was a cozy-looking alley. Ignoring the smell, he wandered into the alley and found a large cardboard box. Using his small hands, he ripped the box apart and made walls, symbolizing a form of defense against the weather and any curious onlookers.

Satisfied that his little home was secure, he wandered out, looking for something to fill his stomach. Near the entrance of the alley, a garbage can contained a loaf of bread that was barely eaten. Ignoring the fact that it was in the garbage, he quickly snatched it and scuttled back to his new home. Ripping into it, he could feel the urge in his stomach fading.

When the bread was all gone, he went back to staring at his arm. The memory of the fire encasing his arm was on the forefront of his mind.

'How do I get it to come back? Do I...will it?'

Nothing seemed to respond to his mental question, so he shrugged and tried it anyway. His eyes narrowed, and his focus on his arm increased. However, nothing happened.

Sighing in frustration, Harry let his head fall back, banging the back of the cardboard box. His mind wandered, trying to come up with anything that he could do to make the fire come back, but nothing came.

-

A week passed by, and Harry was getting used to his new life living by himself in an alley. By now, he learned that trash was dumped into the garbage can every night at seven sharp. With a steady, if sparse, source of food, Harry found himself wandering the city more often.

During one of his escapades, he had met another refuge living in an alley several blocks away from his. The man, catching him trying rifling through his trash, took pity on the fresh runaway and taught him the art of pickpocketing. It only took Harry two demonstrations to get what he had to do, so Harry thanked the man profusely and ran off, anxious to try it out. Perhaps he could amass enough money to buy himself a house one day! Alas, it was just a dream, but a child's dream nonetheless.

His first target, a tall businessman wearing a black suit, had pockets that jingled every step he took.

Harry quickly approached the man, head down, and purposely walked into him. His hand snaked into the man's pocket and he grabbed the first thing he could, before walking off, not looking back at the man.

Returning to his home, Harry opened his hand and looked down at the odd metallic box he had in his hand. It took him a while, but he eventually realized it was a lighter! He had seen his uncle use one to create a fire and light some kind of stick up and stick it in his mouth. The black-haired boy was about to throw away the useless trinket before he suddenly wondered if he could get the fire to come back with the help of this lighter. Struggling with it for a minute, he eventually managed to flick it open and light it. The flame spouted up, and he felt himself being mesmerized by it.

His finger reached forward to touch it, but he pulled away. Taking a deep breath, he tried to get himself in some kind of meditative state, trying to will the flame onto his finger and eventually his entire arm.

A minute passed.

Two minutes passed.

Three minutes passed.

Nothing happened.

Growling in frustration, Harry flicked the lighter closed.

'I'll try it again later,' he swore to himself. But for now, he wanted to try and practice his pickpocketing again...

-

In his alley the next morning, Harry could be found staring into the fire of his lighter again. He had tried all through the night to will the fire over his arm, but it was all for naught.

Determined, Harry continued to try.

The first sign of success came sometime before noon. The flame flickered for a moment, and tendrils of heat seemed to reach towards Harry's arm. With a yelp of surprise, he dropped the lighter onto the ground, preventing the tendrils from touching him. Cursing his bad luck, the young boy picked it up and tried again.

The fire flickered again, and slowly, the flame encompassed his index finger. Struggling to increase the area it covered, Harry groaned again when it suddenly disappeared. It seemed that he didn't have enough power or concentration to make it cover his entire arm yet.

That small amount of work spent a lot of his energy, and he could feel the lack of energy making him extremely tired. With a mental promise to continue later, he soon drifted off to dreams of a warm and gentle caress.

-

Daily Prophet

by Rita Skeeter

It has recently been uncovered that Harry Potter, the heir to the Potter family, died less than a week ago! Through intensive research and interviews, this reporter found that Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster of Hogwarts and Supreme Mugwump of the Wizengamot tried to hide this fact beneath a multitude of lies and deception!

The circumstances of Harry Potter's death is still relatively unknown, but from what this reporter has found, muggle authority figures arrived at the boys home in Surrey and learned that Mr. Potter, a child of only eight years, was supposed to be inside the dwelling when it burned down in what seems to be an "accident"!

Not only that, neighbors of the muggles who took care of Mr. Potter (yes, muggles were the caretakers of Harry Potter!) were gossiping about how the Dursleys (the caretakers) probably beat poor Harry to death and started a fire to cover the evidence! A little more undercover work, and I learned that this wasn't just a one-time occurrence. This was a habitual thing!

This saddened reporter wonders how such a man like Albus Dumbledore could possibly place the heir to such a valiant pureblood family in such a horrible home. Is it perhaps that old age is getting to him?

Something must be done!