A.N: So, as some of you might know, I caught the Skull bug. Obviously, it was only a matter of time until I fell into the Skull-is-Harry hole. So, I gave it a try. Tell me what you think about it ! Hopefully, more shall come this way, soon.

Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.

Pairings: None decided, and probably won't be anything. I do NOT take suggestions about the pairing. IF (and that's one big IF) there is any pairing, I'll put warnings adequately. But this will be mostly friendship and family orientated.

Warnings: Mentioned trauma. War related troubles. Mentioned One Night Stand ? (Does that even need a warning ?)

Warnings (bis, because apparent people do need it): Some slash at some point. Nothing graphic, mostly implied. As said above: NOT ENDGAME. THIS WONT BE ROMANCE ORIENTATED.

This first chapter takes place during the summer between Harry's fourth and fifth year.

Enjoy.

High Flight

Oh ! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth, and danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
- John Magee

Chapter 1:

Harry closed his eyes for what seemed like an hour, and yet lasted for less than a second, relishing in the lack of gravity, the air whistling around him, the freedom.

He was flying, and it was glorious.

Then, a second later, his eyes were open again, though not visible beneath the helmet he wore. In a move that made the audience catch their breath, he twisted his body, up, and up, until his hands were the only things holding his bike. Harry felt a thrill as his body found the perfect curve, his spine angling itself almost naturally, and he stood on his hands, in the air, on a spinning motorbike.

He was defying gravity itself, and tempting death in the same move.

It was exhilarating.

Then gravity pulled again, and he fell back in place, legs hooking his bike as they landed heavily. Not caring for the shock that had braced him a little, Harry carried on, pushing his bike further as he sped towards yet another ramp. The audience, already wild and breathless, roared when he took to the skies again. Grinning under his helmet, Harry let go completely of his bike, launching himself high up in the air too. The audience gasped. He spun on himself, doing three back-flips with almost no mistake – almost, he thought, he would have to work on it again.

Then, with a grace that only came with hard work, and an ease in the air that came from his blood, he caught his bike again, and landed in the arena, doing a full round before stopping, tires screeching. He stood on his bike and saluted. Unseen under his helmet, he grinned when the audience went wild, cheering and whooping, and some even throwing popcorn in amazement. Hell, Harry could see one woman two steps away from removing her top.

With an inward snort of bemusement, Harry bowed again, before driving out of the arena on the back wheel only.

As he disappeared behind the curtains, cutting the motor, he could hear the audience cheering still, and the presenter urging them on.

"Skull, Ladies and Gentlemens !" He roared, in heavily accented English, "The incredible, amazing, crazy stuntman ! Another round of applause !"

Harry snorted, this time audibly, as he parked his bike on a side. Leaving it there to cool a little, he started moving further to the back, waving at a grinning Ulrich, one of the acrobats, as he went.

Crazy stuntman was right. What Harry did was certainly not something that most people would consider safe and relaxing. Yet, there wasn't a time or place when he felt more at ease than when he was flying through the air, hanging by a mere hand to his bike, soaring higher and higher.

It was in his blood, to fly. He knew that, had known since he was eleven and had made the Quidditch team for being a natural on a broom. His father had been the same, or so Sirius had told him.

Harry smiled to himself, as he thought of Sirius, and his enchanted flying motorcycle. Clearly, despite the fact that the man hadn't raised him, something must have passed down to him anyway. Because Harry was as much a natural on a bike, especially one that went in the air, as he was playing Quidditch.

Maybe, the teenager thought to himself, he should tell his godfather about it, the next time he heard from him. Sirius would like it, wouldn't it ? He would understand it, certainly.

Would he ? A treacherous little voice whispered in his mind, infusing him with guilt. Would he like the fact that you are putting yourself – everyone – in danger on a whim ? Irresponsible.

But Harry only allowed himself a few seconds of guilt before he stamped the voice down with fury.

Irresponsible ? Irresponsible ?! Leaving him, alone, with no news, after Voldemort had kidnapped him and used him to return to life was irresponsible ! Making him feel so abandoned, so loveless, was irresponsible ! Leaving him at his Aunt's home, where he wasn't wanted, with the expectation that they would once more take him in and no questions asked – that was irresponsible.

Yeah, that had worked wonderfully, Harry thought bitterly to himself. He waved at Daniela, the tamer, as he went by, the woman grinning at him fondly. More fondly than his so-called family had ever looked at him. Where were his relatives, now ? Nowhere in sight, that was where.

The Dursleys had taken a holiday in Spain – a two months long holiday.

Harry, of course, hadn't been invited.

Still, they couldn't leave him alone, and he couldn't go with with them. So, Harry had decided that really, he wasn't useless, and could take care of himself, and fuck the Dursleys, and Dumbledore too, and those spineless bastards who listened to him and didn't write him when he was at his lowest – seeing Cedric die, in his dreams, every night-

Harry was very angry at the world, and at his friends, right now. Sure, he felt a bit guilty, now and then, for leaving without saying anything. For putting himself in danger, knowing they would worry. But he didn't regret his decision. Dumbledore was under the impression that Harry was in Spain with the Dursleys, and the Dursleys under the impression he was with 'his lot' wherever they were.

And so, for perhaps the first time in his life, Harry was free. Really, truly free, of doing whatever he wanted.

Nothing would keep him caged now, he'd thought.

So he had taken a bag with a change of clothes, and money – muggle, of course – and had gone to the nearest supermarket, determined on hiding himself. He had bought the first hair-dye he found that would actually stick on black hair. Turned out it was purple. Harry had then dyed his hair, and put on some make-up all over his face to cover his scar. He had actually only wanted to hide his scar, but the make-up was too pale and made it obvious he was trying to hide something. So he had to make it look like his whole face was as white as a dead man's to cover up his mistake.

Once he'd finished dying his hair and putting on the make-up, he'd gone to the optician, and asked for new lenses. His glasses suited him fine, but they were too recognizable, and unpractical. Or so he had thought, at least, until he'd gone to the optician. It turned out his glasses didn't have the right prescription at all.

The optician, for a sum of money that thankfully Harry did have, gave him new glasses that looked identical to the last. It was life-changing, to see his surroundings so clearly. He had added a box of transparent contact lenses, and, at his demand, a box of purple contact lenses.

For who would search for Harry Potter in the face of an emo kid with purple hair and eyes ? No one, that's who.

Blending in was good and well, but sticking out when you were wanted was so stupid no one would actually think about it. So stupid it was almost smart.

The next step in his 'freedom plan' was to find a place to stay. Diagon Alley wasn't even an option. Harry had made that mistake the last time, and had ended up monitored by not only Dumbledore and every adult in the vicinity, but the Minister for Magic himself. This time, there was no chance he would risk getting caught.

He wanted freedom. He wanted to be left alone. Far from the fickle public that changed their opinions on him every Tuesday. Far from the backward society that didn't want Harry but Harry Potter The Boy Who Lived.

Harry had had enough of that, of being Harry Potter. He wanted to be just Harry, or even just someone else. Someone normal. Like he'd always wanted to be.

So he had planned to get a cheap room somewhere, and possibly a job. Which, with the help of a newly acquired pair of large-soled boots, was easier than he'd thought, since he could pass for someone older than he really was. Yay for make-up and emo looks.

Though, admittedly, it was largely luck that contributed to finding a job.

He had stumbled, almost literally, over a panicked circus member. Once they had both apologized to each other, Harry had caught the distressed look on the man's face. Before he could think about it, he had asked if he could help.

"I don't think so," the man had said, looking over him oddly, in very accented English, "Can you drive a bike ?"

"A bike-" Harry trailed off, suddenly seeing a large poster of a motorbike stuntman, flying through a wall of fire. His breath caught, and he pointed at the poster, "Like that ?"

"Yes, exactly," the man said, nodding urgently.

Harry wasn't sure what possessed him, but he simply nodded, in awe of the poster. The man, too relieved to actually doubt him, immediately dragged him to the circus. He'd then presented him to a few people, who looked immediately relieved, if doubtful when they saw him. Harry hadn't understood everything, since they had talked in what sounded like Romanian, but he'd guess that they had some kind of problem with the guy that was supposed to do the bike stunts and needed a replacement urgently.

"Show us," one woman – Daniela, Harry would later learn – all but commanded, as if he was one of her tigers.

"Um, I need a-" Harry gestured to himself, quite sure he shouldn't try driving a bike without protective clothing. (He ignored the little voice that told him, a bit hysterically, that he shouldn't try driving a bike at all.) "Biking clothes."

"You don't have any ?" the man that had brought him asked, looking panicked again.

"I left it at home," Harry lied, mentally slapping himself for lying to them – he should tell them the truth before he irrevocably made a fool of himself and ended up at the hospital. Stunt biking ? What was he thinking ?

"And where is home ?" Daniela had asked, sharply.

"Far," Harry had said, some of his anger at his relatives bleeding through. It wasn't a lie – he had taken the first train towards wherever, after all, intent on escaping, and wasn't anywhere near Surrey now. Not that he had ever really seen Privet Drive as a home.

"Ah," one woman, older than the others, simply said, showing understanding somehow, "Well, come."

The woman, named Old Miha – though her full name was Mihaela – led him to a caravan, not far from there. She had a kind face, wrinkled and weathered, and wispy white hair. On the way, she explained in her best English that the previous stuntman, Vasile, had hurt himself during training, and that he had to be shipped to the hospital. He would remain there for a few months, and the circus couldn't afford that – the bike stunts were something they were known for.

"If you can drive," she'd said to Harry, as she rummaged through Vasile's wardrobe, "You can stay in Vasile's caravan for the time he's away. You need place to stay, yes ?"

"I- yes," Harry admitted, under the knowing eyes of the woman.

"Yes, many who join circus run away from family or streets," she agreed, not asking him what had made him flee his home. "We don't care. We're free."

At that, she had handed him a tight-looking black biking suit, and a helmet – from Vasile's younger years, apparently. It didn't suit Harry perfectly, but for the moment it would make do. So he had put it on, and gone back to where the group was waiting – larger than before. People had gathered to see him drive. He had gulped, unseen, under the helmet, and then climbed on the bike.

A minute later, he was putting the contact on, and the roar of the bike seemed to resonate through him. He found the sound oddly comforting, familiar, an old lullaby from those dreams of flying motorcycles he used to have. The engine, almost alive between his legs, reminded him a little of Buckbeak, of the first time he'd been on the formidable creature's back.

That's right, he'd thought, It's nothing new.

After all, he had been flying on a broom, a fragile piece of wood, with murderous balls trying to knock him off the air, since he was eleven. He had flown on a hypogriff's back. He had outflown a dragon. What was driving a motorbike next to that ?

Deadly stunts ? He did that on a regular basis already.

All fear bled away, as he let the wheel start turning, making dust rise behind him. And, with a grin that no one could see, he had sped away towards the jumping ramp.

The second he had left the ground, Harry had known that this, this would be his freedom, this would be everything.

Like an eleven years old Harry Potter had once let his instincts drive his broom to catch a glass ball, a fourteen years old Harry Potter let his instincts take over to guide the bike through the air, whooping in elation. The same way McGonagall had immediately enrolled him in her house team, Old Miha immediately enrolled him in the circus.

Well. As soon as he'd stopped landing and speeding once more towards the ramp to try an even more daring stunt. He couldn't help it. Feeling the air around him, knowing instinctively how to move his body, trying to defy every law of physics and then some... It was amazing.

When he'd landed one last time and took off the helmet, Old Miha had laughed at his elated, if slightly sheepish grin, and his flushed face. Then, turning to the rest of the circus members, she'd asked if they had an objection – they had none, and were looking happy and relieved and, for some, reluctantly impressed with his performance.

"Well then, it seems we agree," she'd said, turning to Harry, who felt as though he was dreaming, "What's your name ?"

"I, Uh, I-" Harry had stammered, blanching a little. What if they recognized him. What if they didn't and someone else did ? He could put them all in danger and-

Old Miha, looking way too understanding clasped his shoulder and gave him a warm smile.

Harry wondered what she was thinking. He wasn't from the streets, and hadn't run from an abusive situation. It wasn't like the Dursleys beat him. They were a little mean, sure, and terrible people, but it could have been worse !

It was just that his name- well, Harry Potter had never quite felt like him. It had so many conotations, could bring so much trouble...

"Let's give him a new name," Old Miha said, facing the crowd of circus members.

"Purple !" Someone shouted, making the others laugh. "Name him Purple !"

"That's not original at all, you twat !" Someone else retorted.

"Yeah ? You have something better ?"

"He's pale as death," one man interrupted, "Name him Skull !"

There was a beat of silence, as everyone turned to inspect Harry's very pale face, due to his little make-up mishap. There were a few thoughtful nods. Eventually, someone cried that it was a good idea. They all agreed and cheered, and Harry couldn't help his own smile at their enthusiasm. Old Miha turned to him.

"Now, you're the amazing Skull," she said, "Until Vasile comes back."

"Sure," he'd said, grinning a bit wider. Well, he was already rocking the emo look. The emo name would go well with it. "Skull it is."

After that, he'd gone to be fitted for a biking suit and helmet that fit him. Money wasn't exactly a problem, what with the circus paying him and his left-overs from what he had taken along for his trip. Since he was already going for something a bit over the top, he got a suit that fit him like a second skin with purple hues, and a helmet that was purple and white.

Harry didn't actually like purple that much, but if he was going to play the part of the purple-loving emo-kid, then he was going to do it to the fullest.

In the meantime, he started training seriously, watching recordings of Vasile's stunts and trying to reproduce them. He might be a natural at flying and driving, but he wasn't a natural at jumping through hoops of fire, with trucks flying over his own head, all the while doing flips through the air.

Obviously, the first times he tried doing something more complex than making a pose mid-air, he crashed.

Again.

And again.

Harry crashed many times, during that training but somehow he never got really hurt. He would fall, thinking that it was it, it was how he'd die. Defeated by his own idiocy and arrogance, where Voldemort himself had failed. With each crash, he thought this would be the last. And damn it, it hurt like it would be the last.

But then he would get up again, as though nothing had happened. Oh, sure, he felt like a giant bruise, like Dudley had just caught up with him and practiced his kicking for hours. Getting up made him wince and groan, and he was always stupidly glad for the full-body suit and the helmet that probably helped, because he couldn't imagine how bad he would feel without. He felt like he'd just had a boxing match with the Whomping Willow, while getting plummeted by Dobby's rogue Bludger.

And yet, he got up, each time. With each step he took, he'd feel better, until he would simply take the bike and go at it again. And again. He didn't care for the bruises – he had always healed fast.

If he got hurt, he would get up. If the bike was damaged, he would repair it. If he failed a stunt, he would do it again until he made it. No matter the number of times he crashed.

The others said that he was a natural at it. Apparently, even with how much he crashed, his survival and his successes – which were more than the failures, surprisingly enough – were incredible, and he was getting better way too fast.

It took him a little over a week to finally be ready for the arena. A week full of non-stop training, painful crashes, curses, and reviewing many recordings of stunts done by others... But a week. It was, according to Old Miha, incredible.

Harry didn't know about that, but he knew that he hadn't felt ready for the arena.

Harry had thought he would hate it. Hate the attention, the audience, the fame, like he did usually. He thought it would bring back memories of tournaments and deadly tasks, of grabbing the cup and then the graveyard with Cedric-

He didn't. The moment he was in the air, he forgot about it. He forgot that he was Harry Potter, and let Skull exist.

He would hear the audience gasp with each daring stunt, hear them scream and cheer for him, living his stunts with him, and he'd suddenly felt that like this, as Skull and not Harry, he could get used to it. He was liked for something he actually did, and worked for, he was cheered on by people who genuinely liked his show. They didn't really care for his name, or his appearance.

They wanted a show, they wanted him to fly, to defy death with a laugh – and that he would do, gladly.

Harry never felt as free as he did when he was Skull.

He didn't care that he had other duties. That he was lying to people that cared about him, about where he was and what he was doing. He didn't care that by putting himself in danger, he was probably putting everything in danger. That if his friends saw him, they'd have heart attacks. That if Dumbledore saw him he'd probably get that infuriating twinkle in his eyes and that disappointed expression, like he had expected better.

Harry would have cared, maybe, a little, if he wasn't so fed up with everything. With being Harry.

So he wasn't Harry.

He was Skull, he was free, and if he wanted to fly and defy gravity and death again, he would do it, and they could go suck a lemon elsewhere.

Besides, he thought bitterly, it wasn't like it would last.

He was learning Romanian at a quick pace. It wasn't really a choice when everyone around him spoke only the minimum of English needed to make the circus work. He was also training on his flexibility and balance with the circus' acrobats and other performers. There wasn't just stunt-driving to the show. Slowly, he was making himself a place that felt like home.

But in the end, it wasn't like he would go back to Romania with them. Vasile would come back at the start of August, and he would go back to the Dursleys.

"Hey, Skull !" Someone shouted, dragging him out of his bitter thought. He turned to find Daniela grinning at him, a lion cub under her arm. She went on, in Romanian, "They want to see you again. Move, you're flying twice tonight."

"Sure thing," He said, grinning back at her even though she couldn't see.

And as he went back to the arena, where the audience was waiting for him to come again and jump through flaming hoops with his bike, Harry couldn't help his smile.

It didn't matter that he would eventually go back to his busy, tense life. For the moment, he was Skull. He had no restraints, no obligations, except the ones he had put for himself.

He would enjoy that time.

Well that's it for the first chapter. You'll get the next one soon-ish (it's mostly written, just needs a bit of revising).

I had lots of fun with this, and I have a ton of head-canons to go with this verse, so hopefully the muse shall last for a while still. I'll see about maybe posting side-stories in this verse, if people enjoy it.

PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS IN THE BEGINNING AUTHOR NOTE THANK YOU

Please, leave a review on your way out. Feedback is always appreciated, and I love hearing your opinions and concrit !

Thank you !