If there was one thing that he was sure about, Harry knew that it was that this summer was absolutely terrible.
It hadn't started out bad, or at least not as bad as it could have. He had gotten on the train with Hermione and Ron nearly glued to his sides. They had talked and talked and chased Draco Malfoy away but he was different this time. His eyes were still haunted with Cedric's dead body. The Triwizard Tournament had scared and destroyed him, but then Dumbledore had decided that he should just be shuffled back to his house with Voldemort with a physical body and an army of Death Eaters. Left alone without anyone to talk to, no magic to use, and only his relatives as company.
Why did Dumbledore get to decide that? He had cursed the man even as he glued a blank expression on his face as he climbed into Uncle Vernon's car, squishing inside into the back seat and peeling all of his arms and back away from the leather of the seats.
The second he had seen his relative, Uncle Vernon had scowled darkly at him and held out one imploring hand. He had handed over his trunk, his cloak, and his owl cage. That was being locked into the back of the car, and he wouldn't see it until he was leaving for Hogwarts again.
The car ride back was completely quiet, and he prefered it. Loud sounds were rather punishing on his ears now, though he didn't know why. The feast at the end of the year had been torture, though people assumed it was because of what happened. They were right, too.
And then they were at Number 4 Privet Drive, and he was wrenched out of the car with one strong arm and steely eyes. Uncle Vernon didn't even look at him, Aunt Petunia simply scowling, and Dudley staring at his tele. Then he was booted up the stairs, the door clicking shut and locked behind him.
The door stayed closed and he wasn't bothered until the sky had gone dark outside of his window. His bed had been made, the pillow restuffed, and the floor had even been vacuumed. He had been almost comfortable falling asleep. And when morning came, his door was still locked.
After about two days, he had figured out a schedule that was happening for the rest of the summer. He was left in his room for most of the day, left out only in the barest touches of the morning to mow and weed the garden, and he had to make breakfast and dinner. But other than that, he was left alone, locked in his room.
And he didn't mind it. It was better to be here, on his rather comfortable bed with a window he could open and warm food he could grab after he cooked. In the rickety old desk that had used to belong to Dudley, there were piles of paper and pencils and pens he would be using to his full advantage. Hedwig was at the Burrow, Dumbledore had promised he was safe, and Sirius would pick him up a bit after his birthday.
But that wasn't what was worrying him. No, it was his arms.
About two weeks after he arrived at Privet Drive, his arms started to act wonky. Mainly, they were swelling. Well, not his arms exactly. His veins.
Harry frowned as he ran his fingers over the ones on his wrists. They were raised up like welts, crisscrossing under his skin. Not too thick, but definitely noticeable enough to be seen. Most pronounced were on the underside of his wrists, but lines ran from his shoulders to the middle of his palm. They were dark too, a strange bruise-purple. It wasn't black, a shade lighter than that. Dark lines crawling over his body like he'd let Ron use his arms for notes.
Whatever they were, it wasn't natural. And so he had taken to wearing long sleeve shirts whenever he went outside of his room, no matter how hot it was. He came inside everyday sweltering, sweating enough to water the garden itself. But he couldn't take off the shirt and dare let his relatives see the marks.
He had no idea what to do. They had only shown up enough that he could notice them around a day ago, and he couldn't even send mail to Professor Dumbledore. What would he write anyway?
Sir, please come over immediately. My veins are bright purple and I think something's wrong with me. Also, can you let me jinx my relatives?
Sitting on his bed, he scratched idly at one of them. They were extremely sensitive, and even his nubbed nail made it throb where he touched it. He quickly withdrew it, glaring as if that would make them go away. It didn't.
He was scared, and not only of his veins. Aunt Petunia was having a sit-in with several neighbors and he was supposed to make the garden shine before they got here tomorrow. And it was supposed to be blisteringly hot tomorrow with no way of convincing his relatives to wake him up earlier to do it.
It was nearly night, and with a worry settling in the back of his mind, he laid down on his bed, fluffed the limp pillow, and fell asleep.
He didn't have any dreams, and that was wonderful within itself. By the time he pulled himself up to his feet and slipped his glasses on, there was a click by the door and a single fist slammed against the door.
"Up, boy! That garden has better be perfect!" Aunt Petunia barked, though quiet enough not to wake others in the house.
"Yes, Aunt Petunia," he replied dutifully, keeping his voice bland and dull. There was the clack of heels and then she was gone.
He searched the floor and found one long-sleeved shirt that he hadn't used yet. It was a light brown with a patch on the side that had to be sewed in after Dudley set fire to it. He grinned at the rather interesting memory of Aunt Petunia's shriek when she saw what he was doing. For once, even, he hadn't been blamed.
Dudley hadn't been punished either, but you couldn't wish for miracles.
Pulling it on, he padded over to the door and grabbed the handle.
He hissed and immediately pulled away.
It was freezing cold, the kind that burned more than stung. Wincing, he leaned closer and looked it over. Nothing seemed wrong with it, and Aunt Petunia had been able to unlock it no problem. Maybe a prank from Dudley?
He only had to search for a second before finding some random article of clothing he had already worn. Wrapping his hand, he quickly grabbed the door handle and wrenched it open. It was still cold even past the cloth.
But the hallway was empty, though the light was on. There were grunts from Dudley, and Uncle Vernon was already out at work. But there was no way he was going to make any noise and get Dudley a reason to attack him. He crept out of his room and hissed again.
The wooden floor was too cold as well, ice seeping past his feet and into his whole body. Shoulders hunching and practically dancing to keep from putting his feet down for too long, he darted to the end of the hallway and moved downstairs, careful not to make the steps creak. And then he was downstairs in the kitchen.
The tiles were even worse, but he was able to throw on a pair of socks he had left in his shoes from yesterday. They helped, but not much.
Aunt Petunia told him to make something simple. He slunk over to the pantry and dug out a loaf of whole-wheat bread. Popping out several slices, he pulled out a plate and laid them on top. Several thin pans of jam and soft butter were laid on the table. Dudley wanted his toast hot, and Aunt Petunia would cook his perfectly in the toaster. And then he could butter and jam his own toast instead of yelling about how Harry had either 'put too much' or 'put too little'. It never changed.
And now he had under two hours to get the garden perfect in this heat. Already, the sun was blaring outside, and he could practically feel every inch of the rather heavy shirt he was wearing.
But it felt good. The house was, for some bizarre reason, freezing, and the outdoors sang to him with promises of warmth. He growled and pushed thoughts of it away, marching to the front door.
The garden was covered in black mulch that gathered heat like nothing else. Grimacing, he shuffled his sleeves back slightly and knelt by the nearest bit of garden. Three pieces of grasses glinted up at him, and he set his shoulder and reached for them, trying to ignore how he was nearly humming with happiness with how warm it was.
He couldn't focus on weird things happening with him right now. There was a garden to weed.
The first sign he had that something was wrong was when he felt the skin of his back tear.
He snapped to his feet, arms grappling around to touch his back. The shirt on his back was blazing hot to the touch, burning the tips of his fingers. And with a growing sense of fear, he realized that he could not feel anything on his back.
But as he pulled his arms back around, his back was not the worst thing if his problems.
The skin all over his arms was blistering, red and irritated. It should have been shrieking with pain but he felt nothing.
Ignoring the garden, he sprinted back into the house. He didn't even try to be quiet, lunging up the stairs three at a time. The second he crossed the threshold, he slammed the door and locked it. The door handle was now painful to touch, icing his hand. He ignored it.
There was a mirror in his room, though it had a crack in the bottom. He sprinted for it.
His face was ripping.
Pieces of skin about the width of his finger were bubbled and warped, the edges flaking away. It made him look like he was rotting. Touching his finger to the top of one on his forehead, he bit back a shriek as it fell off his face. It fluttered to the floor, twirling in the air. His stomach roiled. There was skin below it, just as dead and pale and peeling as all the others. What was happening to him? Why was his skin so wrong?
His back.
He pulled off his shirt as fast as he could, whirling around.
His back was covered in blisters, large and red and weeping. There was a crack right down his spine, skin flaking and splintered away. Everywhere else, it peeled away. His skin was cracking and falling and dying.
His breath hissed out from his teeth, eyes squeezed tightly shut. Slowly, he reached a hand back and touched the edge of the crack.
It didn't feel like skin, more like parchment. Old parchment, the kind that crackled with touched and looked like you could break it by breathing too hard. There wasn't any blood-
His eyes flew open wide.
He could see more of the strange veins creeping out of the crack, purple and black and large and slithering over his back like some sort of deranged snake. And there was one winding around his neck, curling up to touch the edge of his chin. Another twined around his fingers. His arms were covered in it, and in the span of two hours every vein in his leg and back had swollen. And he looked like some dragon had breathed fire over his back. His fingers prodded around one of the veins on his back, and he winced.
That was the only point of feeling he had in his entire back. Every other piece of skin from his shoulders to his waist was completely numb. The same with the rest of his body. Fear growing, he realized the only places he had felt anything was his hands, feet, and veins.
What kind of magic was this? A curse? But how could it have fallen beneath Professor Dumbledore's knowledge? And why had it taken so long to start affecting him?
Voldemort. It had to be Voldemort. In the graveyard, he had to have gotten hit by a curse he didn't realize. He didn't understand why he had gotten hit with this instead of something more finishing, but that was the only explanation.
Maybe it was triggered by heat. It was the hottest day of the summer.
Okay. It had to be in his veins. Maybe it was a poison, and he had to get it out. They probably weren't even his real veins, just the path of the curse. He had to get it out.
Pushing back the shuddering fear of everything going in with him, he readied himself. Taking his sharpest nail, he carefully brought it up and touched it to the vein on his chin. Moving slowly, ever-so-slowly, he slit the vein.
Smoke trickled out.
He sucked in a very shallow breath. Honest-to-Merlin smoke was coming out of a vein on his chin.
Blood started to drip out, bright red. Just blood. Nothing else. He stuck out his hand to catch some to make sure it wasn't turning black or something-
The second it hit his palm, the blood caught fire.
He shrieked but by then the fire had spread to his skin and was burning. It crackled against his skin, even as more blood fell and only fed the flames. In under a heartbeat, his right hand was on fire.
Wailing, he desperately waved his hand around, trying to smother it. There was a thump and Dudley roared in protest. He didn't care, yelling all the louder.
It started to spread upward. Harry screamed again and tried to blow it out, but his breath was too hot, too warm, and the fire sprang upward. It touched the edge of his arm and that was about the time he realized it wasn't hurting.
There was no pain. The fire might as well have been water the way it just slid up his arm. He felt nothing.
His voice died and then he just stood there, watching fire crawl up his body. It was nearly up to his elbow.
What magic was this?
He brought his hand up to his face to see the fire better. It was bright red but short, and it merrily crackled its way up his arm. He couldn't even see his skin underneath it, though surely his hand must have burned out by now? But it hadn't. Just kept on burning up his skin.
Some part of his mind realized that he should probably not let it reach his chest or head.
Hurriedly, he started to pat down, squishing the flames beneath his other hand. It should have hurt.
Instead, his left hand caught fire.
He lunged backward again, bumping into the mirror. Forcing himself to take deep breaths, he opened his eyes again and saw, on the ground, several bright red drops. Of blood.
In the next second, they caught fire to themselves and the carpet.
This time he shrieked, nearly reached down to stomp it out before pulling back. He ran to the door but it was locked and he couldn't touch it with his hands. He had to try anyway.
The second he touched the cold door handle, every inch of his body seared in painful agony. He cried out and let go, stumbling back. His leg slammed into the sharp edge of the bed, and he felt his skin tear away. Blood fell out, burning the instant it touched the air. The bed frame caught fire, devouring the blanket in seconds.
Heat flickered against the back of his legs, and he looked back to realize the fire had spread from the mirror to the door, a thin path that branch out and grew and had also caught his feet on fire.
At the same time, the fire reached his shoulders. It touched his hair.
He was a flaming torch. Only his chest and head wasn't burning, wasn't wreathed in these flames. He could hear his hair crackling as it crumbled off into ash. Eyes turning grey with dust, he stumbled toward the window and threw his shoulder against it.
The glass didn't budge. The fire reached his face.
And Harry Potter collapsed on the ground, still burning.
Hello, everyone! My first creature inheritance story, though I've wanted to do one for a very long time.
Also, 22nd story! Yay me!
But more on the actual story. Harry is turning into some sort of canon creature, can you guess? But there's something special. What was it… oh yeah.
I'm kind of taking the basic things of the canon race and making everything else up. There's going to be a complex culture, actual standings with other wizards, problems with everyday society, and more importantly - realistic mates!
Who do you think Harry should mate with, or should it be no one at all? I could make a story that is different from about 99% of creature inheritance fics.
So how about you guys tell me? Slash, harem, straight, poly, I'm open!
Also, guess what creature Harry is! It won't become apparent for a few chapters because I won't have him go to the goblins and have them be just bloody waiting around to help his every desire. Nuh-uh.
But another important thing - I'm thinking of making this chapter like the prologue. Just showing Harry transforming and then the next ones will be Harry heading off to Hogwarts. What do you think? I'm pretty sure it'd be boring just having Harry be generally panicked and figuring things out in the two months until school. Tell me what you think!
Anyway! Please read and review!
Frost OUT!