Prologue
The scar had not pained Harry for five years.
He bolted out from underneath the covers of his bed, throwing the sheets away from his trembling body as he pressed himself against the headboard, knees drawn up to his chest. His fingernails were digging into his forehead as the aching continued, and his breath came in short, laboured gasps.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
He could hardly focus on the images of his previous nightmare as they flashed by, one by one. Everything was blurred and in faint outlines, and there was red, so much red... The very same sounds that had accompanied them now came back in their full force, and Harry closed his eyes, willing the world to go away.
A set of red, gleaming eyes and a deafening cry. Harry gasped, his eyes snapping open and a scream tearing at his vocal folds as the pain reached a level beyond all bearing. His rigid body slumped as the pain suddenly subsided, and he could only hear his uneven breathing and see the mirror stretching over the wall opposite him. He was back in the present, at Grimmauld Place.
But there was no time for relief. His hand reached for the night table to his right, his fingers brushing against several items and his wand, making it roll down and hit the floor. The sound of shattering glass made him flinch and snatch his hand back as if burned; he had knocked over a glass of water. Harry cursed inwardly. He didn't dare summoning his wand by mouthing a quick accio. As if any sound could destroy the peace that seemed so… momentary. Fragile.
Constant vigilance.
Intent on retrieving his wand as soundlessly as possible, he tentatively patted down the nightstand until he found the switch of his night lamp. Light immediately flooded the pitch-dark room with its close-drawn curtains. Inch by inch, he moved over to the edge of his bed to reach for his fallen glasses and set them on his nose, his hands shaking and almost tearing them in half. As his eyes scanned the wooden floor for his wand, he caught a glimpse of his reflection staring back at him from across the room.
Harry straightened himself, his hands fisting a handful of the damp cotton bedclothes as he took in his figure. What he saw was enough to make his mouth turn dry and make all the blood drain from his heated face. In utmost horror, he realised that his reflection was awfully similar to his old self, back when he'd still been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, with Lord Voldemort constantly breathing down his neck.
It was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, and his infamous scar standing out against his skin in the brightest shade of red he'd ever seen.
Author Note:
This is probably the longest break I have taken from this site. This story is one that I have started years ago and picked up just recently, and won't let me go. The pace is going to be slow as I don't want to rush anything, so hopefully you won't give up on it too soon. Enjoy!
-latefebruary