"By thy hand I forged thee, with thy magic I bind thee!" A sword darts toward his heart moments later and he dashes backwards, only to find himself falling from a cliff. Catching a hold of something, his tumble is halted and he looks up into the face of a woman, a bow slung cross her back. Her eyes switch suddenly from benign to sinister, and it is no longer a woman's face he peers into, but a man's, obsidian hair and emerald eyes somehow completely different from his own. The hand clenches around his wrist, nails digging into his skin. Dragging him roughly atop the ledge, two daggers suddenly fill the man's hand. And then, subtle changes of facial features and eyes of crystal blue tell him that it is no longer the same person. This man holds no weapon, but there is something about him that seems invincible all the same. It is no longer a man anymore, but a woman holding a staff who gives him a friendly clap on the back and begins to lead him somewhere. At the end of the journey she turns around, and it is no longer straight hair, but bushy that adorns her crown. Startled by the familiarity, he steps back again, off the cliff top once more. Down, down, down, he lands soundlessly in a room where the centerpiece is a man tied to the chair, obviously beaten and tortured. Despite his lowered head, a full beard is obvious. He looks up, and the resemblence to Ron is obvious. A moment passes, and then it is Ron, eyes focusing on him as none of the other people's had.
'"I'm going to die here, Harry."
* * *
The youth jolts awake, eyes staring into the dark, every muscle tense, hands clenching the sweat drenched sheets. Only a moment passes before the stillness becomes a flurried activity as Harry begins to toss things into his trunk. Clothes, books, and various magical items fly through the air, some landing in the chest, some not. Only his Firebolt and his wand are left out. Sweeping up the objects that surround the trunk, the boy dumps them too into it, shutting the top with a satisfying click. Sending Hedwig out the window with a note for the Weasleys' asking shelter, he turns his wand on the trunk. Magic was being permitted this summer, because of the rise of the Dark Lord.
"Parvus"
The entire thing shrinks until it is small enough to put in his pocket. Doing so, Harry leaves his room and silently exits the house, sparing no second glance for the house on Privet Drive. Mounting the broomstick, he pushes off, heading for the Burrow under the cover of early morning fog.
(A/N: I know, its really short, but I'm getting a case of writers block, and I will also have one out tomorrow which will be longer, simply because I will have more time to write it. Names, suggestions, anything is helpful, and I will give you credit.)