Not my characters. My sick, twisted ideas, maybe but not my characters.
Chapter 3: Harry was quiet and distant while waiting for the Weasley's to pick him up. He was sensitive to any noise, any quick movement, and his body pulsed. He could feel each new bruise on his torso and thighs, each throbbing cut on his arm, aching down through his fingertips. Pain coursed in hot fire throughout his body, his head pounding and chest rasping with each intake of breath. The sharp stab in his side increased his fears of a cracked rib, but he couldn't show the pain. His aunt was somewhere rattling at pots and pans, Dudley long since gone out with his friends. All he wanted was out, out of the house, out of the neighborhood, out of life. He slipped his hands to the inside of the light rain jacket he wore and felt the metal blade, safely tucked into a pocket he had cut and sewn in. His fingers itched to feel the cold metal in his hand, against his skin, and it took all the restraint he had to keep back. Harry could be patient when need be. A crack from the living room told Harry how the Weasley's were arriving- Floo powder. He raced through the kitchen to find an ash-gray Mrs. Weasley coughing, gray powder billowing off her body as she dusted herself off. "Ready Harry dear?" She smiled brightly, eyes twinkling as she held out her hand, revealing a canvas bag filled with more of the floo powder. Grabbing his bag, Harry took a handful of the soft material and followed Mrs. Weasley's suit, clearly stating, 'Diagon Alley' as he was encased in a green flame. He clearly remembered his first encounter with the wizard's transportation device, where he ended up in the wrong destination. It was only through a lucky meeting with Hagrid that Harry had found his way out. Since then, it had always been with caution that Harry used floo powder. Luckily, Harry emerged seconds later, shaking ash out of his black hair, in front of his friend, Ron Weasley, who heartily patted him on the back, sending up clouds of gray smoke. "Oh, sorry about that Harry. It's just been so boring without you around all bloody summer. Mum's been driving me nuts, it's really just me and Ginny there now since the twins left, until Hermione showed up last weekend. Have you got your supply list? Hermione's already gone ahead- wanted to take a look around before she started shopping. Probably to look at some more bloody books, did you know she brought four, four with her to our house? She was only there a week!" Harry laughed, interrupting Ron's tirade. "Come on, Ron, we don't want to fall behind. Besides, you and Hermione will have plenty of time to catch up, but we need to get to Gringott's first." Taking off, Harry ran through the street, leaving a surprised Ron struggling to catch up. Despite his friend's protests and calls to slow down, Harry continued on. With each pounding footstep tearing open the cuts on his thighs, with each breath that shook his ribcage with pain, causing tears to spring to his eyes, Harry was leaving the Dursley's behind. A step forward meant a step away, a step away from life, from the fear and hurt that had become normalcy. With each step, Harry could weave himself a fabricated tale around his wizard life, a tale in which the truth never appeared. But, a nagging voice repeated from the back of his head, you can't run forever.
Chapter 3: Harry was quiet and distant while waiting for the Weasley's to pick him up. He was sensitive to any noise, any quick movement, and his body pulsed. He could feel each new bruise on his torso and thighs, each throbbing cut on his arm, aching down through his fingertips. Pain coursed in hot fire throughout his body, his head pounding and chest rasping with each intake of breath. The sharp stab in his side increased his fears of a cracked rib, but he couldn't show the pain. His aunt was somewhere rattling at pots and pans, Dudley long since gone out with his friends. All he wanted was out, out of the house, out of the neighborhood, out of life. He slipped his hands to the inside of the light rain jacket he wore and felt the metal blade, safely tucked into a pocket he had cut and sewn in. His fingers itched to feel the cold metal in his hand, against his skin, and it took all the restraint he had to keep back. Harry could be patient when need be. A crack from the living room told Harry how the Weasley's were arriving- Floo powder. He raced through the kitchen to find an ash-gray Mrs. Weasley coughing, gray powder billowing off her body as she dusted herself off. "Ready Harry dear?" She smiled brightly, eyes twinkling as she held out her hand, revealing a canvas bag filled with more of the floo powder. Grabbing his bag, Harry took a handful of the soft material and followed Mrs. Weasley's suit, clearly stating, 'Diagon Alley' as he was encased in a green flame. He clearly remembered his first encounter with the wizard's transportation device, where he ended up in the wrong destination. It was only through a lucky meeting with Hagrid that Harry had found his way out. Since then, it had always been with caution that Harry used floo powder. Luckily, Harry emerged seconds later, shaking ash out of his black hair, in front of his friend, Ron Weasley, who heartily patted him on the back, sending up clouds of gray smoke. "Oh, sorry about that Harry. It's just been so boring without you around all bloody summer. Mum's been driving me nuts, it's really just me and Ginny there now since the twins left, until Hermione showed up last weekend. Have you got your supply list? Hermione's already gone ahead- wanted to take a look around before she started shopping. Probably to look at some more bloody books, did you know she brought four, four with her to our house? She was only there a week!" Harry laughed, interrupting Ron's tirade. "Come on, Ron, we don't want to fall behind. Besides, you and Hermione will have plenty of time to catch up, but we need to get to Gringott's first." Taking off, Harry ran through the street, leaving a surprised Ron struggling to catch up. Despite his friend's protests and calls to slow down, Harry continued on. With each pounding footstep tearing open the cuts on his thighs, with each breath that shook his ribcage with pain, causing tears to spring to his eyes, Harry was leaving the Dursley's behind. A step forward meant a step away, a step away from life, from the fear and hurt that had become normalcy. With each step, Harry could weave himself a fabricated tale around his wizard life, a tale in which the truth never appeared. But, a nagging voice repeated from the back of his head, you can't run forever.