PhoenixFlameSerpentMaster This is my first Harry Potter fic, so go easy on
me. I've wanted to write one for a while, but I didn't know what to write.
I finally decided what the hell, I'll just write one for experimentation.
This story was the result. Starts after the disclaimer so no one can sue
me. [wink]
DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter, though quite fine, is not mine. Hey that rhymes!
Remember:
"In quotations" = talking
'Between apostrophes' = thoughts
[In brackets] = author notes
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Chapter 1: What A fun Summer
Harry sat on his bed in his room in the dark. He was sitting upright with his arms around his knees, giving him the appearance of being insecure. He was.
He was once again thinking of his godfather. Sirius's death was tearing him up inside. It could have been prevented if Harry hadn't gone and got himself into trouble. How could he have been so stupid?
He had gotten back to Privet Drive a month ago and had spent most of his time brooding in his room and then exercising to take his mind off of it.
He didn't want to feel this way. People had told him over and over again that Sirius's death hadn't been his fault. He didn't know what to believe anymore. He was kind of getting over it, but not quickly. It still felt so raw and painful. Like salt in a big gash; sharp, persistent pain that makes you want to scream aloud.
Harry let out a big sigh. He thought of what Dumbledore had finally revealed to him. It made his stomach go in a knot. He knew he was angry with Snape (in the back of his mind he knew that maybe he shouldn't be) and he knew he was more than angry at Voldemort. No freaking duh.
But Dumbledore was something else. He expected that he would be reproachful, disappointed, or at least a little mad at Dumbledore, for keeping the prophecy from him. He wasn't and Harry didn't know if that was good or bad.
Before, when he thought of Dumbledore, he was full of loyalty, trust, and always felt hopeful, like Dumbledore was a guardian of purity and truth.
Harry was sure that was true somewhere in his mind. But not now. When he though of Dumbledore, there was nothing. He didn't feel anything. That scared Harry the most. He just didn't feel anything about Dumbledore. Not happy, sad, angry, mad; just nothing. A total blank. No emotion.
He decided not to think about anyhting. He pushed his thoughts of Sirius, his anger, and Dumbledore to the back of his mind, and leaned back on his arms.
He sighed largely again, turning around to look at his clock. It read 5:30 AM.
"Late enough," Harry said to no one in particular.
He got dressed in blue jeans that had a big rip in the right knee and put on a white t-shirt that had the sleeves ripped off. That was probably his nicest outfit. He also grabbed a loose-fitting dark red sweatshirt. It's the kind without a zipper with a hood and a big pocket across the front. He didn't put it on yet.
He tiptoed to the bathroom as to not wake the Dursleys.
'Let sleeping dogs lie,' thought Harry. 'Yeah, they're real dogs. Damn them.'
After the warning from Moody, the Dursleys went back to just ignoring Harry and pretending that he didn't exist.
Aunt Petunia seemed to have decided to cut Harry some slack; she tried to give him a lot of space and was more lenient with him than she had ever been before. He was grateful for that, so his thoughts were mostly aimed at uncle Vernon and Dudley.
Sometimes Aunt Petunia even gave him a concerned look when he didn't eat or when he skipped meals.
He did that quite often now. He ate as little food as possible. Every time he ate food, he felt like it was going to come right back up. Harry had already been small and thin for his age and could probably stand to gain a few pounds.
He was also going through a growth spurt. Because of that, his loss of weight from not eating had a larger effect. He kept ahead of it, though.
He was scrawny and thin, but not unhealthily so. He didn't care, anyway.
He knew he shouldn't lose much weight, so when he did eat, it was food with a lot of calories, sugar, fat, and carbohydrates. His weight was stable enough. He was also working out some, so he was physically fit.
Harry washed his face with cold water to make sure he was completely awake. He used the bathroom and then studied his reflection.
He saw the thin face of a nearly 16 year old boy look back at him. He saw his smooth skin that had no blemished except for the thin, lightning bolt- shaped scar on his forehead, which was currently burning unpleasantly.
He saw his amazing eyes that were like great emeralds glowing in the sun, but were currently darkened with negative emotions. Even so, his eyes were brought out nicely with his dark eyebrows.
He saw cheekbones that were slowly becoming more prominent from high testosterone levels, not from weight loss. He was now in the prime of adolescence. The hair on his legs had darkened and thickened. Facial hair was sprouting and he would probably need to shave soon.
His shoulders had broadened and he had been developing muscles especially on his arms and legs. His voice had deepened and was now much lower than a couple of months ago. His voice had a nice resonant tone that was laden with bass. His voice was probably in the baritone range.
His facial structures had developed and were emphasized by his penetrating eyes and raven black hair, which was now a bit longer. He was growing his hair out. He liked it as a curtain on his face so people couldn't see him. It was a temporary shield from the world. It was only a few inches long so his bangs fell half way down his defined cheekbones. He liked it like that.
His body was slim with a visually pleasing shape and form. Even if he was skinny, some recently developed muscles provided nice contours. His arms had nice muscle tone and his hands looked articulate and strong.
He knew that his lithe form plus his soft, yet defined facial features made him attractive. He wished it wasn't so. Every morning when he went out for a run, which he was getting ready to do, people (mainly females) looked him over with smiles in a way that made him feel uncomfortable.
He knew they were checking him out and it was unwanted attention. If he had been any other testosterone driven teen male, he would have been exhilarated and pleased with the attention. But he was not any other hormone driven teen. He just wanted to be left alone.
That was why he was wearing baggy clothes and why he had a sweater with a hood. And it was why he was growing his hair out to cover himself up. He just wanted to be left in peace and have people ignore him.
He finished his examination of his reflection with a sigh and pulled on the baggy sweater even though it was a perfectly nice temperature outside. He went downstairs and quietly closed the door. It was now 5:45 and there were few people out. The way he liked it.
It was still dark but the street light weren't on. The sky had no stars, no clouds, and new moon, so there was no light at all. Obsidian. They way he liked it. It reflected his inner feelings.
He pulled his hood on and started out. He was now in really good running condition and his leg muscles had become supple and strong again. He had been going to the gym or running whenever Uncle Vernon's temper with him was volatile. Which was more than half the time.
He did sit-ups, push-ups, and he sprinted a lot. He also worked with the treadmill and other equipment. He did weights occasionally, too. Whenever the pool at the local gym was open, he swam and did laps. He hadn't really cared bout muscles and working out; he just wanted something to take his mind off of ... certain events. It had all become routine.
Every morning he had really long runs and didn't stop until his lungs were on fire and he was gasping for breath. Everyday he had been able to run about half a mile longer than the previous day. Now he could probably run 18 miles without stopping for a breather.
If he pushed himself, Harry was sure he was capable of running a marathon's length of 26 miles or longer without negative results on his body. That always comforted him and made him feel better in a way.
Running and being in shape was one thing that nobody could take away from him. He was in control of it, and it couldn't just leave him abruptly. Like Sirius did. No, don't think about that.
He had now run about 5 miles without anything eventful happening. His heart rate was steady and was beating healthily. He didn't feel any strain. Running was just really fun for him. He loved feeling the wind on his hooded face and loved the way his muscles felt while working. It was his thing. His alone. No one could take it away from him.
He stopped for a second to look at a street sign to show him where he was. He had memorized all the streets within a 30-mile radius of the Dursley's house. It was all familiar to him; he knew it all like the back of his hand.
It was still really dark and he thought he sensed movement from the alleyway to his right.
He heard evil chuckles and looked up just in time to catch a fist on his jaw. It knocked him back a few feet and he landed on his nicely shaped butt. [A/N: I just had to say that.]
Harry tasted blood in his mouth, a coppery taste and his jaw started to throb where it had been hit. He quickly got up and saw 5 guys coming at him. It was still too dark to see them clearly.
"What do you want?" asked Harry, sounding more confident than he felt
"You just happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, you punk," the leader of the men sneered and punched again at Harry.
The other 4 guys surrounded him. Harry dodged the punch, but another guy caught Harry painfully in the ribs. He fell to the ground again and another guy pulled him up and punched him in the mouth. The attacks really hurt.
His lip was split and was bleeding. The next guy caught him on the side of the head, near his temples, causing black dots to dance in Harry's vision.
Harry soon realized why the punches hurt so much; they were all wearing brass knuckles that were somewhat pointed. Blood started tickling out from under his hair. The leader of the guys brought out an 8-inch switchblade.
As Harry dodges one of the men's punches, the leader's switchblade caught Harry's upperarm and the sharp metal cut through Harry's skin like a hot knife through butter. He hissed in pain and backed away from the man as much as possible. The hiss of pain sounded more like a wounded snake.
'At least this doesn't hurt a much as the cruciacious curse,' Harry though and shuddered.
The guy came at him with the switchblade again. Harry lashed out his leg and it struck the leader's knee. Bone gave way with a sick, wet pop and crunch. The man fell from his now broken, dislocated. It was a crippling injury. The other men looked shocked.
Harry took advantage of their shock and scrambled through the gap in between the men.
He did what he does so well. He ran. Or sprinted, rather. He heard men yelling and chasing him. Harry sped up. He was easily running 20 miles per hour. The men apparently gave up.
Harry kept running and only stopped when he was about 5 miles a way. The few people that were out his early stared at the teen with a bloody face and arm, but he didn't care. The streets were still familiar, so he relaxed a little.
He still felt blood on his face, almost congealed. His jaw was throbbing where he had been hit and there was a bruise running up his jaw and cheek. His lip was still bleeding and his temples were riddled with pain. His upperarm was stinging painfully and was dripping thick, dark blood.
He saw a park and went in. There was no one there because it was till early. He found a water fountain and washed his face clean of the sticky blood. It made him feel a little better.
He took a bandana out that he always kept in the sweatshirt's pocket and wiped blood from his arm. For some reason, seeing his own blood run from his body was satisfying. That made Harry shudder. He rinsed the deep cut with water and it stopped bleeding so profusely. He wrapped it up the best he could with the bandana.
He went and laid on top of a park table with one leg bent up. He tried to make his breathing even.
He decided that he wasn't ready to run all the way back to Privet Drive. Uncle Vernon would be pissed off because Harry wasn't home, but he didn't care. He needed some rest.
The he heard a hooting noise and looked up in the dark. Hedwig was flying towards him with a letter. He hadn't gotten any letters so far. Ron and Hermione were apparently doing something, and hadn't sent him any letters.
Unlike last summer, now he didn't care about it. He was almost glad that he hadn't gotten letters from the wizarding world. He didn't have to think about it as much.
His month at the Dursley's had been uneventful and almost painless. Hedwig often went out for days without coming back, but had never returned with a letter. Until now. Harry sighed.
"What a fun summer," Harry said into the darkness.
Hedwig landed gracefully on Harry's knee and hooted proudly about having a letter. Harry sat up and took the letter without looking at who it was from. He thanked Hedwig and she allowed him to stroke her feathered head. She looked worried when she saw his injuries and gave a concerned hoot.
"Don't worry about it, Hedwig. It was just an accident," Harry said, trying to reassure Hedwig.
She hooted, nipped his finger affectionately, and flew off in the direction of Privet drive.
Harry looked down and was surprised to see that the letter was from -----
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PFSM This story might be one-shot, depending on reviews. If I don't get any reviews, I'll be depressed. Again.
PLEAZ R&R! - - - - - EVEN IF IT'S MEAN! I ACCEPT ANYTHING!
DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter, though quite fine, is not mine. Hey that rhymes!
Remember:
"In quotations" = talking
'Between apostrophes' = thoughts
[In brackets] = author notes
[=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=]
Chapter 1: What A fun Summer
Harry sat on his bed in his room in the dark. He was sitting upright with his arms around his knees, giving him the appearance of being insecure. He was.
He was once again thinking of his godfather. Sirius's death was tearing him up inside. It could have been prevented if Harry hadn't gone and got himself into trouble. How could he have been so stupid?
He had gotten back to Privet Drive a month ago and had spent most of his time brooding in his room and then exercising to take his mind off of it.
He didn't want to feel this way. People had told him over and over again that Sirius's death hadn't been his fault. He didn't know what to believe anymore. He was kind of getting over it, but not quickly. It still felt so raw and painful. Like salt in a big gash; sharp, persistent pain that makes you want to scream aloud.
Harry let out a big sigh. He thought of what Dumbledore had finally revealed to him. It made his stomach go in a knot. He knew he was angry with Snape (in the back of his mind he knew that maybe he shouldn't be) and he knew he was more than angry at Voldemort. No freaking duh.
But Dumbledore was something else. He expected that he would be reproachful, disappointed, or at least a little mad at Dumbledore, for keeping the prophecy from him. He wasn't and Harry didn't know if that was good or bad.
Before, when he thought of Dumbledore, he was full of loyalty, trust, and always felt hopeful, like Dumbledore was a guardian of purity and truth.
Harry was sure that was true somewhere in his mind. But not now. When he though of Dumbledore, there was nothing. He didn't feel anything. That scared Harry the most. He just didn't feel anything about Dumbledore. Not happy, sad, angry, mad; just nothing. A total blank. No emotion.
He decided not to think about anyhting. He pushed his thoughts of Sirius, his anger, and Dumbledore to the back of his mind, and leaned back on his arms.
He sighed largely again, turning around to look at his clock. It read 5:30 AM.
"Late enough," Harry said to no one in particular.
He got dressed in blue jeans that had a big rip in the right knee and put on a white t-shirt that had the sleeves ripped off. That was probably his nicest outfit. He also grabbed a loose-fitting dark red sweatshirt. It's the kind without a zipper with a hood and a big pocket across the front. He didn't put it on yet.
He tiptoed to the bathroom as to not wake the Dursleys.
'Let sleeping dogs lie,' thought Harry. 'Yeah, they're real dogs. Damn them.'
After the warning from Moody, the Dursleys went back to just ignoring Harry and pretending that he didn't exist.
Aunt Petunia seemed to have decided to cut Harry some slack; she tried to give him a lot of space and was more lenient with him than she had ever been before. He was grateful for that, so his thoughts were mostly aimed at uncle Vernon and Dudley.
Sometimes Aunt Petunia even gave him a concerned look when he didn't eat or when he skipped meals.
He did that quite often now. He ate as little food as possible. Every time he ate food, he felt like it was going to come right back up. Harry had already been small and thin for his age and could probably stand to gain a few pounds.
He was also going through a growth spurt. Because of that, his loss of weight from not eating had a larger effect. He kept ahead of it, though.
He was scrawny and thin, but not unhealthily so. He didn't care, anyway.
He knew he shouldn't lose much weight, so when he did eat, it was food with a lot of calories, sugar, fat, and carbohydrates. His weight was stable enough. He was also working out some, so he was physically fit.
Harry washed his face with cold water to make sure he was completely awake. He used the bathroom and then studied his reflection.
He saw the thin face of a nearly 16 year old boy look back at him. He saw his smooth skin that had no blemished except for the thin, lightning bolt- shaped scar on his forehead, which was currently burning unpleasantly.
He saw his amazing eyes that were like great emeralds glowing in the sun, but were currently darkened with negative emotions. Even so, his eyes were brought out nicely with his dark eyebrows.
He saw cheekbones that were slowly becoming more prominent from high testosterone levels, not from weight loss. He was now in the prime of adolescence. The hair on his legs had darkened and thickened. Facial hair was sprouting and he would probably need to shave soon.
His shoulders had broadened and he had been developing muscles especially on his arms and legs. His voice had deepened and was now much lower than a couple of months ago. His voice had a nice resonant tone that was laden with bass. His voice was probably in the baritone range.
His facial structures had developed and were emphasized by his penetrating eyes and raven black hair, which was now a bit longer. He was growing his hair out. He liked it as a curtain on his face so people couldn't see him. It was a temporary shield from the world. It was only a few inches long so his bangs fell half way down his defined cheekbones. He liked it like that.
His body was slim with a visually pleasing shape and form. Even if he was skinny, some recently developed muscles provided nice contours. His arms had nice muscle tone and his hands looked articulate and strong.
He knew that his lithe form plus his soft, yet defined facial features made him attractive. He wished it wasn't so. Every morning when he went out for a run, which he was getting ready to do, people (mainly females) looked him over with smiles in a way that made him feel uncomfortable.
He knew they were checking him out and it was unwanted attention. If he had been any other testosterone driven teen male, he would have been exhilarated and pleased with the attention. But he was not any other hormone driven teen. He just wanted to be left alone.
That was why he was wearing baggy clothes and why he had a sweater with a hood. And it was why he was growing his hair out to cover himself up. He just wanted to be left in peace and have people ignore him.
He finished his examination of his reflection with a sigh and pulled on the baggy sweater even though it was a perfectly nice temperature outside. He went downstairs and quietly closed the door. It was now 5:45 and there were few people out. The way he liked it.
It was still dark but the street light weren't on. The sky had no stars, no clouds, and new moon, so there was no light at all. Obsidian. They way he liked it. It reflected his inner feelings.
He pulled his hood on and started out. He was now in really good running condition and his leg muscles had become supple and strong again. He had been going to the gym or running whenever Uncle Vernon's temper with him was volatile. Which was more than half the time.
He did sit-ups, push-ups, and he sprinted a lot. He also worked with the treadmill and other equipment. He did weights occasionally, too. Whenever the pool at the local gym was open, he swam and did laps. He hadn't really cared bout muscles and working out; he just wanted something to take his mind off of ... certain events. It had all become routine.
Every morning he had really long runs and didn't stop until his lungs were on fire and he was gasping for breath. Everyday he had been able to run about half a mile longer than the previous day. Now he could probably run 18 miles without stopping for a breather.
If he pushed himself, Harry was sure he was capable of running a marathon's length of 26 miles or longer without negative results on his body. That always comforted him and made him feel better in a way.
Running and being in shape was one thing that nobody could take away from him. He was in control of it, and it couldn't just leave him abruptly. Like Sirius did. No, don't think about that.
He had now run about 5 miles without anything eventful happening. His heart rate was steady and was beating healthily. He didn't feel any strain. Running was just really fun for him. He loved feeling the wind on his hooded face and loved the way his muscles felt while working. It was his thing. His alone. No one could take it away from him.
He stopped for a second to look at a street sign to show him where he was. He had memorized all the streets within a 30-mile radius of the Dursley's house. It was all familiar to him; he knew it all like the back of his hand.
It was still really dark and he thought he sensed movement from the alleyway to his right.
He heard evil chuckles and looked up just in time to catch a fist on his jaw. It knocked him back a few feet and he landed on his nicely shaped butt. [A/N: I just had to say that.]
Harry tasted blood in his mouth, a coppery taste and his jaw started to throb where it had been hit. He quickly got up and saw 5 guys coming at him. It was still too dark to see them clearly.
"What do you want?" asked Harry, sounding more confident than he felt
"You just happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, you punk," the leader of the men sneered and punched again at Harry.
The other 4 guys surrounded him. Harry dodged the punch, but another guy caught Harry painfully in the ribs. He fell to the ground again and another guy pulled him up and punched him in the mouth. The attacks really hurt.
His lip was split and was bleeding. The next guy caught him on the side of the head, near his temples, causing black dots to dance in Harry's vision.
Harry soon realized why the punches hurt so much; they were all wearing brass knuckles that were somewhat pointed. Blood started tickling out from under his hair. The leader of the guys brought out an 8-inch switchblade.
As Harry dodges one of the men's punches, the leader's switchblade caught Harry's upperarm and the sharp metal cut through Harry's skin like a hot knife through butter. He hissed in pain and backed away from the man as much as possible. The hiss of pain sounded more like a wounded snake.
'At least this doesn't hurt a much as the cruciacious curse,' Harry though and shuddered.
The guy came at him with the switchblade again. Harry lashed out his leg and it struck the leader's knee. Bone gave way with a sick, wet pop and crunch. The man fell from his now broken, dislocated. It was a crippling injury. The other men looked shocked.
Harry took advantage of their shock and scrambled through the gap in between the men.
He did what he does so well. He ran. Or sprinted, rather. He heard men yelling and chasing him. Harry sped up. He was easily running 20 miles per hour. The men apparently gave up.
Harry kept running and only stopped when he was about 5 miles a way. The few people that were out his early stared at the teen with a bloody face and arm, but he didn't care. The streets were still familiar, so he relaxed a little.
He still felt blood on his face, almost congealed. His jaw was throbbing where he had been hit and there was a bruise running up his jaw and cheek. His lip was still bleeding and his temples were riddled with pain. His upperarm was stinging painfully and was dripping thick, dark blood.
He saw a park and went in. There was no one there because it was till early. He found a water fountain and washed his face clean of the sticky blood. It made him feel a little better.
He took a bandana out that he always kept in the sweatshirt's pocket and wiped blood from his arm. For some reason, seeing his own blood run from his body was satisfying. That made Harry shudder. He rinsed the deep cut with water and it stopped bleeding so profusely. He wrapped it up the best he could with the bandana.
He went and laid on top of a park table with one leg bent up. He tried to make his breathing even.
He decided that he wasn't ready to run all the way back to Privet Drive. Uncle Vernon would be pissed off because Harry wasn't home, but he didn't care. He needed some rest.
The he heard a hooting noise and looked up in the dark. Hedwig was flying towards him with a letter. He hadn't gotten any letters so far. Ron and Hermione were apparently doing something, and hadn't sent him any letters.
Unlike last summer, now he didn't care about it. He was almost glad that he hadn't gotten letters from the wizarding world. He didn't have to think about it as much.
His month at the Dursley's had been uneventful and almost painless. Hedwig often went out for days without coming back, but had never returned with a letter. Until now. Harry sighed.
"What a fun summer," Harry said into the darkness.
Hedwig landed gracefully on Harry's knee and hooted proudly about having a letter. Harry sat up and took the letter without looking at who it was from. He thanked Hedwig and she allowed him to stroke her feathered head. She looked worried when she saw his injuries and gave a concerned hoot.
"Don't worry about it, Hedwig. It was just an accident," Harry said, trying to reassure Hedwig.
She hooted, nipped his finger affectionately, and flew off in the direction of Privet drive.
Harry looked down and was surprised to see that the letter was from -----
[=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=]
PFSM This story might be one-shot, depending on reviews. If I don't get any reviews, I'll be depressed. Again.
PLEAZ R&R! - - - - - EVEN IF IT'S MEAN! I ACCEPT ANYTHING!