Despite being successful keeping out of the way, Harry had no desire to stay. When the snow melted, and the weather began to warm, he was on his feet and running. He would not stay any longer, and would deal with his troubles as they came, come what may.
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At almost eight years old, young Harry Potter was on the run- again, messy raven lock blowing behind him, eyes set with a determined light. Indeed, he had spent several occasions flying from place to place, whether literally or figuratively. At one, he'd been flown to the Dursleys on a flying motorcycle, though he couldn't remember. All he could remember from infancy was a flash of green light, and a women screaming. Over the years more shrieks of pain and terror had been added to his nightmares, such as those of the Dursleys as his feet carried him away, and the second house he'd inhabited had gone up in flames, and sometimes, his own screams, often almost inaudible over the fierce winter wind and the pounding of his heart, and the harsh labored sound of his own breath that always surrounded him in those dreams.
So perhaps his actions this time were merely the continuation of a tradition. He had a large bundle with him this time, filled with a few sets of clothes, a blanket, several bottles of water, and a few loafs of bread. It was only after he had collected these supplies to bring with him that he brought the box of matches out from his pocket. He nimbly lit a match, then dropped it on the floor. There was not much flammable material near by, so it couldn't spread far, and would never light up the house the way the last two fires had. But it was enough that, with the smoke alarms that would soon be ringing, everyone leaving the building, and the fireman who would have to search for the fire and extinguish it, it was enough that he would be long gone before anyone noticed he wasn't there.
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By the time dusk fell, though Harry was sure no one from the orphanage would catch up, he was tired and hungry. He sat down, back against a tall, branching oak, and removed a water bottle and a piece of bread from his pack. After scarfing down the slice of bread, and taking several gulps of water, he closed his eyes, and concentrated hard, wishing to be somewhere sheltered, but out of the way. He had no desire to keep running for much longer, and though it wasn't the same as thinking of a specific place, the first time when he had had to escape from the house the older kids had convinced him to break into, he his focus had just been a strong wish to get away. He just hoped that it would work, because he wasn't sure where he should head if it didn't. He was sure no one would drag him back to the orphanage, as long as he didn't draw too much attention to himself. He had several sets of clothes from the orphanage, which, while a bit shabby, where not as noticeable, and he'd honed his skills at staying out of sight and not attracting attention over the past few months.
Luckily, his attempt did succeed, most likely just because of the great amount of consentration and desire for it to work that Harry poured in. A moment later, the spot where Harry had stood held only empty air. The place Harry reappeared in appeared to be an old, abandoned manor. It was dusty, and had fallen into disrepair, and the window of the room into which he had appeared was boarded. It was shelter, and despite, or perhaps because of, its odd appearance, it seemed safe enough. It was rather comforting, to have shelter that no one else would come to. Despite the fact that he wasn't sure what the surroundings were like, and that the food he had brought with him wouldn't last long, it was extremely satisfying. He had, for the moment, a place to belong to. He had arrived in a manor with a most interesting history, though he did not know it. It stood atop a hill overlooking a town called Little Hangleton, ivy crawling up its sides, shingles fallen here and there. He was lucky in his own way, for, you see, it was one place that, as long as they were not alerted someone was there, no one would go to for many years. It was a place known to those who lived around it as the Riddle house, a place no one would visit, or try to knock down in it's derelict state. Even the old gardener never went inside, though people would sometimes attempt to break in on bets, they never dared to venture as far as he was now- the back bedroom on the top floor.
Resolving to explore in the morning, he through the dusty covers off, then curled up on the bed, wrapping his shabby coat around himself, and within moments, was fast asleep. He slept better that night than he had in a long time, for once unhaunted by the screams that had plagued his dreams for what seemed like almost eternity, without disturbance, and without fear of the day to come.
It is one of the many ironies of life that things are hardly ever as they seem. This strange, misshapen manor, still called after its former inhabitants by the folk of Little Hangleton, and thought "creepy" by most for the events that had happened nearly fifty years ago, was relatively safe for young Harry Potter. It was exactly the sort of place he'd concentrated on transporting himself to- a sheltered place where he was unlikely to be found against his will. It was a rather odd occurrence, though he didn't no it, that Riddle manor, a place still associated with the man who had killed his parents all those years ago, would be the first place that he called home.
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The assumption Harry held that they would not be able to catch him once he left was, in fact, quite correct. The fire had only truly managed to really destroy one room- the one Harry had left from. No one was truly interested in his location, besides to cover up that he had ever been there at all. They feared that, if investigated, others would discover what they thought to be, most likely, the truth: that a seven-year-old child had been burned to cinders in the fire, while the rest of them blundered about, waiting for the firefighters. Harry Potter had never been connected to the child, for, as far as anyone knew, no one had survived the fire at Privet Drive. The adults at the orphanage had nothing on which to make the connection, after all, they had never known any name for him but Harry. He'd refused to tell them anything about himself, and so he wasn't their responsibility, not really, and no one had come looking for him, but all the same, it left an unsettling feeling hanging in the hearts of all who had heard. It was a feeling which would linger for years to come as they reflected on their lives, and tried to forget the small child with raven hair and emerald eyes, who's suffering had occurred without their comfort or intervention. Perhaps it was because, as often happens with people who have passed away when people who never really knew them reflect on them, he became a symbol to them of their own failures, and of the pain and loneliness and vulnerability that everyone has within sometime during their lives.