Searching for the Distant Light
Disclaimer: This is property of Joanne Kathleen Rowling. The only thing that is mine, is the plot, and not the storyline and characters it follows.
Summary: During the summer, Harry wastes away at his desk, writing hungrily about something only he knows about. What is he planning? Where will it take him?
Chapter One
The night was particularly cold and dark on this normal summer night. Private drive was being overpowered by the faint eerie orange glow from the common old street lamps towering over the lawns of every four houses. Number Four Private drive was no different from the other houses. The house was being engulfed by that same darkness that covered the street like a blanket. Not a flicker of light was seen in the house. Just like every other house upon that silent street, number four had grass that was freshly mowed and watered, windows that glared softly with that same orange glow that cast soft circles upon the streets, and the same subtle look. Yet behind one of the smallest windows on the second floor, was a shrinking shadow. Harry Potter, sat at an old worn desk, resting his head against the palm of his left hand, as he scribbled something upon a piece of parchment, with his black hair ruffled everywhere, and his exotic green eyes following every word he wrote on the Parchment.
Carefully, making sure not to spill the small ink bottle, resting beside his Parchment, Harry placed everything back into a dirty, old pillow case where he hid things his aunt and uncle didn't know he was in possession of. He slipped off of the worn old wooden bench where he was seated only moments ago, and kneeled beside the loose floor board, where he placed his pillow case upright, and rested the floorboard back into place. When he got up once more off of his knees, he went back to his desk, and picked up the piece of Parchment, staring at it for a very long time, reading each word cautiously. For a few moments, those fierce emeralds zipped back and forth, devouring every line upon his parchment. When he was finished, he opened the only drawer of his desk, a slender one, and placed the Parchment in it, gently, as if not to crease it, where many like that piece were stacked. Some were written in a very untidy scrawl, with words hanging off of each other, in a very rushed slant, with words crammed into tiny spaces, and dulled corners, and others were signed very neatly, carefully folded in halves and quarters. Then there were those that were covered in smudges of nervous trembling hands and black blobs and stains of careless panic. Some of these had been crinkled viciously, and others had been torn clear in half. Harry ignored those as he placed the current piece of Parchment on top of the others.
Once the drawer had been safely closed, Harry reached over to a small wooden box he had sitting upon the edge of the desk, and opened it. Inside were a heavy metal lock and a shiny old key. He picked up the lock, weighing it gently in his hand, before opening it, and placing it upon the drawer and locking it safe. Once the satisfying click filled his ears, he sighed with relief, and held tightly on to the key, before placing it back in the box, and grabbing the box off of the desk, clutching at it as if it held the key to his life. Slipping slowly off of his wooden bench once more, Harry tip-toed silently across the room, to his bed, and pulled the sheets back, before burying himself in them and slipping the box under his pillow, beside his wand. With one quick glance towards the drawer, his body relaxed, and he let his exhaustion overwhelm and capture him.
The sun filtered through the thin, raggedy curtains in Harry's room, bathing the room with a warm pale glow. As the birds began to chirp their morning song, the people in the household began to stir. The creaks of beds could be heard, rooms away, followed by grunts and snorts, and then the soothing soun of running water. Harry was already up and about, like the rest of his household, tossing his dirty jeans from yesterday in a pile of dirty clothes, and grabbing a cleaner pair of jeans, along with a crimson red shirt and a pair of socks.
As he dragged himself to the bathroom, he could hear the soft clatter of plates and mugs, as his aunt set the table for breakfast, waiting for Harry to go down himself and make them their breakfast. He entered the bathroom with a sigh, and stripped, before entering the shower, and enjoying the cool awaking feel of fresh water pitter pattering against his chest and shoulders.
After his morning routine, Harry returned back to his room, a damp towel in one hand, which he was using to quickly finish towel drying his hair, and his red shirt in the other hand, ready to be thrown on as soon as he was to finish his towel drying.
Once his shirt was on, Harry quickly made his bed, tossing the spare pillow on his mattress carelessly, before walking up to his desk, the wooden box in his hand, and grasping the lock on the drawer. He tugged the lock, making sure it was securely locked in place, before placing the wooden box back on top of the desk, where it had been last night before he had begun to write, and taking the key out of the box. He stared at the key hungrily for a moment, as it glinted innocently in the palm of his hand, before slipping it into his back pocket.
"Harry! Come down here, this instant! We are waiting for our breakfast!" His aunt's shrill voice split through the air, and drove into his ears. He sighed, rolling his eyes, and quickly exited his room.
Once the Dursleys were finished stuffing themselves at the table, Harry began to clear the table. He stacked all of the dirty dishes in a pile and placed them beside the sink, and wiped down the table, including the coffee spill Mr. Dursley had made after reading a certain article discriminating Grunnings. Once that was finished, he began to busy himself with the dishes.
As he washed the last dish, he heard two quiet pops from outside, and he knew that whoever had been guarding him had switched shifts with someone else. He felt himself flush with anger at the thought of McGonagall's nerve. He was seventeen in two days! He didn't need to be guarded every waking moment.
But as this thought entered his mind, He couldn't help but smirk wickedly. Placing the last plate off to the side, his mind flashes back to the parchment in his drawer, and he patted his pocket secretly.
"Harry, I need you to go off to the groceries and get me some butter and a carton of eggs. I'm baking a cake for your cousin and I haven't got any more eggs, and I'm running low on butter." His aunt said, snapping him back from his splendor as she strode back into the room.
"Yes aunt Petunia." Harry said politely. He took the money from her outstretched hand, and pulled the widest smile he could muster, without looking too fake.
"Thank You dear." She answered back, with a voice that sounded very oddly strained, as if it were something you didn't usually hear coming from her mouth.
Harry only gave her a curt nod of acknowledgment, before bounding up the stairs, and into his room. He grabbed an old worn leather jacket, hanging in his closet, and a red cap he had gotten from his cousin the first day back, who had carelessly tossed it at him, telling him it was a present in order to celebrate the last summer he would be staying there. Harry, at the time, had seen no use to it, and had stuffed it in the back of his closet, but he soon became custom to wearing it, as not only did it hide his scar, but it also hid his distinct glasses, which he was thankful for.
As he left the house a few minutes later, he glanced back at the Dursleys. They hadn't changed much. Still as snobby and greedy as ever, and yet, he couldn't help but be disgusted with himself when he realized he would miss this place when he left. Not as much as Hogwarts, but he would miss the house.
With one quick movement, he had closed the door shut behind him, and was off towards the convenience store, an extra pair of invisible feet, trotting with him, in sync, just a few meters behind.
The day had passed with the same breeze as every other day, and once more, Harry sat at his desk, the clock on his bedside table flashing the time. A glance towards that clock told him there were three minutes to midnight. He returned back to his parchment seconds later, with the same hard look of concentration he had had on, seconds before.
Upon the piece of parchment were diagrams of unidentified objects, labeled with his untidy scrawl. Beside his right hand, which was, without stopping, writing vigorously, as if attacking the paper, was an open textbook with a large map of England. In the textbook were also lines and lines of quick notes and it was covered in circles and bolded lines. As he glanced at the map, his left hand, which was upon his forehead, holding his throbbing head up, tightened its grip on his hair line. Sweat was beginning to slowly slide down his cheeks, and onto the paper. His right hand, still writing with such amazing speed, was trembling and his intoxicating green eyes were wide open, so focused on the parchment, it was as if the writing was the plan to his future.
And in one way or another it was. The diagrams and notes and markings on the piece of parchment were in fact a very complicated plan, one which was to occur tomorrow night…
Suddenly, a very loud creak issued from outside of his door. In a frantic panic, Harry snatched all of the pieces of Parchment off of his desk, and stuffed them in his drawer, before hurtling himself into his bed, and ripping the bed sheets from the base of his bed, to over his head, covering his face, just in time to hear the creak of the door.
The purple atrocious face of Uncle Vernon poked through the dimly lit hallway. His beady eyes were narrowed, as one of the veins on his forehead throbbed painfully. As he crept slowly into the room, the stench of alcohol filled Harry's nostrils. He shuddered, yet willed himself to keep his eyes tightly shut.
As the floor creaked with the dangerous amount of pressure it had on top of it, Uncle Vernon's eyes flashed to the drawer that was half open. As the silence swept over the both of them, Harry slowly opened his eyes only to see his Uncle carefully approaching the drawer. His heart skipped a beat, and he felt himself go into a panic. Don't look inside he prayed as his heart began to imprint a vivid purple tattoo against his rib cage. But it was in vain, as his uncle's hands slowly crept inside the drawer, and pulled out a piece of Parchment.
"Vernon!" Came a shrill whisper from the door. Both Harry and his uncle jumped at the sound.
"What are you doing in here? Did you only just come home? Have you been drinking!" His aunt exclaimed in annoyance. Quickly, to make it seem believable, Harry turned around with a groan.
"Huh?" He muttered sleepily.
"Go back to sleep, there's nothing of interest here." His aunt snapped at him. He obliged, and dug his face back into the pillow with a smirk as he heard his Uncle slump out of his room.
Once the door clicked with a shut, Harry quickly scurried out of his bed, a huge sigh escaping his lips. He bent down and picked up the dropped piece of Parchment, before slipping it back into the drawer, and this time closing the drawer properly. Once again, he grabbed the wooden box on his desk, and pulled out the lock and key, securing the lock on the drawer, before taking the box and key with him to his bed.
As he lay on his bed, staring sleepily at the ceiling, he could hear his aunt and uncle whispering in the next room. He sighed contently, and smiled at the ceiling.
"Tomorrow I show the world what I'm made of." He whispered, and with a wide yawn, he let his eyes close and his mind wander in the dark.
When the morning of July 30th arrived, Harry was already up before the sunrise. His feet pitter-pattered against the hardwood as he quietly gathered all of his belongings, stuffing them cautiously into his trunk. As he finished packing all of his things, the usual stir came from within the house, signaling the start of a new day. Quickly, making sure he was not caught, Harry dragged his trunk to his closet, where he shoved it in with all his might, barely managing to make it fit, before closing the closet door, and beginning his morning routine.
When he had finished his cold shower, he quickly grabbed a pair of black jeans, an a checkered shirt. As he buttoned up the front, he made his way to his desk, where his comb lay and his glasses. He did the last button, and grabbed his glasses first, slipping them onto his nose, followed by running the comb through his hair. Than, as he was just about ready to leave his room, he snatched something off of his desk, wrapping it quickly around his neck, before leaving his room.
He closed the door behind him, hearing the soft chatter of his aunt and cousin downstairs. He could also hear the sizzle of bacon and eggs in a pan, meaning today his aunt was in a good mood. Feeling as if he had some time, he leaned against the banister, and sighed, his mind wrapping itself around the complicate plan written upon the many pieces of Parchment he had slaved over.
A creak of a door startled him, and he turned around. His uncle, in nothing but his boxers, walked out of his room, one hand against his forehead, and the other limp at his side. Upon seeing Harry, he only grunted in acknowledgement, before turning to head to the bathroom. But as his hand rested against the doorknob, he did a double take and frowned.
"Where the hell did you get that necklace?" His uncle muttered. The hot stench of liquor filled Harry's nostrils and he was momentarily overwhelmed. Hi uncle didn't notice, and instead turned to face Harry, his beady eyes narrowing.
"A friend gave it to me, for Christmas last Year." Harry muttered, his fingers brushing against the fake Horcrux locket he had retrieved last year.
"Give it to me." His uncle demanded suddenly.
"I…w-what?" Harry stuttered. He began to take a step back, watching his uncle's complexion change from pale yellow, to red, and finally, to purple.
"I said, GIVE IT TO ME!" His Uncle whispered hotly under his breath, trying not to attract his wife and sun. He began to advance on Harry.
All Harry could do was turn around and run, straight into the only other room down the hall; his uncle's room. He skidded at the door, griping the door frame as he did, before slipping into the room, slamming the door behind him, gasping for breath.
But as strong was he wished he was, one great push was enough for his uncle Vernon to open the door, with Harry struggling to keep it shut behind it.
"I'm going to give you to the count of three boy, do you hear me? I lost my job yesterday, and I will not let you run off with something as expensive of that golden locket. You will give it to me as payment for the days I've worked for you to earn you decent amount of food and clothing, and you will give it to me now." His uncle said, closing the door behind him, and making sure to stay right in front of it, to ensure that Harry didn't escape.
"I won't give it… to you. M-my friends… they g-got it for me. I-it means a lot." Harry stuttered. He cursed himself at the situation he had landed himself into; hours away from being able to do magic, and yet defenseless to his muggle uncle.
His uncle lunged at him, throwing him roughly onto the bed, landing on top of him, with his eyes darting around like a lunatic, as sweat poured down his brow. The chubby sausage-like fingers of his left hand, gripped both of his wrists together, as his legs wrapped around Harry's. With his free hand, he gripped the locket, and pulled it off of his neck, before placing it aside, and staring back at Harry.
"I'm going to do something to you I should have a long time ago. You might remember these few tricks I have up my sleeve." His uncle slurred, as his alcohol-filled breath entered Harry's nostrils.
Large beefy fingers began to rip open his shirt, buttons falling roughly to the floor with a clatter. Beady vicious eyes stared down startled green ones, and large nostrils flared as sweat shone fiercely. As everything began to process in his mind, a vision passed through his mind, hitting him so hard, he began to see stars.
He was five, and sitting in his cupboard, playing with the broken toy car his aunt had given to him. He had been in here for a while. His aunt had gone off shopping and had locked him in here, while his cousin was at his friends house, and his uncle at work. As he had played with the toy car, he heard the front door open.
"Aunt Petunia?" He called out, but no one answered. As he lowered his head to start racing with his car once more, his cupboard unlocked and he quickly dropped his toy, his eyes wide, as his uncle's face loomed into the cupboard.
"Come here boy." He said, roughly grabbing his shirt collar and dragging him out. Harry winced, as a strong unfamiliar smell filled his nostrils.
"Uncle Vernon, are you okay?" Harry asked softly.
His uncle whipped his head around, and stared maliciously at Harry.
"You made me lose my job, and you're going to pay for it." His uncle Vernon snapped. His grip around Harry's collar tightened, as he pulled harder at it, dragging the five-year old up the stairs, and into his uncle's room.
As he shut the door behind him, locking it firmly, he threw Harry on top of the bed, and glared down at him, his face contorting with anger, an his eyes darting nervously from one side to the other.
"Stay." he demanded. He crossed the room, and closed the curtains, before turning and staring at Harry.
"You are going to do everything I ask you, if you want to live." His uncle slurred angrily.
With shaking, violent hands, he began to pull Harry's T-Shirt off of his small body.
His vision swam back violently, and suddenly he could feel his uncle's hands on him again, lingering just above his pants, his shirt lying beside him in a jumbled mess. With a great cry of rage, disgust, fear, and determination, he threw his uncle's massive body off of his own, dove for the fake Horcrux, and dashed out of the room, barely managing to slid into his room, and slam the door behind him, locking it tight.
He leaned against the inside of his door, hot angry tears sliding down his cheek, as his stomach churned. With a great wave of dizziness, he let his body slid down, hitting the floor with a dull thud, as he closed his eyes, and swallowed. His body was shaking, and sweat was streaming down his face. He gulped and gasped, as tears continued to escape from his shut eyelids.
In one great sob of defeat, he turned to the side, retching on to the floor, and leaning his head back, with his eyes closed. He could here Hermione's voice distantly as she talked about the minds capability of forgetting something truly horrible that the person himself cold never accept it. Only one thought resounded painfully in his head, ricocheting off of his skull, and imprinting a vivid tattoo on the back of his eyelids.
He sexually abused you.
A/N: I started this a while back, and I thought long and hard about posting it. Finally I decided I should. Now, about updates, don't; expect one soon, since I really don't know where this story is going, but bare with me.
R + R!