FROSTBITE

The 1st of September was always a busy day, but this particular 1st of September put the other days to shame.

Crowds of witches and wizards were loitering around the station of the scarlet Hogwarts Express, all citing their nephew's/cousin's/nephew's friend's return to Hogwarts as the reason for their presence, despite the way their eyes were all locked on the barrier entrance of the station instead of said relative.

The reason for this was one Harry James Potter; the Boy-Who-Lived. He would be attending Hogwarts that year, and everyone was waiting anxiously for their first glimpse of the boy hero, to witness the return of He-Who-Defeated-He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to the magical world where he belonged.

Of course, their wait would be in vain, not that they knew that though. Their target was already on the Hogwarts Express, having using floo travel to reach the station instead of using the enchanted barrier entrance. Having guessed what everyone was waiting for, he'd merely hunched himself over and slipped right past them all before anyone noticed the boy dressed head to toe in black clothing.

He was glad he'd succeeded too, the last thing he wanted was to be mobbed by the ridiculous citizens of the wizarding world. The sooner everyone forgot about Harry James Potter the better, in his opinion. The sooner they forgot about him, then the sooner he could fade back into the background to continue living his life the way he was destined to. He'd do his best to graduate from Hogwarts, and then he'd either find a job he could do from home or live off the considerable wealth his parents left him.

Either option was fine in Harry's eyes, as long as he was left alone, he'd be happy.

Not of course, that he believed he'd be left alone. He didn't want to know what the death toll would be by the time the train finally reached Hogwarts, he just knew that if adult wizards were stupid then younger ones would be of Dudley-level intelligence.

He'd tell them not to touch him, and they would.

They always did.

Pulling a book on defensive charms from the trunk at his side, Harry settled into wait. It brought him no pleasure to have to make an example of people, but he knew he would have no choice but to do so. He had ten years of experience that proved it, ten years of having no choice but to watch as the people around him destroyed themselves because they thought they knew better.

He was numb to it now. Or at least he told himself he was. It made it hurt a little less when someone inevitably forgot the unspoken rule and tried to touch him.

It didn't help much, but it helped some.

Gloved fingers tightening around the pages of the so-far useless book at the sound of the compartment door being swung open, Harry's jaw clenched as he heard someone clearing their throat expectantly, as if they were waiting for him to look up and acknowledge them. When it became obvious that he wasn't going to even pretend do that, a soft grumbling sounded from the doorway before the person standing there knocked loudly.

"Is anyone sitting there?" a voice asked impatiently, "Everywhere else is full".

Keeping his face blank, something Harry had years of practice in doing, he continued to ignore the boy standing in the doorway. He liked to hope that if he pretended the boy was there, then he'd go away. Instead the boy moved over to sit opposite Harry as if he'd received permission, a flash of red hair moving in his vision as the boy shoved his trunk up onto the luggage rack and sat down with a loud grunt.

"I'm Ron. Ron Weasley," the boy introduced, Harry just turning the page of his book silently in response. "Are you really Harry Potter?"

A fan. No surprises there.

"My Mum knew your parents before they died," Weasley continued loudly, "Well she didn't really know them, but she was in the same 'Healing Magicks' course at St. Mungo's as your Mum was, and they worked together once".

Oh yes, they must have been so close. Harry could see them now, knitting doilies and talking baby names. (He had a lot of time to develop a fine sense of sarcasm when he was on his own in the library, he was rather proud of it in fact).

"Anyway. Mum says that since you were raised by muggles – I can't imagine what they were like – that you probably don't know much about our world," Weasley added, apparently not noticing the way Harry had yet to acknowledge his existence. "I thought I'd just drop by and introduce myself, offer my help if you wanted to know how to avoid the wrong sort. You'll probably be in Gryffindor with me anyway, your parents were both Gryffindors you see".

Ah. So this was the first person to try leeching off his 'fame', all Harry needed now was to hear the words-

"Hey. Do you really have the Scar? The one where You-Know-Who cast the… Can I see it?"

When Harry didn't answer, Weasley apparently decided that he was going to have a look on his own, as the boy stood and reached towards Harry's fringe. Quickly jerking his head back, Harry swatted the boy's hand with his rather thick book and glared, cold green eyes locking onto stubborn blue ones.

"Don't touch me".

"Don't be like that mate," Weasley exclaimed, his face turning as red as his hair as Harry swatted at his hand when he reached out once more. "I just want to see the Scar!"

"And I don't want you to touch me," Harry snapped back, raising the book threateningly as he resisted the urge to curl up to present a small target. No more Mister Nice Harry. He wasn't going to roll over for anyone. He was done being the victim, the wizarding world had offered him a chance to live 'normally' and he was taking it with both hands.

All he had to do was find a cure and he'd be free. And if he had to walk over other people to get the cure then that's what he'd do. No more insisting they left him alone and just watching as they ignored him. He would give them three chances – no more, no less – and then he'd start showing them what he could really do. His experience in devouring the school library had translated across to his magical books, and although he knew he'd never be a student with perfect grades, he knew that he'd be at least in the top ten because of his lack of distractions (read as "friends").

Weasley's eyes narrowed and his hand hovered there for a moment, Harry easily counting the seconds as he subtly slipped the glove off his own hand.

They both moved at the same time.

Their skin had barely been touching for seconds before Weasley was letting out a scream of pain, the red-head throwing himself backwards as Harry lowered his hand and casually shook his sleeve down over the exposed pale skin. It felt different this time. Being the one to do it, choosing to hurt someone with his disease felt a lot better than watching helplessly as they were hurt anyway. It still wasn't something he ever believed he'd enjoy doing, but it was better them than him.

Watching with his perfected blank mask covering his face, Harry didn't bat an eye at the sight of the crystalline flesh on Weasley's hands, absently noting that the boy was rather lucky that it stopped near his wrist. He must have let go quickly then, considering the small distance the curse travelled and the lack of any other noticeable features.

"You should probably go find an adult," Harry suggested coolly as Weasley whimpered in pain, "It doesn't look too deep and I'm sure they could fix it".

"I told you not to touch me," he added simply when Weasley looked at him in horror.

The red-head stumble-sprinting from the compartment, Harry let out a shuddering sigh as he slipped his hand free of his sleeve and stared at the ice-pale limb. Tugging his glove back on, he turned his attention out the window sadly, letting himself get lost in his thoughts as he kept an ear on the door.

As much as he hated his curse, he sometimes felt like he was too used to it to ever give it up.

It had happened for as long as he remembered, anything living that he touched froze, with people suffering the worst. The first symptom was a biting cold, one they felt even when touching him through his clothes. When they touched his bare skin though things changed, the cold struck hard and fast, freezing their very atoms into ice. Thankfully the limbs were salvageable even without magic, turning back to normal flesh after a while, but his 'victims' never fully recovered from the experience. People like his Uncle Vernon, who'd tried to throttle him when he was eight, still couldn't use his right hand after it'd been frozen fully and it was even frostbitten once it turned back.

Weasley was lucky that Harry hadn't been holding onto him. A rather foul-smelling hairy man in a dress had tried to kidnap him once and he had grabbed the first thing he could – the man's face. Harry ran out of the alleyway leaving a man-shaped ice sculpture in two pieces behind him, he hadn't looked back or felt guilt over it either.

Picking up his book again, Harry returned to the section of elemental charms, part of him hoping that he might find a spell that could reduce if not bind his curse.

He doubted he'd find such a thing, but he could always hope.

FROSTBITE

Based off DZ2's rather interesting "Poisonous Touch" challenge.

I probably won't continue this one, but I thought it was too interesting to pass up writing at least a preview for it.