'Harry Potter is entering his 5th year at Hogwarts while struggling with the death of Cedric, the imminent discovery of his relatives' abuse, and even greater challenges than all of the previous years. On top of all of this, there is a strange glowing in his hands and the poor boy doesn't know what to do about it! What does it mean and what happens when the glowing, which started out as a minor inconvenience is imperative to the future of the Wizarding World?'
Disclaimer: I'm not JK Rowling and I making no money off of this
Warnings: Sort of a Severitus, mostly minor swearing, Powerful!Harry, physical/verbal abuse- those are the immediate ones I can think of
This is my first fanfiction so treat me kindly. Feel free to add any constructive criticism.
His hands were aching abominably, tightening with the raw, unused power that beat palpably just underneath the flesh. While the pain wasn't that bad, it was a type of pain he was completely unaccustomed with- one which cannot necessarily be described as "an ache" or even a "sharp" pain. If Harry didn't know any better, he'd even say that the middle of his palm was... glowing? But that would be crazy and utterly unacceptable, especially in the presence of his "loving" relatives.
He sighed, deftly massaging the palms of his hands. The pain just seemed to grow worse as the days went on, and just as exponentially his anxieties grew too. His fingers were itching to practice magic, yet Harry knew it was illegal and he could not risk another visit with the ministry. Now that Harry thought about, it probably couldn't be his magic that was acting up... magic wasn't painful, magic didn't pool into your hands desperately wanting to be released. Then again, what did? Nothing. That's just it.
Perhaps he should tell Dumbledore, he'd know what to do. At even the mere thought of the man, Harry's face twisted into a mixture anger and mortification. There was a plethora of things unmentioned between the two, and he couldn't bring himself to make the concession that he needed his help. Despite the childishness of the argument, especially in the face of something as potentially dangerous as his "aching hands", Harry wouldn't contact him.
Sighing shakily, he stood and pressed his palms warm with the sensation of pain to the cool window. The minute relief it managed to give Harry died away just as quickly as it came, and the longer he stood the there the hotter the glass got. Soon it was as if someone had put a magnified heating charm on the window!
Yelping, he retracted his hands, gaping at the glass which was now steaming! He eyed his hands warily and paced busily, who else could he tell? Dismally his mind sifted over the possibilities. He could write Hermione, but chances are she'd freak out and contact Dumbledore. Ron? He wouldn't even know and he'd probably tell Hermione. Sirius... no. Snape? He may be knowledgeable, but hell no. He'd rue the day when he asked that greasy git for anything.
He ticked off all the options in his head; it looks like he'd have to wait until his birthday, when he was taken by order members. Glancing at the tick marks on the wall, that was about 4 or 5 days away. Could he withstand it that long? What if something happened?
"If it gets any worse then this, I'll tell someone." Harry vowed silently to himself. He wished bitterly he had his trunk with his things in it, he might've been able to research just what was going on with his hands... too bad it was locked in the...
Jumping back in shock, Harry stared wide-eyed at what had appeared in his room...
"My.. my.. trunk," he whispered disbelievingly, rubbing his eyes as if unsure of what he was actually seeing. "How did I...?" Trailing off, he got up and warily circumvented the trunk, eyeing it and deliberately checking it for anything which appeared remotely dangerous. Could it be a trick?
Slowly he unclasped the silver lock, opening it with a cautious attitude not normally associated with him. He peered at everything; it was just how he left it! His books, robes, trinkets... and even photo album were safely ensconced in it. Nervously, he fingered the lining of the trunk, treating it as if it were a grenade that would inevitably explode. Quickly deciding it was safe, his face stretched into an unnaturally wide grin. The question that lingered in his mind about just how it got here swirled away in his resolve to re-explore everything that he had forgotten. Along with the question, Harry had barely even noticed that the pain in his hands had diminished slightly with the feat of magic just performed.
Flipping open a defense book, and forgetting all of his worries, he was finally able to begin his summer essays. Strangely, he found himself more pleased than he had been all summer. As the night wore on, he found himself getting drowsy...
Harry was travelling intently through the forest... he was so close, he could feel it pounding through his bones, pure instinct setting his soul alight with purpose and knowledge and passion... His hands ached more fiercely than ever before, tendrils of excited magic leaping out in exaltation... now was the time, he had waited so long... too long. Each time his feet tapped the dense forest floor he could feel himself getting closer.. .so close... The bond was just beginning, his destiny was just right around the undergrowth...
He was almost there...
"Up! Get UP! NOW!" Aunt Petunia's shrill voice bounced throughout the room. He groaned, feeling his ears twinge in pain.
"I'm up, I'm up," he replied, voice rough with dried phlegm. "I'll be down in 5 minutes."
Groggily he opened his eyes, the irritatingly bright sun piercing through the window and cutting into his shoulder blades. He grimaced, pushing up his sore body that had been awkwardly resting on his open defense book all night- on the floor, of all things. Smeared ink and a red, irritated book shaped mark adorned his face which gave him a rather strange appearance. He thought over the odd dream he had, the intensity of the emotions he felt was more vivid than the forgotten imagery. It was certainly an odd experience. As he became more aware of his surroundings, he became just as aware of his pain. His hands ached once again.
"Just fantastic," he drawled to himself, examining them more closely to find that his faintly glowing palms had grown brighter with tendrils flickering visibly out towards his fingers. Just what was going on with him... ? Vernon was not going to be happy with him if he noticed. With a resolved glance, he pushed aside his thoughts and slipped on a long, over sized t-shirt. Padding lightly down to the kitchen, he plastered a neutral expression on his face. "Would you like me to make breakfast, ma'am?" he cantered, a rhetoric he repeated everyday with a very predictable answer.
"Get to it, don't you dare burn the bacon." Aunt Petunia warned with an undisguised viciousness lingering in her voice. "You may have one piece of toast is you behave and get your chores done." He barely managed to keep the annoyance out of his expression, "Yes'm."
Working steadfastly, he deftly cracked eggs into a skillet and eyed the bacon with all the skill of a professional cook. The light sizzling of the eggs relaxed him as he poured in copious amounts of salt and pepper. He had enjoyed cooking, well-not when he was little, when he was inexperienced and was likely to be hit with the frying pan when the food burned- but certainly now when it gave his hands something to do.
Uncle Vernon lumbered down the stairs, "Boy!" he hollered angrily, and the sickly feeling of foreboding weighed in Harry's stomach.
"Yes, sir?" he replied with all the forced innocence he could muster, staring down at the bacon intently. Just what did he do now? "You.. you..."
Vernon's face turned an ugly shade of purple and he shook with hatred. Harry turned off the stove, glancing determinedly over at him. "Why. Are. Your. Things. Not. In. Your. Cupboard?"
Harry gulped, nearly shaking at seeing him more enraged than he could ever remember. Stupid, he should've at least hid his things under the bed! What was he thinking? Vernon eyed the boy dangerously, approaching him with pounding feet. The house shook almost fearfully with the combined weight and force of his steps, making Harry feel very tremulous. "Sir...?"
Harry collapsed to the ground as his Uncle's fist barelled through the air and hit him in the ribs. Thoroughly winded, he curled into himself protectively; staring like a deer caught in the headlights. His breathe heaved in and out painfully and there was a piercing feeling in his chest, he had been sure he heard something crack. Glancing with pursed lips at his tight wristwatch he looked at Harry,"I will deal with you later, boy." he whispered quietly yet forcefully. He straightened his fine suit, adjusted his tie and left the house to work. All Harry could do was just stare as he left, feeling all at once pained and flabbergasted. Sure, his Uncle was not the best person to live with... he had over the years made his sheer hatred of Harry very apparent, yet the man had only ever given him the occasional slap. To see that the violence had escalated this far had, frankly, terrified Harry.
All the while, the birds chirped and the bacon sizzled, smoke filling the air.
Well shit, he'd burned breakfast.