Chapter One: A Cold Day In Hell

Jeering. Jesting. Cold, Hateful Comments.

These were things Hadrian James Potter knew, more so than the average person. Fame, it would seem, did little to lessen the impact. Hurtful words, they bled the flesh as easily as any blade or spell. Professor Snape was right: fame wasn't everything.

Not that it ever had been, but that was beside the point. The issue at hand, truly, was the fact he was, once more, sprinting. That was at the heart of the problem, and this, too, was something Harry had plenty of experience in.

Running.

He'd spent most of his life running. From his birth, there was Voldemort. The dark wizard had destroyed his family and orphaned him. Now, every year, he was out to kill him in one fashion or another. After his first year, there was the Dursleys and the general population of Little Whinging, Surrey. Family and community, these were supposed to be items of worth, of love and protection. Neither he knew much of, at the tender age of fifteen.

Was he fleeing? No, that he was not. Surviving another summer? Certainly.

The truth of things, however, were not so easily avoided. Voldemort's return, being at the top of the metaphorical iceberg. Cedric's death, right beneath. Two issues, both personal.

One was a madman out for his blood, and the other was a dear friend who had taught him there was nothing wrong with being different. He now would rather not be thinking of such differences, though many Cedric had not been able to explain before his untimely death.

No, his mind was occupied by Dudley and his rat-faced gang.

Oh, how he loved Harry Hunting. A lovely game, truly.

So Hadrian "Harry" Potter ran, and did not look back. The streets were familiar, the turns comfortable. The heat was one of the two. Familiar, yes, but comfortable? No, it would be a cold day in hell before he'd enjoy the hot, humid misery of his life.

Shirt soaked and stuck to wet skin did not make for a favorable experience in outrunning his larger, stockier cousin. Don't get him wrong: he did enjoy warm weather. He liked it a far lot more than he liked the cold. His dislike for the second grew after the second year, and his weatherly preferences were met in Gryffindor Tower.

It was always just right, in terms of heat. Not too hot. Not too cold.

In the end, though, movement was his truest friend. Lungs burning, gaze blurred from a lack of glasses perched on his nose. Muscles burning, a grin in place. The steady, sharp swing of his arms, blood pumping through his veins. Even the erratic buzz of magic under his skin was a thing of beauty, a thing of danger ready to unfold at the smallest of nudges.

Smaller things, those he could ignore. Readily so. The sharp sting of salt-laden sweat getting into the open gashes on his back, those were minor. Skin broken by the hard hit of a belt, metal cutting skin. The burns along his arms from fumbling at the stove. A long scar along his side, letters carved eternally into his flesh.

Two words: Never Forget.

They were ones he would keep with himself, his to keep to the grave. Rounding a bend, Harry grinned. The sound of pursuit, the steady pattern of boots and shoes on asphalt, was fading. Soon it was only his own feet on the ground. Harry relished in the end of the chase.

It was impossible to not enjoy it, not when the thrill was so great. The off-chance of getting caught, the possibility of a beating no one would stop? It made the urge, the drive, to stay on the run, to never get caught, all the more potent. It was like a drug, really, in how it pushed him forward without any thought or hesitation.

Every cut was a reminder.

Every bruise a lesson to be learned.

And every scar was a mystery, an untold story.

So he ran, keeping each reminder, each lesson, and each story to heart. Fifteen short years sown into his skin; Harry slowed into a trot, huffing but smiling. He laced his fingers together, and arched his arms into the air. Shoulders and fingers popped, muscles stretching with the fluid movements.

Harry cracked his neck, laughing softly at the way it popped. How were the others, he wondered? Hermione had sent him a message, not all that long ago. She was worried. The message between the lines, the way her words were slanted and pressed close together, said as much. His friends, they were unable to say much.

Their letters could be intercepted at any moment. Yet Harry couldn't help but wonder where his friends were staying. Was Dumbledore there? Was everyone together? Were they all safe? Was Remus getting his medicine? Was Sirius safe with the Ministry and Dementors at large? And, at the very back of his mind, he wondered who he could truly trust, and when they would betray him.

Adults tended to do that. It wasn't their fault, per say. It was wired in their DNA, the need to lie and lock away key truths. His friends, they were likely at Sirius's place. Whatever messages they sent, they would be looked over. Albus Dumbledore, that was the first name that came to mind. A trusted teacher, too, could be looking over any correspondences.

Wouldn't want him to know more than he should, right?

He was here, in this hellish place, because it was safe.

But was it? Harry wandered Little Whinging, and none were the wiser. No magicals leapt out of the bushes to usher him inside with terrified glances over their shoulders. There were no harsh and angry looks, other than the people living around the Dursleys who believed him to be some gangbanger out to destroy them all.

The mere thought made him laugh. If they really knew what he did for them, they wouldn't be so quick to judge him. Weren't adults supposed to be the ones who did something about shit like this? As Harry rounded a corner, panting, he couldn't help but to laugh.

They should, he knew. They just didn't care.

Plopping down on the first flat, upraised platform he could find, Harry exhaled. Resting back on his elbows, gaze on the darkening sky, he frowned. Only a few months. It hadn't been long, since Voldemort returned, but nothing was coming up. Granted, his friends were proving to be nothing but useless, in that matter.

The local news station was worthless. Even the internet had nothing, the few times he had managed to get his hands on a search engine. Not that he had much to work with. Muggles and Voldemort did not exist in the same sentence. They knew nothing about him, unless they had a family member or close friend in some form of magical school.

But, really, what did they know?

He liked being in the dark. The sky was opening up, thousands of small stars beginning to flicker into view. So he opted to relax, to take in the sounds, the sights, the smells, and turn his mind away from the resurrected Dark Lord. Hogwarts began in a few days.

Not all that long, now.

Hedwig was off doing who-knew-what. Maybe she'd spy the Dark Lord during one her long, lonely flights. Perhaps she would see him from a distance, as he traveled wherever he went when he wasn't hunting his prophesied enemy. Harry grinned. If he was out and about, and his dear owl near, she'd see him without doubt.

Looking like the love child of a dead man and a snake would be impossible to miss. Right?

It should be.

Blinking, Harry groaned. He was thinking about Voldemort once more. It was hard not to think about him, considering the hell he made Harry's life be. So, rising to his feet, Harry made his way from wherever he had found himself, towards some distance place, with a slow exhale.

The truth was simple, really. He could explore. He could keep on running. In the end, however, he had to face his monsters. They would never leave. They would always be in some dark, shadowy place. And, above all else?

They would always be waiting.

Author's Note

As I had mentioned, I am redoing this story. Each chapter will be structured like this one. The title and chapter name at the top, the story in the middle, and a possible AN from me at the bottom. No more intros at the beginning. It'll make the story a bit smoother to read, I think. As is, I'll leave this as is. I do have another chapter, but, before I post that one, I need to finish the third one now that I'm in the middle of remaking BOTS.

BOTS. Makes me laugh. BOTS.

I hope you enjoy the new and improved Blood of the Serpent.

It'll come out chapter-by-chapter. So enjoy, favorite, follow, and, if it you please, review.