Lillywhite | Part 1

Summary: Harry Potter has always loved to fly. More importantly, he has always loved the wind. This is not a story about Harry being murdered or kidnapped. This is a story about Harry simply getting blown away.

Rated: K+

"You will never be happy if you continue to search for what happiness consists of. You will never live if you are looking for the meaning of life."

-Albert Camus

Harry Potter, age fifteen (but only just) sat in grass with his back against house number four, on a street called Privet Drive, in an area called Little Whinging, in a place called Surrey. A few potted tulips and daisies were across from him, along with a shovel, a bag of dirt, and another of fertilizer. It was eleven o'clock in the morning and Harry had started his chores at seven forty five on the dot. He'd mowed the lawn and trimmed the bushes, watered the grass and cleaned the windows, even painted the garage door a shade of off white (previously it had been pure white which Petunia Dursley had insisted be repainted, considering the small chip which exposed a bit of the gray material that the door was made of. Rather than paint over the chip, Petunia had picked a color which, she felt, complemented the beige off the house much better) and after all the work Harry had done he still had three quarters of a list waiting to be completed.

The next item on said list was to plant three daisies and two tulips in this exact pattern: daisy, tulip, daisy, tulip, daisy. Upon reading this, Harry had rolled his eyes at the very specific instructions and proceeded to collapse against the side of the house, his bum landing in the very spot where daisy number two was to be planted. This was the position Harry had been in the for the past hour, fast asleep. Harry would be able to be found in this same spot as it became noon and for some time into the wee hours of the afternoon.

"BOY!"

Harry leapt away from the wall with a squawk. Blinking blearily, his emerald eyes full of sleep and his glasses askew, Harry looked up into the puce face of his very large and formidable Uncle Vernon. Harry noted (quite inappropriately, considering the circumstances) that the vein in Vernon's forehead was pulsing a fair bit more aggressively usual. In fact, the last time Harry could remember seeing his uncle's forehead throbbing so viscously was when he had been thirteen and had, in a bout of rage, (and really quite accidentally, thank you very much) inflated his Aunt Marge to nearly the size of a hot air balloon. She'd floated threw the air in a similar fashion of a fore mentioned balloon as well.

This did not bode well for Harry, considering that the inflation of his sister had left Vernon Dursley in quite a state. Fearing the worst, Harry righted himself and stood to await any oncoming punishment.

"You lazy, pathetic, worthless, waste of space! You useless wretch! WHY we ever bothered to keep you is beyond me! You complete freak of human being!"

Vernon kept his voice low, but his tone was vicious, and Harry was sure that had they been indoors Vernon would have been shouting at the top of his lungs. It was at times like these that Harry counted himself very lucky for the nosey neighbors on Privet Drive.

Harry tuned him out as well as he could, which was very well, he was proud to say. Harry mumbled out a "Yes, Sir." or a "Sorry, Sir." every so often, for having lived with the Dursleys for very nearly his entire life had taught him that during a rant like the one he experiencing now, it was best the keep your head down and your words to a minimum.

"-Would have been in the orphanage from DAY ONE if it had been my choice! But dear Petunia! Took pity on you, bleeding heart that she is-"

Harry was happy to see that Vernon was rapidly running out of steam.

"WELL, Boy?"

"Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir."

Vernon stomped off, slamming the door closed. Once he was inside, Harry could hear Petunia berating him for that action, because, after all, what would the neighbors think?

Harry yawned and set to work on planting the flowers, whistling a pleasant tune as he dug the holes and (though he'd never admit it, especially not the Ronald Weasley) lovingly inserted the plants, and patted the dirt around them with a sure hand. The afternoon sun was beating down on him and Harry wished for some relief. As if on cue, a light breeze picked up around him.

Harry sighed as the air swept his hair from his sweating brow.

Another thing Harry Potter would admit to no one was the true reason he enjoyed flying on his broomstick as much as he did. Quidditch was wonderful of course; the comradeship, alongside the thrill of the game was likable enough. However, simply flying through the air, creating wind around himself, left Harry with an indescribable feeling. It was as though the sky was his and his alone, the air moving through him like he was a part of it. He rode the wind as a surfer rode a wave, different though, almost as if the surfer were a part of the wave.

At any rate, admitting these feeling would surely end in constant mockery by anyone who had heard him say it. With that in mind, Harry kept with the story that having the talent to annihilate his greatest rival, Draco Malfoy, year after year was enough of a reason to fly. Harry was surprised that people, keenly his closest friends, would accept a reason like this, for he was sure they knew how he detested his fame and that his dearest wish (aside from having his parents alive and well) was to fit in and be accept as Harry and not Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived. Being a star Quidditch player wasn't exactly a good way of blending in.

The sun was low in the sky as Harry finished his last task and headed inside to cook dinner. Harry didn't notice that the moment the front door was closed the air outside immediately stilled. Nor had he noticed that, as he worked, the wind weaved around him, keeping his body comfortable and his spirits high. Of course, winds picking up around Harry Potter was a pretty typical occurrence. It wasn't wholly unusual, either. Some young wizards or witches started fires when upset, or levitated objects, but Harry simply brought wind. Be it a breeze through the kitchen, or a gust of wind that leads to Harry finding himself on a roof top. Even his aunt filling with hot air and the wind carrying her away. Wind was a normal thing for Harry to have around him.

And, after all, there were many things Harry Potter didn't notice.

Harry awoke from a very pleasant dream to a sharp and irritating "TAP! TAP! TAP!" against his bedroom window. Sad to see the pleasant images go, Harry opened his sleepy green eyes to see a tiny little owl carrying a package nearly twice its size begging to be let in. Every so often the owl's wings would give out, and the little bird would begin to fall before managing to flap enough to remain airborne.

As he was hurrying to the window, with as much energy as he could muster, Harry very abruptly fell to the ground. He nearly fell asleep right where he fell, but managed (just barely) to pull himself to his feet. After a brief inspection of the floor behind him, Harry came to the conclusion that there was nothing at all he could have tripped over. The really strange thing about the tripping incident, or so Harry thought, was that as he fell, he could have sworn he heard a childish giggle. 'How odd...' Harry mused, 'It felt like something just swept my feet right from under me...'

"HOOT!"

"Pig!" Said Harry with urgency. Chalking the whole thing up to drowsiness, Harry dashed to the window and let the exhausted owl in.

Pigwidgeon, or rather 'Pig', collapsed on Harry's bed, his entire body seemed to inflate with each gasping breath. Harry winced and brought Hedwig's water bowl from her cage, he scooped Pig up gently with one hand and put the bowl against his beak. Once his breathing was in check, Pig began to gulp down water. "Sorry, Pig," said Harry remorsefully, being as kind and honest as he was, he felt legitimately guilty and attempted to sooth the over worked owl by stroking his tawny feathers. When the water was long gone, Harry set Pig down and sorted through his trunk. He emerged with a bag of owl treats and fed a great many the ravenous little bird, as Pig continued to wolf down treat after treat, Harry muttered to himself, "Yes, you really are Ron's familiar through and through, aren't you?"

Harry reached for the package Pig had dropped on his bed. He pulled a letter off the front, it read:

Harry,

I really can't believe those bloody muggles, mate! I saw your cousin last summer, and he's a bloody whale. No diets gonna fix him, I'm telling you.

Mum reckons you'd be nothing but bones if you lost anymore weight, so she baked this cake for me to send you. I'm a jealous, really. Delicious looking thing, seems a shame to put it in a box.

Look, mate, I'm sorry Hermione and me can't tell you more about what's going on here, but we're under an oath. I know you're practically sick over it, but I swear we'd tell you if we could. Besides, you'll find out everything when you get here.

Ron

Harry was delighted at the prospect of Mrs. Weasley's cake, but was shocked at the mention of the secrets Ron and Hermione were sharing. They'd barely told him anything about what was happening in the wizarding world, and he'd been fuming for most of the time he'd been at the Dursleys, but for some reason, in the past week or so, Harry had just forgotten. He hadn't been thinking about Voldemort or Ron and Hermione hiding things from him, or anything really. He couldn't explain it, he's just been feeling very... Carefree.

Harry shook his head, disgusted with himself. He made to open the box of cake, and noticed a second letter attached to it.

Harry,

Harry smiled at Hermione's handwritting.

I'm so sorry Ron and I can't give you more information about what's happening here, Harry, but it's really for the best. You'll understand once you're here. Which will be soon, I swear. I really hope you aren't angry, Harry. You have every right to be. I would be angry if I was being kept in the dark, and I'm sorry! Ron and I will try to talk to Dumbledore to see when you can get here. Alright, Harry?

I hope the Dursley's aren't being awful.

Oh, and enjoy the cake.

Love,

Hermione

Harry was chuckled at Hermione's antics. He couldn't say why, but he wasn't angry. It was very unlike him to not be worried about Voldemort, to not be angry about things being kept from him, but it was how he felt, he really couldn't explain it if he tried.

Harry paid little mind to the worries that had been plaguing him for weeks, as he sat with his bedroom window open, staring at the sky. Harry found himself unable to pull his eyes from it, he wasn't sure how long he sat and staring at the passing clouds and breathing in fresh air. He couldn't imagine himself ever being worried, or afraid, or hurt even. Harry wasn't sure how he could have taken the beauty of sky and the grass and the trees for granted for so long. Whenever he passed any sort of plant, he couldn't help but stop and study it, appreciate its intricacies.

Harry was so deeply involved in his own world he barely registered the wind pick up and brush over and through his skin, taking up his entire being. Harry sighed, feeling complete and content, as he felt the purity of nature infiltrate his body. A few whispered words caught his ears; words like "Free" and "Change". Neither did Harry notice the two dark and hooded creatures that floated down Privet Drive. The very same creatures that, upon nearing Number 4, were whipped back by a powerful wind, finding themselves unable to get close enough to Harry to do him any harm.

Pigwidgeon lay on Harry's pillow, very nearly unconscious and completely unaware that, as he dozed, Harry was loosing a piece of himself to the air.

It was very unusual for Harry Potter to be able to say that his summer hadn't been miserable, but somehow he was thinking just that.

Harry couldn't help but smile as he thought of the last few weeks. He had no idea what was happening to him, but he was loving every bit of it so much that he wasn't sure he even really cared to find out. Harry was no longer temperamental, no longer worried, and, most importantly, no longer scared. Harry didn't worry what Voldemort would do to him, or his friend and family. Harry wasn't afraid, and he couldn't keep from laughing joyfully at the thought.

Yesterday evening, a eight o'clock, to be exact, a very severe looking black owl with matching eyes had flown into his room and given him a note telling him that at this same time on August 23rd Harry would be picked up and taken to an undisclosed location, the letter was signed Arthur Weasley.

Funnily enough, as much as Harry would be happy to see his friends, he couldn't say he'd been yearning for their company. Although he'd been alone for roughly two months, Harry wasn't feeling lonely. In fact, Harry felt as though he were as safe as possible, surrounded by entities full of love for him. As the 22nd came and went, Harry barely thought of being picked up from his relatives home, he barely thought of his friends, or of his godfather. For Harry Potter was lost, he knew, but he wasn't upset or nervous to say so. In fact, Harry was sure that, if this was how it felt to be lost, he hoped very dearly to never be found.

Something Harry never thought he would do willingly was dance. Yet, here he was; a breeze, coming in through his opened window, was twirling him around, and his arms and legs made graceful motions as he turned. He let out a happy and lighthearted laugh, smiling like fool.

Harry felt the wind flow through him one last time, he inhaled deeply with his eyes closed, and then slipped to the ground. He felt buoyant and calm, nearly moved to tears of elation.

Harry was pulled from his blissful stupor by a knock at the front door. "Hm?" He mumbled, as he made his way to the window, looking down he saw a head of bright red hair and another of light brown. "Oh!" Smiling again, Harry went to quickly pack his trunk, but as he turned around, he realized it had already been pack. This was bizarre, for Harry was sure he hadn't packed his things. Letting it go, Harry made his way down stairs to the front door. Neither his aunt, cousin, or uncle were home, luckily they had been invited to a garden party or something of the like. Still feeling jovial, Harry pulled open the door.

"Hello, Remus, Mr. Weasley!" His voice was full of chirpy and gleeful, Remus and Arthur both seemed very surprised to see Harry Potter, Mr. Melancholy himself, standing at the door, looking as though he didn't have a care in the world.

Remus smiled back at him, glad that Harry had abandoned the title 'Professor Lupin', and delighted to see Harry looking well, for Remus was sure he hadn't seen Harry so happy since he'd been a year old, "Hello, Harry."

Mr. Weasley seemed only slightly less surprised, on account of having seen Harry leave the Dursleys before; for each time he did so, Harry was as spirited as he had ever seen him, "Well, Hi there, Harry."

Beaming, Harry opened the door wide and beckoned them in, "I'll get my trunk." He took off up the stairs, leaving the too men in the impeccable living, and to there own devices.

Remus laughed as he went, and looked to Arthur, "He seems well."

Arthur looked just as bemused, "Well? I don't think I've ever seen him so happy!"

As Harry lugged his heavy trunk down the stairs with a "THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!" he attempted to pull the air from his head and fill the space with his brain, not wanting to appear spacey to his best friend's father and his favorite teacher. He stopped in front of the two and said, "Are we leaving now?"

Remus answered, "Yes, Harry. We're going to Headquarters." Remus seemed to be unable to stop smiling at this chipper new boy in front of him.

Harry very nearly smiled and nodded, knowing he would understand eventually, and really, what was the rush? A little nagging curiosity bit at the back of his brain, however, and caused him to ask, "Headquarters to what?"

"You'll see when we get there," Arthur sounded sorry, but set in his ways, "We can't tell you before."

Harry did smile and nod at this, "How are we getting there, then?"

"We'll have to fly. We can't floo there, and you're much to young to apparate. You'll learn how to, apparate, that is, in school, but side long is a little iffy to do with a boy your age."

Harry wasn't sure what Arthur meant by "Side Long" but chose not to question him, after all, the prospect of flying was one he loved to much to try and argue. So he just nodded in agreement, and went to his trunk to find his broom.

"Come here, Harry. I need to Disillusion you."

Harry walked forward to Remus, and didn't flinch as he pulled his wand out and muttered as spell a Harry's face. Harry felt as though some had cracked an egg over his head, and the slime was slowly making its way down his body, he looked at his hands and saw that they were slowly starting to match the carpet.

"Oh," said Harry, his voice understanding, "So, the name's pretty literal, then."

Remus and Arthur exchanged bewildered glances at Harry's untroubled attitude.

Flying over London was an experience Harry would never forget. Months ago, flying as high as he was, with the wind whipping around him, would have barely phased Harry. Now though, Harry was so enthused by the air around he was nearly screaming in joy. Grinning madly, and more thrilled than he could remember being in his life; he laughed out loud and his voice was carried away by the wind.

Arthur, who was leading the trio to Headquarters, was ignorant to how the fifteen year old was acting. Remus, however, having opted to take up the rear, was in complete shock over Harry's antics. He was quite sure he had not seen Harry so freely joyous through out the entire time he had known the raven haired boy.

Harry saw Arthur raise his right hand and gesture downward as he began to fly lower, Harry and Remus followed in suit. As they came nearer and nearer to the ground, Harry began to feel a looming sadness. Having to leave the air seemed like a terrible tragedy, and the prospect of going indoors seemed even more horrible. He felt tears well in his eyes as he followed Arthur lower and lower, the winded picked up, mussing his hair and flowing through him. This heartened Harry, reminding him that landing and heading inside wouldn't take away his newfound happiness. Harry smiled and nodded, a tear or two escaped from his green eyes, but were blown away, and all traces of sadness on Harry's face had disappeared as they hit the pavement.

The houses that surrounded the three were very unpleasant. Some seemed dilapidated, but all seemed quite unkempt. Piles of rubbish sat in front of some, and all the grass around them was yellow and sickly. For whatever reason, Harry found the dead grass to be very disheartening. Sick to his very core at the thought of dead things surrounding him, Harry very nearly picked up his broom and flew away. Luckily, before he could, a feeling entered his mind. Not a voice, commanding him, but a feeling of understanding. A feeling of acceptance of death and change. The same sort of feeling he'd had when the wind passed through him as he flew. Stilling the tears that threatened to fall, Harry again nodded and smiled faintly.

"Ah, here you are, Harry."

Harry took the small piece of torn paper that was handed to him by Arthur, it read:

The headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London.

Harry cocked his head and furrowed his eyebrows, he looked up at Remus, who gave him a crooked smile, and inclined his head to a spot in between houses eleven and thirteen. A stereo played in number eleven, and, if you were to look closely through an upper story window, the shape a teenager could be made out, bobbing his shaggy head to the beat. Noting this, Harry looked back at Remus and then to Arthur, just as confused as ever. Chuckling, Remus spoke softly, "Think about what you've just read," then grabbed the paper from Harry's right hand. Upon putting his wand to it, the paper promptly turned to ash and crumpled to the ground.

Momentarily distracted by the ruined note, Harry pulled himself out of his revere and looked back to where the missing house should be. Suddenly, a door appeared, and as Harry's eyebrows hit his hair line, dirty black walls pushed themselves outward and shoved the surrounding houses unceremoniously out of the way. The teen in number eleven kept bopping his head, seemingly unaware of the sudden shift his home had made. Harry grinned, feeling mesmerized and delighted by the magic that lived in this world of his.

Remus and Arthur exchanged yet another glance, each contemplating Harry's odd actions. On his part, Harry seemed perfectly content to stand and stare up at the stars, thinking of magic, all through the night.

This did not come about, however, and Harry soon found himself dragged by the two men up a few creaky old steps and into the newly erected Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

Thanks for reading part one of Lillywhite! There will be, in total, three parts by the time I have finished this story.

I am sort of writing this in hopes of counter acting the depression I've forced myself into by writing Deadweight (which will be updated as soon as possible) and hope you all enjoy it!

Thanks for reviewing. I really do appreciate it. ;)