This story was written for the Fourth Round of the Seventh Season of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition. I'm writing as Chaser 2 for The Tutshill Tornados.

Name of the round: Don't Take Things Out of Context!

This round, we've been given TV or movie quotes to use and be inspired by. And I took it really out of context, to say the least.

CHASER 2: "Now this is exactly why the doctor changed his number on us." Fresh Prince of Bel-Air

These are the prompts I'm using as a chaser to score some extra points:

1. [song] Run Boy Run — Woodkid

8. [object] Pendant

12. [quote] 'You know what they say about truth and the appearance of truth being opposites.' — The Power, Naomi Alderman

Disclaimer: I don't own any part of the world J.K. Rowling has created. It's all hers, from Diagon Alley to Hogwarts to all the people living there.

Thanks ever so much to my team for helping me figure out what this story could be about and who and how and for fixing some spelling mistakes too. An extra thanks to Hazuzu. You were my saviour this round.

WARNING: several deaths

Oblivion Hides in my Skin
Words: 2 992

Harry was ten years old the first time he killed. A slight warning preceded it. He dreamed of green light. The dream left him and his bed drenched in sweat, sent his heart racing, and filled him with unspeakable dread. Following it, he couldn't sleep, couldn't make the sensation go away; chills crawled up his spine, his nerves twitched restlessly, and his mind was in a flurry. He tossed and turned, threw his covers on and off, and fluffed his pillow to ruin. He wanted to get up, to roam, but he had to stay abed. The Dursleys didn't approve of him being outside his room without supervision. He wanted to please them. He did his best to do so, to make them accept him as part of the family; so he held out until morning, but as soon as they moved on the floor above, he eagerly escaped his cupboard.

In the kitchen, he bumped into Uncle Vernon. They touched skin against skin. From that spot, green light erupted. Uncle Vernon fell dead to the floor. Aunt Petunia screamed, a gut-wrenching wail. She fell to her knees next to her husband.

"Get away from him!" she screeched and pushed Harry away. They touched skin against skin. Again, the light burst forth, and Petunia joined Vernon on the floor.

"Wh-what did you do?" Dudley stammered.

Breathless and stiffened with fright, Harry looked at his hands. "I don't know," he said. "I don't know."

Help came. Adults who wanted the best for Harry and his cousin, who tried to comfort them and tell them it wasn't their fault. One of them, a man with a leering smile, reached out to Harry. They touched skin against skin. Three people died in as many hours. The adults didn't understand what had happened or how it had happened, but Harry understood enough. He ran.

Of course, no one was about to let a ten-year-old stay a runaway. They found Harry the very next day and brought him to an orphanage. For a time, everything was calm. Nothing happened, and Harry tried to convince himself that he'd assumed wrongly. He'd had nothing to do with the death of his aunt, uncle, or that man. It was unfortunate circumstances, and he'd only imagined the green.

He made sure no one touched him, though, doubt lingering, fear of more death always present at the back of his mind. He didn't let any of the adults tuck him in at night—it would have been awkward anyway—and didn't let the other children near, standing to the side when they played. It was lonely. It was necessary. It was safe.

Over time, he let go of his caution. He began to trust the matron, and he made friends. He accidentally touched people, and it was fine. He relaxed fully, sure that things were all right.

Then one day, he got into a scuffle with some of the other boys. Two of them were more persistent than the others. One kept up with Harry's quick-witted retorts, but the other was more interested in letting his fists do the talking.

"Yeah, yeah, you're both very smart. You can continue bad-mouthing each other later. Now, you're gonna shut up, and we're gonna fight!" There was malice in his eyes and a twisted sneer at his mouth. He attacked Harry. They touched skin against skin. The boy died. Harry didn't wait to hear what the other boy, the other children, would say. Neither did he wait to see what the adults would do, where they'd take him, where they'd lock him up. He ran.

He was smarter this time and escaped recapture. It was a good time of the year to be on the run; the weather was mild and dry. Soon he had to overcome his aversion of thievery; he had to eat. He would filch fruit and vegetables or go through bins whenever possible to avoid supermarkets, but he felt bad about it regardless of what he took. Still, he justified it to himself because small theft was more benign than murder.

In the middle of the summer, he woke up with a letter on his chest. There was no stamp on it, and it was addressed to him in the location where he'd slept: The Abandoned Barn. Appleby Farm. Chattis Hill. HAMPSHIRE. Inside the thick envelope were even more fantastical words: witchcraft and wizardry. Perhaps it was an explanation to what happened when Harry touched someone, but going to a school was risky, so Harry decided he'd better not accept the invitation. He daren't.

The people of Hogwarts had other ideas. On the seventh of September, one of them found him, a dour man dressed all in black, with curtains of greasy hair, and a hooked nose.

"Come on, Potter," he said. "You're done with this little farce of yours. You wanted extra attention and now you've got it. You're coming to Hogwarts!" He reached out to grab Harry, who dodged his hands.

"No!" he screamed. "You can't touch me!"

The man rolled his eyes. "What utter nonsense."

"You don't understand," Harry said frantically. "People who touch me die. There's a green light, and they die. People can't be around me. It's not safe."

He peered at Harry, thoughtful. "Does it always happen?"

"No."

"Speak up! When does it happen?"

"When they touch my skin directly and not always then either."

"Hmph," the man grunted. He reached inside a pocket and pulled out a pair of dark gloves. "Wear these, and make sure your sleeves are long, and you'll be fine." He tossed the gloves at Harry, who caught them deftly. They were sinfully soft. Under the man's watchful gaze, Harry pulled them on and flexed his fingers.

It might work.

He accepted the offer to start at Hogwarts, and Professor Snape brought him to a castle brimming with magic. Once more, things settled. No one touched Harry, and no one died. People talked about him for his weird no-touching-quirk and for always wearing gloves, coming up with one ludicrous idea after another to explain it, boils, creature-inheritances, and curses. The one about the curse was the one that stuck, and it was the one that might be the truth, too. He found out how his parents had died, how he'd gotten his scar, and the colour of the Killing Curse: green. It didn't explain everything. No one had ever survived the Unforgivable Curse before, so no one could say what the side effects were or explain why he could touch some people and not others.

He made friends. He learned magic. He felt at home. He grew bold enough to try to uncover the mystery of the corridor on the third floor with Ron and Hermione. They learned about the Philosopher's' Stone and that someone planned to steal it. They set out to protect it, and Harry ended up alone with Professor Quirrell. Desperate, he pulled off his gloves.

They touched skin against skin. The professor died. The phantom of the Dark Lord escaped the scene, and Harry did the same. Quirrell had been a bad man, sure, but Harry hadn't wanted to kill him; he'd never wanted to kill anyone, and now that it had happened again, he couldn't stay. He ran.

Diagon Alley was where he went. He'd been told he had gold, and he would never steal again if he didn't have to. With gold in his pocket, food in his belly, and a pair of new gloves on, he knew that he'd best be on his way, but adventure beckoned, and he set out to explore. After dark had fallen, he wandered into Knockturn Alley. The street was narrow, the cobblestones were hidden under dirt, and the windows of the shops were covered in dust and cobwebs. People with hoods drawn over their eyes skulked about in the shadows, slinking in and out of creaky doors with their unsavoury purchases tucked inside their cloaks.

Following their lead, Harry pulled up his hood and crept along the walls, scurrying past alley mouths and open doors. His technique kept him safe for a little while. There was something off about it though, and the people of Knockturn could smell new, young, and uncertain on him. A delectable, irresistible scent.

In one case, it was literal. A gaunt, anaemic man approached Harry, towered over him, and crowded him into a corner; all the while, not a word passed his lips, but they parted and light glinted off sharp teeth. He was a vampire. Quirrell had taught Harry enough to let him understand that much.

Subtly, he removed his gloves. He didn't want to kill the vampire, but he didn't want to die either. "You should back off," he said. "If you don't, I'll—" His voice shook and broke. "If you touch me, you'll—" He couldn't say it, couldn't stand tall when threatening murder.

The vampire smiled. It was a sweet smile, incongruous with the intent in his eyes. He placed his hand on the crook of Harry's neck. Some fabric was between them. He moved his hand up towards Harry's face. They touched skin against skin.

At witnessing the light of the Avada Kedavra, and the demise of the vampire, the scarce crowd melted into the shadows, all but one man, who instead approached, and in doing so, he revealed that he was an outsider. From beneath his black cloak peaked silky, peacock-blue robes, and from under his hood followed golden locks.

"You're Harry Potter," he said, a too large and synthetic smile lighting up his face. He looked down at the body of the vampire. "Now this is exactly why the doctor changed his number on him," he said with a chuckle.

Harry gaped at him, sure he was insane. He backed away, bumped into the wall, and moved along it.

"Is that not the Muggle expression? Oh well. Harry—I can call you Harry, yes? Of course, I can. I've heard about your curse. Tragic, very tragic. Though it means that you can take care of yourself. Yes, take care of that and more. Why don't you come with me? Knockturn Alley is no place for two celebrities, two heroes, such as ourselves!"

Harry frowned. "Who are you?"

"You don't know?" The mad wizard chortled; it was a short, incredulous sound. "I'm Gilderoy Lockhart! Five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award, illustrious author of eight best-selling books, and adventurer extraordinaire." He paused, waiting for Harry to come to a realisation and perhaps spontaneously applaud. When that didn't happen, he shook himself. "Right, well. I'd like to help you. You see, in my travels, I've encountered people like you, people who were cursed and who then cursed people in turn. There's a solution for it, a pendant you can use that stops the curse."

"Really?"

Lockhart nodded. "Yes, and if you help me with one little thing—just a small matter—I'll get one for you. Deal?" He held out a hand, waiting for Harry to shake. He wasn't very bright, that was for sure, offering up his skin like that, but if there was even a kernel of truth to his claim about the pendant, Harry had to try. A pendant would provide him so much more freedom than clothes ever could. He put his glove back on and shook Lockhart's hand.

Lockhart brought Harry to his home. He hummed and hawed by a large set of bookshelves and produced a pendant. It was an ornate thing in gold. He ceremoniously put it around Harry's neck, being very careful to not touch him, and he continually kept his distance, though he confiscated Harry's gloves and encouraged Harry to shake the hands of a lot of strange people. They all survived. The Killing Curse made no appearance, and each time the pendant worked as promised, Lockhart's smile grew stiff. He kept obstinately quiet about what he wanted Harry to help him with, brushed away all of Harry's questions on the topic, and insisted that he enjoy his new freedom without any worry for other things.

A meeting, some weeks after Harry had first met Lockhart, started like all the others. They were in the private home of some self-important wizard, there was food, and Lockhart bragged until his face turned figuratively blue. Listening to that drivel for the nth time, Harry pressed his jaw together to not let any comment slip. Lockhart arranged a private audience away from the party and prompted Harry to shake hands with a select person, and here was where it went wrong. The man was unassuming, pale haired and with droopy eyes, but his sleeves were pulled up to the elbow, showing the faint outline of a tattoo of a snake and a skull. They touched skin to skin, and once more the inescapable curse of death was activated. The wizard crumpled.

Harry gaped, uncomprehending.

"Finally!" Lockhart said. Harry turned his confused gaze on him. "Did I say that out loud? No matter. You won't be able to remember anyway. I'm sorry, Harry. This will be a bit unpleasant."

"What are you doing?"

"Some people need to die. They're inconvenient. You can make that happen, not leaving a trace, but then it didn't work! Merlin knows why your curse is so capricious, but at last, this investment has paid off."

"So the pendant never worked?"

"Of course not. Now stand still so that I can make you forget."

"No!" Harry lunged.

They touched skin against skin. Green light engulfed Lockhart, froze his face in a grimace far removed from his usual smile. Harry looked down at the wizard, lips trembling. "I'm sorry," he said. That was all he could do. Or no. There was one thing he could do. He could leave. He could return to the nomadic lifestyle of a vagabond he had led before Hogwarts, so, he ran.

He ran without thought for what direction he was headed. He had to get away from the death and leave the very memory of what had happened behind. He filled his mind with the rhythm of his footfalls and the ache of his rapid breath, blocking out all else. He ran until his legs turned to lead and refused to obey, but he took command of his body and kept moving, if at a slower pace. He walked all night and through the next day. In the red light of the sunset, he passed a small town, crossed over fields, walked beneath the boughs of a copse of alder trees, and slunk under a fence. The wind had picked up during the afternoon, and to the east, dark clouds bore the promise of approaching rain. He needed rest and shelter.

Up ahead towered an odd house, tall and crooked, impossible, and yet, it stood. In the yard, fat, brown chickens picked sleepily at the dirt. Croaking frogs swam in a shallow pond, and away from the house stood a shed. It would serve Harry well enough for the night. He tried the door, and it swung open, emitting him inside. He closed it behind him, and at once, darkness engulfed him. By touch, he found a place to lay down. Though exhausted, rest didn't find him. He lay awake for a long time, green light flashing on the inside of his eyelids. The chill of night crept into the shed. The rain came, and with it the air turned damp, bringing about a musty smell. He closed his eyes and saw unseeing eyes in a too still face. Water pounded against the roof, and tears escaped Harry's eyes as he pulled his arms inside his jumper to warm his frozen fingers and huddled in a ball. Everything had turned sour again. He'd looked at the world through rose-tinted glasses; he'd kept hoping when he should have known better. The world wasn't meant for him. He had to stay away, had to keep running.

He was just so tired.

One moment, he struggled to fall asleep as silent sobs rocked his body, and the next, a pair of clogs filled his vision as daylight filled the small shed. He moved his eyes up a pair of legs and a skirt to the face of a plump woman with a head of red hair. She seemed familiar.

"Good morning, dearie," she said and bent down to his eye level. "Why don't you come with me inside, and we'll get some breakfast into you." She reached out to pat his cheek.

"No…" Horror drenched Harry. They touched skin against skin. He flinched and squeezed his eyes closed so he wouldn't have to see the green light, wouldn't have to see her die. He couldn't witness another death.

"Sorry, dearie. I didn't mean to be presumptions. It just… well, you look hungry. Now, come on. I have eggs and toast waiting; we wouldn't want them to grow cold, would we?"

"What?" Harry stared. She was alive, her cheeks flush, and her eyes full of light. He looked down at his hands, his cursed skin, and reached up to touch his face. It felt the same as always.

"Harry," she said, and he stared at her again. She knew his name. He spied the stick that stuck out of her apron: a wand. "Professor Dumbledore has a theory; your touch only kills those who wish you harm, and I could never hurt you. You're done being among people who wish you ill. You're safe here and welcome to stay for as long as you like. I'm Molly Weasley. Ron's missed you, you know."

Not daring to touch, but needing it desperately, Harry held out his gloveless hand. She grabbed it, holding it firmly between hers. It was warm. It was real. It was safe. She pulled him into a hug, and Harry hung on for dear life, burrowing his face in her shoulder. Perhaps he had been right to keep hoping.

The End

A/N 3rd June 2019:

Hope this story comes across as well-planned and impactful. It was definitely the former if not the later. Please let me know what you thought.