Harry Potter and the Time of Transition

By

Kittyrunner

Disclaimer: All characters, names, places, etc. are entirely the creation of J. K. Rowling and do not, under any circumstance, belong to me.

A/N: This is my first fanfic, so I am entirely new to this sort of thing. I am actually a little nervous about posting this, and I've read it and revised it over a dozen times to make sure it sounds all right for posting. Anyways, I hope you enjoy it:: crosses fingers desperately:

Chapter 1

Unwanted Routines

It was one of those summer nights where the air was so humid that it felt like liquid. In the stillness of the night it blanketed everything in sight with its muggy thickness, like an oppressive weight bearing down upon the world in its slumber. No breeze stirred the leaves of the branches or rippled the grasses of the perfect, tidy lawns. There were no animals hunting in the night or foraging for food. It almost seemed as though all life were hiding in their burrows, dens, and nests. Even the crickets and katydids seemed to be taking the night off, their chirps absent to all ears.

Yet at Number 4, Privet Drive, all was not still. A boy lay tossing and turning in his bed, tormented by dreams, dreams that could freeze the blood and chill the bones of any normal person. But this boy was not exactly normal. He was a wizard, like his parents, and also like his parents had, he attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where he learned to enhance his magical power and put it to good use. Harry Potter would have very much liked to share his knowledge of magic with his parents and learn more about his magical heritage, but unfortunately his parents had died when he was only a baby, murdered by the evil wizard, Lord Voldemort, and he never had a chance to talk to them.

Therefore, since he was an orphan, this boy had to spend his summer breaks, between school terms at Hogwarts, with the only living relatives he had left---the Dursleys.

Having no magical blood within them, the Dursleys despised everything unusual or out of the ordinary, which most definitely involved anything pertaining to magic. Because of his magical heritage, Harry was quite often the source of his aunt and uncle's and cousin's animosity. Luckily for Harry, though, he spent only two months of the year with them, and the rest of the time was spent with his friends at Hogwarts, learning about magic, playing Quidditch on broomsticks, and having wild adventures.

Yet Harry's magical life was not all fun and games. Lord Voldemort was still out there, and Harry was his prime target, as he was the only person ever to have survived the Killing Curse, the same curse that stole away his parents' lives. Thus, he was marked forever as Voldemort's rival according to a cryptic prophecy made when Harry was a little baby. Harry had had numerous encounters with Voldemort, and he somehow always evaded death, however narrowly. In his fourth year at Hogwarts, Harry had had a very traumatic experience with Voldemort, and even though he kept his own life, a fellow schoolmate, Cedric Diggory, had died by Voldemort's hand. And even though that experience was bad enough, Harry's encounter in his fifth year was even worse, because his very own godfather, Sirius Black, had lost his life in the effort to protect Harry.

And Harry had never fully forgiven himself for that.

It was after that terrible ordeal that Harry vowed that he would destroy Lord Voldemort himself. And the nightmares Harry experienced nearly every night fueled his determination to defeat the Dark Lord.

3:47 am

The stillness was shattered when he awoke in the night with a startled gasp, which was abruptly cut off by a slippery hand frantically clamping over his mouth. Breathing heavily, he slid his sweaty palm upward in the dark to settle on the source of his distress, an oddly shaped mark on his forehead. This mark was currently radiating with heat, and torrents of pain were rapidly undulating to the rest of his skull, sending flashes of pain-induced lights over his eyelids and enveloping him with waves of dizziness, which threatened to topple him off of the bed.

Yet Harry did not panic or cry. He did not call for help or take any pain medication. He did not do anything but sit there patiently because, unknown to most, this was a common occurrence for him, one that frequented him nearly every night. It had now become a routine that could not be escaped and therefore had to be accepted, he reasoned. Tears and self-pity were not only pointless, but childish to him, and this young man had grown up far too quickly to allow himself the liberty of behaving in such ways.

With his one hand firmly pressed against his scar, and the other hand desperately clenching and unclenching a handful of the bed sheet beside him, Harry Potter steadied himself and muttered through gritted teeth, " One one-thousand……..two one-thousand…….three one-thousand….." and all the way up to " fifteen one-thousand" until the pain gradually receded.

With a soft sigh of relief, Harry Potter lowered his hand from his face, and relaxed his grip on the sheets. And even before his slumping body sank back onto the lumpy bed, he was already asleep.

Approximately two hours later, as morning's first light began to creep through the slitted openings of the shutters and lay in hot parallel bars over the room, Harry Potter awoke. Slowly raising himself off of the mattress, he glared at the traitorous sun through the window, whole-heartedly wishing that it would have remained hidden beneath the horizon for a few hours more in order to grant him some extra much-needed sleep.

Sleep was rare for him. His constant nightmares and scar pains were beginning to take its toll on Harry, as evidenced by his ivory skin, stretched pale and taut over the bones of his face. His twin, emerald eyes which used to contain such spark and liveliness, now had darkened and dulled over, plagued by the nightmares and visions neither boy nor man should be allowed to glimpse.

Yet despite these things, Harry survived and he forced himself to get up every morning and just to take things one day at a time, and always to remember that there was hope in the next day. This promise of better days to come was the only thing keeping him from falling into pieces, and he knew it. He had to be strong. He had to be a man. He had to be like his father. He was done growing up and he wasn't a child anymore.

Harry told himself this every day, this monotonous mantra within his mind that never let him forget that he had to be strong. And Harry whispered it to himself now as he recalled the vision of the night before, the sobbing woman begging for her life, the child begging for his father, the father still and silent on the floor, his blood blossoming out from beneath him, proof of his defeat. Then, the last thing Harry saw before he awoke was an oppressive shadow beginning to fall upon the helpless, unprotected child, a promise of his doom to come.

Yet Harry couldn't recall their faces. During the past month, as his dreams began to increase in frequency, the number of victims had increased in such a way that the faces were indistinguishable. Even so, emotionally, he knew he was standing on a pedestal, and he couldn't help but feel bad about their deaths.

It reminded Harry so much of his own terrible past that it took his breath away, and he couldn't help but feel his eyes watering against his will…..

No! I can't do this anymore. I will not! I am strong. I am not a child. I won't cry. Tears are useless. They won't bring those people back. They won't bring my parents back. They won't bring Cedric back. They won't bring Sirius back! I will not cry!

Over and over, he repeated those words within his mind, a steady prayer that he forced himself to heed. Gradually, the images of Voldemort's victims faded away along with their pleading cries.

There was silence all around him and he allowed the warmth of the sun's beams to dry the beads of sweat that had broken out upon his forehead. He took a deep, steady breath and inhaled the hot summer air leaking in through the window. With a last square of his shoulders and an optimistic tilt of his chin, he finally relaxed. There. He was in control now. He almost let his emotions overpower him. He couldn't afford to brood upon the nightmares anym—

"Boy! Get your lazy bottom out of that bed and into the kitchen right this instant!"

The voice cracked through the house like a whip and Harry started. His personal reassurances were interrupted by his uncle calling him down to breakfast. He wheeled around and made his way down the stairs immediately, hoping that things wouldn't become too ugly. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he realized that he was already too late for that.