Hero

Chapter 1

The winds were strong, powerful, threatening. They danced mockingly and fought and crashed against each other. The late evening heat was startlingly oppressive. The air was thick. It smelled of summer. The sweet scents of fresh cut grass and rotting apples and late blooming flowers filled the air. But it wasn't pleasant. The smells were heavy, too strong. They mingled together, powerful and overwhelming, surrounding oneself and choking. Sliding into ones body and mind, distorting the senses like a drug. Leaving a sickly taste in the mouth.

The summer months had never been so desolate. The usual sounds of merry birds and scurrying squirrels were silenced. Even the small creatures were quiet, as if in pained anticipation. Like how they know a hurricane is coming, they sensed something the people did not, and let the reverence of the unknown subdue them.

The clouds darkened. The chilling winds condensed them, pushing them, squeezing them, suffocating them. At once, the rains began to fall. Slowly at first, and then with more intensity. Much more intensity. The skies thundered. The lightning flashed. Those large, heavy drops of perfect rain fell and crashed to the asphalt. Puddles formed. Tiny ones, larger ones, connecting, forming, flooding. The air seemed to whirl as if complaining of a headache. A headache soothed by the rhythmic rain and pounding thunder.

And there was silence. No one, not anyone in any of these symmetrical houses, dared brave the storm. Nobody, save for one.

A boy stood uncertainly at the edge of the road. A trunk and an empty birdcage stood beside him. His wet, black hair clung to his face and neck. Tiny droplets decorated his glasses. He didn't mind the rain. The rain was the least of his problems. The rain was insignificant. The bigger problem that plagued his mind was: what next?

Harry did not have the answer to this question. What next? What could he do now? His sixth year had ended at Hogwarts and he had returned to the Dursleys'. The familiar feel of routine had calmed him for a moment at least. But it was little consolation. Harry knew he had gone back only because Dumbledore had told him to so many times before. It was habit. A frustrating habit. He didn't want to return and even knew that he didn't have to. But he did go back. He did it for Dumbledore. Did it without complaint. If only he had done so when asked at the end of each of those first five years. When it mattered.

The figure, irritated, pushed back the sopping hair from his face. His hand grazed by a lightning shaped scar on his forehead. At that moment, a much larger bolt of lightning streaked across the steadily darkening sky. What next? He had returned. But it wasn't enough. He couldn't stand it. The familiarity mocked him. How can you return from the mundane, the ordinary, after enduring so much? Is it even possible to assume the old life will just come back? It can be forgotten after all. Harry couldn't stay there, doing nothing, being nothing. He had to know that he was doing something...anything.

But what? Where could he go? He wanted badly to return to the only place outside of Hogwarts that truly felt like a home. But the Weasleys would not be expecting him for another two weeks. He had burdened them enough already. He had burdened everyone close to him. Of course, they would be pleased to see him and welcome him in with open arms. But he would know the extent of his presence even if they did not. Seeing his best friend would have to wait. Feeling at home (if that is even possible any more) would have to wait.

What next? He could go to Diagon Alley. Stay at the Leaky Cauldron for awhile. But to Harry, that still seemed too ordinary. How could he have even thought that things could go back? Things have changed. Even after his fourth year, things had not changed so drastically as they did now. Maybe they had. But Harry was only fourteen then. He didn't realize it. He was content to sink into his innocence. He was still used to playing pretend. He could pretend that everything was all right. That everything was okay. Now, however, Harry was two years wiser and much had taken place. He could see his lies. That's all hey were. Lies. No more imagining things. Take it as it is. Except it.

The Leaky Cauldron was too passé. It was old. Harry would only see it with resentment. So much had happened and yet it remained oblivious. It remained a liar. He couldn't go there. He couldn't go there and know that things would be normal all around him. Normalcy would surround him but he would stay remote from it all. That knowledge would suffocate him. Watching a world he once knew, knowing that he could never return to it.

So what now? What options are left? Harry, drenched from head to toe, leaned against his trunk. His few, meager possessions. The wind picked up a bit and seemed to blow another option into Harry's mind. An option that made him shiver. Begin the pursuit? Already? No, it was not an option. It was certain death. It was suicide. Not yet. Soon, though. The thunder crashed once more. Soon.

The one brave enough to face the storm, to face much more, sighed and stood up resolutely. In one hand he held the cage. In the other, he held his trunk of scarce belongings.

Thunder crashed and the boy was gone. The wild, stormy street was deserted.