Chapter 1
Dismal dreams fluttered through Harry Potter’s eyelids. He learns feelings are fatal for him.
He blinked, black dots undulated through his vision; his palish hand flew through his rather surreal hair. The pallor of the aurora brought a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
Harry noticed he had blemishes lining his hands, deep and long cuts. He had the feeling he was having a bad day; ‘before he woke up in a grassy field,’ He thought sardonically.
Sumptuously-grown phox flowers grew around him, entangled around him. The many-petaled softness gnawed him to the bone.
He tries to force the thoughts of what the Dursleys’ would do if they knew what he did this time. Freakish. Harry Potter may have been skittish and freakish, but he wasn’t an idiot; he pushed himself up.
The pads of his hands were abused by him as he cut the dirt with dull nails. Something he knows is that everybody is looking for something: trust no-one. So he wouldn’t find help; he would fly with his own wings. God, does it feel so good.
His hair was disheveled and tangled, yet still soft, if not a bit swampy and glossy. It was black, leaning on a indigo color, like the horizon. Staring at the stars as he walked seemed to be his holy water. The heir of unloveliness was at his fingertips; Dark and pale as they traced over a tree trunk. He broke into a run. Even when he’s awake it’s never over.
He knows he caused this now.
Exhale.
He’s running as fast as he can from the phox grove, like it was poison.
Inhale.
Harry deadpans at the beady eyes of street cats. Not in the mood.
Exhale.
He closes his eyes, resting.