Harry Potter and the Re-Discovery of Magic

2: The Potter Luck... a Curse or a Gift?

AN: Let me tell you, if I thought I could get away with murder, this thing (↑) right here would be 6 feet under. (it took me hours to make)

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Harry James Potter pressed a hand to his mouth, muffling a scream that threatened to wake the Dursleys. He was breathing hard and his over-sized shirt had stuck to his chest and back with sweat. He wondered if everyone else had such awful dreams, but he supposed that not everyone had an insane maniac of a Dark Lord trying to murder them.

Groaning and running a hand through his now damp hair, Harry flopped back on his mattress, shoving the covers to the foot of his bed, wincing in pain as his sore muscles screamed at him.

That was it. Harry Potter could officially say that he was having the worst summer of his life.

Firstly, somehow, and had Harry thought it to be impossible, the Dursley's had become even worse in their treatment towards him. Vernon had taken up drinking again and beaten Harry black and blue on his first night of the summer, and practically whenever he wandered into the house late at night. Harry could only be thankful that it was only verbal and physical abuse... Petunia on the other hand, she wasn't too bad, she'd given up on trying to cut his hair in primary school when it'd just grow back the next day, and therefore the only thing she did was shriek at him like a banshee and gift him with a list of chores every morning that'd take a house elf longer than 24 hours to complete, but Harry was used to it. Dudley on the other hand had resumed his love for his favourite game 'Harry Hunting' which even now at 14, soon to be 15, Harry still continued to be chased by Dudley's gang, and although Harry was quick on his feet and had stamina that far surpassed those muggles, being practically starved by the Dursley's meant that he would faint frequently, and made it rather easy to get beaten up by Dudley's so-called friends.

Secondly, it was 3 weeks into the summer and Harry had not received nor heard from either of his friend Ron and Hermione, and wondered whether it was another case of a house elf coming to cause trouble. But even his faith was starting to waver in them, because surely, they would've tried to contact him another way, Hermione knew how to use a phone, she was a muggleborn, and well, after the whole Triwizard did-you-put-your-name-in-the-cup-Harry fiasco it wasn't that much of a stretch to believe.

Lastly and most finally, Harry had not slept more than 4 hours a night since the third task of the Triwizard Tournament, the memory replaying like a broken record every night, and no matter how hard he tried to fall back asleep each time he closed his eyes, a pair of ruby eyes bore into his and so he spent the early hours of the morning staring at the ceiling and watching as the shadows crept slowly along the walls with the break of dawn.

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After Harry had escaped Voldemort, he'd arrived at the front of the stands with one hand clutching the wrist of an unconscious Cedric Diggory, the other profusely bleeding around the Triwizard Cup and his wand. Harry had immediately been harassed by a swarm of teachers and with Dumbledore questioning him, Moody trying to yank his arm off to drag him back to the castle and a weeping Cho Chang sprawling over a paralysed Cedric in his peripheral vision, Harry's gaze had travelled to Madame Pomfrey and he promptly fainted on the spot.

Though not his proudest moment to date, he had faked it a little. He could've stayed conscious of he really wanted to, which would've just brought on an onslaught of questions and he really did not want to have to deal with any more crazy wizards (or witches for that matter) at that moment. So, he had dropped to the floor, slowed his breathing rate and stayed as still as that famous statue in America. It was a trick he had pulled off multiple times with his relatives when he was having a particularly bad day.