Harry Potter One Shots

Gloves

All rights belong to the author, Myst Shadow

Harry was grateful Quirrell didn't wear gloves.

He shivered a bit, the cold rock beneath him draining away his body heat as effectively as if he was sitting on ice. Winter was gone but summer wasn't yet here, and spring mornings were cold and wet in the Scottish lowlands, even the magical parts.

The air was cold. The water he trailed his fingers through was cold. The mist and wind and rock was cold.

He was cold. But he could still remember-

-the pain burning through him, through his head and scar and a different kind of burning in his hands, as skin sizzled and blistered beneath his fingers-

He didn't like fire anymore.

Not that he knew much of it. He'd never gone on camping trips, and Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had exchanged their fireplace for a faux one years ago - deeming it ever more civilized and better than the ashes and flying sparks from a real one.

There had been fire when Hagrid found him, he knew, in that cold shack on the island in the sea. But Harry had been too overwhelmed; baffled and delighted and stunned by revelations, to really take note of the fire the giant had conjured. No, Harry's first real lasting impressions of fire, fire that he could feel and see, had been the day he visited Diagon Alley. He could remember-

-standing in Ollivander's shop, as red sparks flew from his wand, flaring and drifting before they went out. Confirmation and benediction, proof that he was a wizard, that he did belong, and he wouldn't have to go back to his Aunt and Uncle for the rest of his life, an unwanted failure and burden and freak -

And after that - after that there was the glow of lamps guiding excited, awed, first years across a magical lake to a brilliantly lit castle above. Then, ushered through the doors into a great hall: a thousand candles floating; twinkling points of light bobbing in place. More magic, he had noted with glee, part of him greedy with these new thoughts and experiences, and he just wanted to drink it all up and immerse himself in it, because magic. was. real.

And there were the fires in the Gryffindor commons, cheery and crackling, spreading warmth through the room. And the flames they boiled their potions over, and the torches that lined some of the hallways, and even the Incendio spell, taught three months into the first term.

Fire had been magical to Harry.

He curled his knees up closer to his chest, and watched the mist swirl in patterns above the lake, and tried to focus on breathing. He didn't know what would happen if he allowed himself to dwell too deeply on what had happened - tears or hysterical laughter or screaming and screaming until his voice was gone, gone into the mist and the silence and the cold - but he didn't want to find out. He wouldn't find out, but he couldn't stop himself from recalling the feeling -

-skin charring and splitting beneath his hands, and feeling his hands touching something else as the skin melted away - harder and vaguely stringy and moving as Quirrell screamed and oh. God. It had to be muscle and if he could see or hear anything past the pain that split his skull, he knew he'd be throwing up -

Fire is still magical to Harry. But it's not always good magic.

Harry hadn't ever been naive enough to believe the magic world would be perfect - not when his first real memories were of a flash of green light and high, thin, laughter - not with dead parents and hateful relatives and the stares and whispers that had followed him through the corridors - but magic itself, whatever uses it was put to, had awed him. The variety. The versatility. The frivolousness and seriousness; an utterly alien combination of whimsy and necessity - he loved magic.