July 1996

“Sir, where are we?” the teen coughed, his voice little more than a whisper as the fire in his throat ripped its way through his flesh once again. “I can’t breathe.”

“We’ll be there soon enough,” the potions master replied, resisting the urge to wrap the shivering teen in his cloak as he panted, trying desperately to catch his breath, knowing that would do the opposite of help. “I don’t know how you consistently manage to find yourself in such situations.”

“I’m not…” the teen started to say before a rough, gasping cough took hold of his form, causing him to double over, ash falling from his hair as the coughs shook his frame.

“Can you see that house on the hill? The stone one?” the potions master said gently as the teen’s coughs finally let up, surprised the boy hadn’t collapsed onto the pavement yet. “That’s the one we’re going to.”

The teen swallowed harshly, wiping his watering eyes with a shaking hand before readjusting his hood and quickly striding towards the building, stumbling repeatedly as the dizziness continued to catch up with him. His vision was slowly becoming more and more tunneled, but he had to do this. It wasn’t an option to give up. He had fought and fought to get to this point, giving up now would only prove to him that he was as worthless as the ministry said he was.

He was almost home. He was almost safe.

Frantically, he scrabbled at the door handle, his lungs heaving as he tried to catch his breath in vain. He felt as though he were being held underwater; his heart was pounding in his ears, his lungs felt as though they were filling with fluid, his head throbbed in rhythm with his heart, and his skin… His skin felt as though it were getting ready to fall off. Just trying to grab the door handle had ripped the skin on his fingers, leaving him standing staring at them in confusion as blood dripped down his hands.

“Help!” the teen said, looking frantically at the potions master who was behind him, hands shaking violently as the pain of what he had just done set in. “Help me!”

“In!” the potions master barked, throwing the heavy iron door open and ushering the teen inside.

The stone building was clearly designed to repel fire. The furniture was made of metal and stone, no rugs or tapestries decorated the floors or walls, leaving the entire building with an almost sterile atmosphere contrasted only by the detailed carvings on the archways and over the large fireplaces and hearth and the stone mosaics which adorned choice walls. The hearth in the entry and fireplace in the parlor were blessedly stocked with firewood, leading the potion’s master to believe the other fireplaces were as well.

As much as he wished to explore what was to be their home for the foreseeable future, that could not be his priority at this time.

“Fireplace,” the potions master barked, gesturing vaguely towards it as the teen stumbled in its direction. “Are you ready?”

“Please!” the teen whispered, collapsing to his knees in front of the fireplace, reaching his hands towards the wood, blood dripping onto the stone floor as he did so.

“This may hurt,” the potions master said more for his own comfort than anything, removing his wand from his sleeve.

“Please!” the teen said louder, bloodshot eyes staring desperately at the potions master. “Please! I can’t breathe!!”

“Incendio,” the potions master whispered, setting both the boy and the fireplace alight, wincing as the boy let out a blood curdling shriek as he fell forward into the fireplace.

Steam and smoke rose from the fire as the boy burned, the cheap, ministry issued cloak burning away in an instant with a flash of smoke as the rest of the boy’s clothing burned much slower. A foul smell permeated the room as the well worn trainers finally caught, the plastic and rubber components of them melting off of the boy’s feet before finally catching fire themselves.

The teen laid there, surrounded by flames, for several long minutes before movement was noted much to the relief of the potions master. Slowly, the teen’s foot moved, pulling itself into the fire and away from the still smoldering shoe. Cuddling against the larger of the logs in the fireplace, the teen relished the feeling of the flames on his skin and the smoke filling his lungs. Scratching his head and running his fingers along the short horns which had sprung out of his skull during his transformation, he yawned widely and smiled softly as the flames licked along his arms.

“Thank you, sir,” the teen said hoarsely, blowing lightly on the log he was curled against before snuggling into the tongue of flame which rose up to greet him.

“You’re welcome Mr. Potter.”

---

January 1994

Harry Potter had always had a small affinity for fire. It wasn’t as though he was going to become an arsonist, though Aunt Marge fully believed that that was a possibility after watching the way he had played with the flames of the candles on the Advent wreath one year.

That was the last year the Dursleys had kept an Advent wreath out before Christmas.

But, no, he had no desire to start fires. He just enjoyed them. They felt friendly, their flames dancing around when he blew on them; their warmth permeating his soul even in the coldest of winter. The tongues of fire sang to him even in the darkest of night. It was beauty and magic in a mundane world.

Going to Hogwarts had been a dream come true in so many ways. It was more than an escape from the Dursley’s, it was a chance to find a home. A home which accepted his eccentricities and encouraged him to flourish. Immediately upon arriving, he knew he had made it to such a place.

While the other students were in awe of the ceiling and the glory and splendor of the hall itself, he could help but stare at the candles floating through the air, their flames dancing along as they happily welcomed their guests. The large fireplaces welcomed students of all ages to crowd around them, offering their warmth to even the coldest blooded among them.

But it was normal to want to be warm. And it was normal to seek the fire in the dark and cold nights of the Scottish winter.

For three years, he joined the other students as they completed their studies fireside enjoying the companionship their studies had brought. For three years, he had enjoyed his time with his friends, speaking of normal things such as Quidditch, their disdain and distrust of their potions master, and how to avoid getting detention while sneaking around after hours. In spite of the repeated appearances of Voldemort, it had been a dream come true to live and study at Hogwarts.

But all dreams come to an end eventually. Some by simply opening your eyes and others rudely removed from your grasp.

The efforts of the Dementors to recapture Sirius Black had done something to him. He wasn’t quite sure what, but whatever it was, he wasn’t getting any better from it. Something had been destabilized within him and he wasn’t sure what or why.

After waking up in the hospital wing following the dementor attack on the Quidditch match, Harry could tell something wasn’t right. He felt cold, freezing cold beyond what the Dementors were known to cause. If he wasn’t near a fire, it wouldn’t matter how many layers of clothing he had on, he would feel as though his bones were made of ice. It was painful, distracting, and made him want nothing more than to find the nearest source of fire and curl up next to it. Even Hermione creating heating packs did nothing to quell the feelings of cold which leached into his bones.

As the winter progressed, he found himself staying inside and near a fire more and more. Quidditch practice was unbearable and, most annoyingly, the humidity in the Scottish air seemed to make it more difficult to breathe. Even going up the flights of stairs to get from class to class left him feeling winded. It wasn’t until he was near a fireplace, breathing in the smell of burning wood and feeling the ash settling in his throat that he felt he could breathe again. It was honestly one of the more terrifying experiences of his life to feel as though he were drowning just from walking up a flight of stairs.

Yet still he pushed on, determined to be normal and continue living out that dream. Continue being a wizard living in the wizarding world. In spite of quitting the Quidditch team when his breathing got too bad, he continued to strive for the normal life of a wizard.

Normal wizards didn’t need to huddle around fires, so neither did he. Until he couldn’t take the pain of the cold and was forced to remain almost tethered to whatever fireplace he could find.

Normal wizards studied with their friends, so so did he. Until he found he couldn’t bear to be away from an open flame for more than a few minutes, then he gave up trying to join his friends at the library tables to study, choosing instead to sit at the Hufflepuff table to be as close as possible to the large fireplace Great Hall.

Normal wizards didn’t incessantly study their least favorite topic unless forced to (or if they were as bookish as Hermione or the Ravenclaws), so neither did he. Until he realized potions fumes granted his lungs a sort of respite, allowing him to breathe properly for an entire class period. The additional study time offered by the professor was fine as he could breathe in the fumes of the cauldrons without arousing much suspicion. During class however…

“POTTER!” Snape roared as he stuck his head directly over the cauldron for the third time in less than an hour. “Blasted boy! What in Merlin’s name do you think you are doing?!”

“Breathing?” Harry said, his voice cracking slightly. He was thankful he had gotten a few breaths of the potion fumes in before Snape made him stop otherwise he wasn’t sure he would have gotten a deep enough breath to even answer.

It had been an awful day for going to classes. Ron and Hermione fully believed he wanted nothing to do with them, so had stopped offering to help him carry his things from class to class. The temperature outside had been relatively mild, so not all of the fireplaces had been lit, meaning he had had to ask to go to the toilet in nearly every one of his classes simply so he could go into the hall and stand with his face over a brazier just so he could breathe well enough to focus on the class rather than on simply remaining conscious. Then it had started to rain, making him feel as though he was underwater and making everything worse.

He didn’t want to go to Madam Pomfrey, but at this rate, he would have to.

“Ten points from Gryffindor! Do you need a refresher in lab safety?!” Snape yelled, brandishing his wand as though he was about to banish the contents of the cauldron. “Or are you just a fool?!”

“‘M sorry, sir,” Harry mumbled, his lungs already feeling as though they were filling back up with the humidity in the air. The dampness of the dungeons had always been uncomfortable, but now, without something helping him breathe, it was nearly unbearable.

“If I catch you with your head over your cauldron like that again, it will be detention!” Snape said, continuing his rant, his eyes glittering with fury.

“Understood, sir,” Harry mumbled, his voice already becoming more and more hoarse.

Shivering violently, he turned back to his pile of ingredients, trying to remember what came next in the order of brewing and thanking Merlin that Snape hadn’t taken his cauldron entirely away from him. He felt awful, but at least there was a burner under the cauldron he could hold his hands to to warm them if he got too cold. It would have been even better if he had managed to make it to class in time to take what was quickly becoming his place by the fire. He just couldn’t bloody breathe well enough to hurry from one end of the castle to another.

He had barely managed to get all of his ingredients into the cauldron when Snape dismissed the class. His potion was done for, but the fact he had managed to remain focused on the potion at hand for as long as he had. Taking out his wand to banish the contents of his cauldron, he let out a series of harsh coughs, leaving him doubled over for several moments as he struggled to catch his breath.

“Potter, why are you still here?” Snape said, not looking away from where he stood facing the board, erasing the instructions for the third years and replacing them with the instructions for the fifth year class which he would be having next period.

“Cleaning… up,” Harry wheezed, tucking his ingredients back into his bag and trying to catch his breath enough to lift the cauldron from its stand to place it in the sink, his vision swimming as he stood.

A sudden crash behind him, sent Snape whirling to find Potter had disappeared behind his workbench, his cauldron having fallen off the desk as well.

“Potter, what are you doing?” Snape barked, coming around his desk to find Harry seated on the floor next to his desk, back against the workbench behind him and lips an odd tinge of blood red, cauldron seated on his lap and tendrils of smoke floating from his trousers where the still hot pewter was burning through the fabric. “POTTER!”

Banishing the cauldron to the sink, Snape was unsurprised to find the boy’s skin was starting to burn and blister, but more concerning was the fact the boy was clearly gasping for air, appearing for all intents and purposes to be a fish out of water.

“Potter, can you hear me?” Snape demanded, snapping his fingers in front of the boy’s face only for the boy to sluggishly nod. “I’m taking you to the hospital wing. Merlin only knows what you did to yourself this time.”

Levitating the still lethargic boy onto a conjured stretcher, Snape quickly set off out of the classroom and down the hall towards the Hospital Wing, pausing only for a moment to spell a bubble of humidified oxygen over the boy’s mouth and nose. Flying up the stairs and ignoring the stares of the students they passed, he couldn’t help notice Potter weakly batting at the bubble in front of his face for a moment before his eyes rolled back in his head and he lost consciousness.

“Poppy!” Snape yelled as they entered the Hospital Wing, choosing one of the hospital beds closest to her office and hovering the boy over the bed before vanishing the stretcher and allowing Harry to fall to the bed with a small thump.

“Oh sweet Merlin,” Madam Pomfrey exclaimed in exasperation as she hurried out of her office and took in the student on the bed. “What has he done now?”