Long time no see. This is to try and help myself out of this years and years long writers block. I am sure my writing style has changed drastically, as it happens with years and years between writing stints, but I hope it is still pleasing to most.

This will be Slash. Pairing is still being decided. If you don't know what that means, please google it. If you aren't into that sort of thing, it wont be until much later in the story and if that still isn't good enough then by all means don't bother to read anything more of this.

I have no scheduled updated times. It will come and go I am sure but reviews help me to stoke my whimsical muse into work, so they are much appreciated. I love advice and ideas on where to take the story and whatnot.

Until next time.


For as long as Harry could remember, he'd always been the strange one. The odd one. The disturbing one.

He could remember back when he lived in an actual house with an actual family, though family could be stretching the imagination as a description. He could remember the cramped little cupboard he called a room with a semi broken uncomfortable cot, a threadbare blanket that was only good at keeping him warm in the late spring and he could remember the darkness once the door banged shut behind him, locking him in. He could remember being called a freak. He could remember feeling hunger and thirst for days.

But most of all he could remember the pain. He could recall from the very first moment he was knocked back into the wall by a large meaty fist to the very last time when he was knocked unconscious by a warm frying pan to his left temple only to wake up in the hospital with the doctors telling him that a 'kind citizen' had found him bleeding and freezing in an alley way somewhere he knew was no where near that little pristine house that he had been living in. He knew, without having to ask, that he would never be going back there. The doctor later told him in a cautiously sad tone that they did not know where he came from and he had no inclination at all to tell them, nor had he divulged anything more than his first name as he claimed he could not remember his last name or anything else for that matter.

It was a rather convincing lie to go with convincing wounds. When he finally had the strength to make his way to the little bathroom in his hospital room, he had stood in front of the mirror for an extended period of time assessing his injuries.

He was only six at the time, but he was not ignorant. The large black and purple bruise that extended across his face, arching over his left cheek and down over his aching jaw was semi covered by a stark white bandage that not only covered his partially shaved head, but also his left eye. The doctor had not been clear as to what was going on underneath the bandage but the way that he could not fully look Harry in the eyes as he had explained that there was 'extensive damage' told Harry a lot more than the doctor probably realized.

It took two long weeks for the hospital to finally discharge him… straight into the waiting arms of a scowling wisp of a woman dressed in a drab grey cotton dress that had a high stiff collar and reached to her ankles, her feet closed up in plain grey and white slip ons that had made Harry question if they kept her feet warm at all. She had silently placed him on a bus that eventually let them off in front of a long but squat building that was surrounded by iron bar fencing with the only seeming entrance being a rusted and squeaky gate that slammed shut and was locked behind him.

From then it had been a cut and dry introduction of "I am Ms. Trendt, this is the Bulberry Orphanage, your room is here, dinner is at 6pm sharp and if you're even a minute late you will go without food for the night."

She had been unnerved by his presence, he could tell. Her eyes never locked with the single one of his that peered up at her silently, and once she had finished by handing him a daily schedule she quickly retreated down the silent hallway to disappear through one of the many numerous doors that lined the way.

Harry had noiselessly peered around the room consisting of four beds in total, all made up in scratchy grey blankets folded almost military style, pillows tucked beneath grey towels all folded the same exact way, with a wardrobe sitting between each bed. The one that was not made but had everything folded and placed at the foot of the bed was his, he knew, and he ambled towards it to sit upon the stiff mattress where he had stayed for the remainder of the day until the hands on the clock above the door became perilously close to announcing his tardiness to dinner.

That first week at the orphanage had been rough. The other children who shared his room steered clear of him, eyeballing the dwindling bandaging around his face and avoiding him altogether if possible. Some of the older orphans had taken to seeing how far they could push him around without him lashing back and they had picked up pretty quickly that the frightfully skinny boy had absolutely no fight in him at all and took advantage of it by shoving him into walls, into corners, through doorways, and occasionally tripping him so he would topple soundlessly to the ground.

Harry never once struck back. In fact, his silence seemed to both encourage and unnerve the ones that decided he was there new punching bag, and the monthly bullying quickly became weekly, then daily, then more than once per day. All the while Harry stayed eerily quiet. In fact, Harry stayed mute. He would nod or shake his head to answer questions, would turn in the work that the teacher for the orphanage would assign, and would do his daily chores with nothing but a single green eye watching his surroundings stoically.

Eventually he was taken back to the hospital to get a full final checkup, and he remembered that as well. He remembered very clearly how the bandages had been unwound from his head, the gauze that had been taped over his left eye carefully being removed, and how the dimmed lights had made his revealed eye ache in protest.

Most of all from that he remembered the way the nurse had recoiled from him and how the doctor's eyes left his face once more. He remembered the way the matron of the orphanage had paled and taken a large step backwards and away from him as her hand reached up to clasp around the ever present cross hanging around her neck. He remembered the muffled quick paced conversation between the matron and the doctor outside of the room. He remembered the way she had moved back into the room and the way the nurse had come back in to place a black eyepatch around his head and the way his vision went dark in that eye again.

And he remembered standing in the bathroom at the orphanage at the end of the day, dinner having been forgotten and skipped as he stared into his reflection, the eyepatch laying despondent in the sink beneath his hands.

'Well, hello there,' a voice had whispered in the back of his head in a strangely sibilant way as he stared into his own eyes, the right one a bright and uncanny shade of green that he had never seen on anyone else. The voice continued on in his mind and Harry hadn't even thought it strange when it whispered, 'It's so good to finally see you.'

His left eye had been glittering. That's the only word that he had been able to put to the way it seemed to light up…. and when Harry had laid down that night to try and sleep, the ruby red color of his left eye had followed him into his dreams.


Unbeta'd and unashamed. Feel free to point out any grammatical errors so I know to fix them in the future. If you're interested in being a Beta, feel free to approach me. Having someone constantly hounding me for the next chapter might actually work in the favor of this story.

Hope you all have a fantastic day.