A/N: This is something that has been bothering me lately. Initially, I wrote what will probably be the fourth or fifth chapter of the fanfic. Then I decided to commit to it and write it all out. This is a bit short, but I really wanted to get this show on the road. Here goes.
"We do not believe in ourselves until someone reveals that deep inside us something is valuable, worth listening to, worthy of our trust, sacred to our touch. Once we believe in ourselves we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight or any experience that reveals the human spirit."
-E.E. Cummings
"Boy! What the hell do you think you are doing?" Vernon Dursley yelled, causing egg yolk to dangle precariously from his lips to his chin. A short, underweight messy-haired boy responded, trying to avoid aggravating his uncle even more. Sometimes he was in for a fight, but today he needed peace. In his calmest, most controlled voice, he replied,
"I'm painting the fence, but the paint is caked and I need to get some water to loosen it up."
"No! You selfish little freak! I know you are trying to get water all for yourself, ay? Well your gig is up! You don't do anything," he paused, shaking a fat finger at the boy for emphasis, "Anything! Your Aunt Petunia was kind enough to take you in, when your bitch of a mother and your drunkie daddy got themselves killed in a car accident. Probably didn't even want you, seeing as you weren't in a baby seat. Surprise you're even alive. All you do is take up space and consume. You do nothing, you lazy little wretch," Vernon finished, seeming to be satisfied. During his rant, his voice's volume had increased at an alarming rate. How easy it was for the man to spill out insults! The eleven-year-old boy, Harry, clenched his fingers around the tin of water, trying to prevent the water from spilling as his hands unconsciously shook. It was just a routine speech, and it had been bearable until that animal called his mother a bitch. His mother, the woman whom he knew nothing of, had given him life and he had to believe that she was good. Now, Harry did not care what happened to him. That man would pay.
"What are you talking about? I do more work in this house than anyone! How dare you! And my mom was not a bitch. You will never call her that again, you horrible, disgusting creature!" Rage contorted a face usually frozen in melancholy. Green eyes flashed and two ceramic vases shattered; pieces were propelled in all directions. Petunia's prized expensive glass bowl twisted into the shape of a butt, shiny and red. The light fixtures began to swerve. At this point, Uncle Vernon began to shout, but he suddenly fell silent when he saw a candle tipping, flame violently stretching towards him.
"Fine, you blasted freak. Just paint the damn fence," Vernon said, stumbling over his words and lower lip trembling. Sweat had appeared over his upper lip and he seemed to be exerting a lot of energy just to say those few words. Harry stormed out the room, shaking with anger.
White paint oozed from the fence. As if waking out of a trance, Harry looked at the brush in his hand in confusion. How long had he been painting? In his anger, he had forgotten to place the primer on the fence panels before applying the paint. He also had forgotten that he should probably dilute the paint in order to make it last for the 37 panels. At this rate, only 20 would manage to be covered, and without the primer, well… The Dursleys might not notice, but even if they did not, the neighbors would and when that happened, Aunt Petunia, who could sometimes be worse that Vernon and Dudley barring the fact that she was the only other inhabitant in the house that was his blood relative, would be throwing him in the cupboard by his ear. Knackers.
Looking up, trying to ignore the direct sunlight that he was receiving, he saw a thin but toned boy staring back at him with intense, hungry eyes. Though the boy had similar eye and hair color to his as well as the same raggedy appearance and slight form, he seemed meant for better things. He had wonderful bone structure and was quite attractive, and his eyes were not hidden by thick glasses. Shocked by the doppelganger, Harry dropped his brush, splattering paint onto the grass. Muttering some choice expletives, Harry felt the urge to run away. There was something terrifying about the boy in front of him, something unnatural and threatening.
"I've been watching you and I know you're secret. You're special," the boy said, gaze holding Harry in the same spot.
"What are you talking about? I'm not special. I'm not. Not at all," Harry spluttered.
"I know about your little stunts at school. I know about your hair. You can do magic."
"I'm not a freak!" Harry said, louder than he had anticipated. His own words shocked himself.
"Of course you are not. You are simply special. Too special to be stuck in such an ordinary, boring little house. Too special to be working out in the yard during the hottest part of the day without water."
"Please. Just go away. I really just need to paint this fence."
"Why are you afraid? You shouldn't worry. I am special too. However, we're both unlucky. Most people like us are surrounded by others like them. We were left to fend in this ugly little world. Why don't you walk with me? I can take you out to eat and we will talk some more."
"I shouldn't leave," Harry said as he was dragged away from Privet Drive. It was too late now.
"You look like me, but that scar…" The boy traced a finger down the lightning bolt scar. It tingled, causing Harry to gasp.
"Stop it!"
"Does it hurt?"
"No, it just sort of tingles. People don't touch my scar."
"Even if they did, I doubt it would feel that way. Your scar came from magic?"
"A car crash."
"No, it came from magic, probably a spell of some sort. But even if another magic user touched your scar, I doubt it would feel the way it just did."
The two boys walked side by side, and Harry was beginning to feel more and more uncomfortable. He observed the other boy in silence, trying to discern what compelled him to follow such a sketchy character. The boy looked as if no one ever really cared for him, but he walked with a self-assured confidence and sensuality. He watched Harry watch him from his peripheral vision. Confused Harry tried to ignore all of the different emotions tumbling inside of him. He was not alone! Maybe this boy could tell him what was in the letters that the Dursleys had destroyed. At the same time, Harry felt completely out of his element. The boy was dangerous; when the boy had traced his scar, he had been filled with an uncomfortably pleasant tingling sensation. It nearly brought heat to his face. This was too weird. The Dursleys would kill him. More worrying than that, he was walking with a complete stranger, a stranger that knew more about him than most people. Harry did not even know where they were going.
By now, Privet Drive was far from view, and instead they were in an area full of little shops and eateries. Crowds of people wearing pink and flannel, thin clothing, skimpy skirts, tight jeans, short shorts, and loose shirts enveloped them. Enveloped by a foreign fear, Harry looked for the other boy and was met by the bulbous eyes of a stranger with a yellow, toothy grin. A strong hand grabbed his elbow, pulling him away from the crowd. Harry turned towards the arm, trying to extricate himself from the grip. His heart was beating in his ears; he needed to find the other boy. He doubted he would be able to find his way back to Privet Drive by himself, not that he was ready to be confronted by three angry Dursleys. He had already upset Vernon Dursley, and probably would not be eating for another day or so.
"Geroff, you!" Harry shouted, trying to mask his fear with the gruffest voice he could conjure.
"Don't worry, Harry, I have you. It's me," the boy said, smiling to reveal sharp canines that gave him a predatory look. A strange feeling rose up in Harry like vomit.
"Who are you?"
"Even if I told you, how could you ever know? One person can never truly know another person."
"You keep twisting things around. God!"
"You can call me that if you like."
Caught between anger and frustration, Harry found himself erupting in peals of laughter. The other boy watched him carefully, still smiling. He turned a corner, dragging Harry with him, and opened a door to a nice restaurant. Harry watched as the other boy affirmed that it was going to be a table for two, and then the two were escorted by a girl with short blond hair. She placed menus in front of them, asking if they would like any drinks. The other boy ordered teas for both of them, and the girl walked away, bouncing and winking at the boy.
"You really didn't have to take me here."
"This place isn't to your liking? That's a shame. I'm shorter on money than I'd like to be, but I always have enough money for special moments like this one. This restaurant is very highly rated, but if it is not to your taste, I guess there is no point in wasting my time or money," The boy said with flippancy, but Harry could feel the anger burning in those strange dark eyes.
"No! No, it's not like this. I mean, this place is really nice."
"Are you telling me that you want to leave because you don't deserve this? You don't think you deserve nice things?"
"I'm sorry. I don't want to bore you with my sob stories, but my aunt and uncle have never taken me anywhere to eat, so I'm just feeling a little odd."
"You're an orphan then? Were your parents like us?"
"I don't know much about them. My aunt refuses to talk about them, and today, my uncle told me that the reason they died in a car crash was because my father was a drunk. He called my mother a bitch," Harry began to seethe with anger.
"They hate magic, don't they? I can see it in their ugly little patchwork perfect house. Your parents had to have been wizards. That's why they only say horrible things about them. And you shouldn't worry. They definitely didn't die in a car crash. You don't know who you are, but you will very soon. Harry Potter, you are a flipping celebrity. I'm getting ahead of myself. Don't think this is why I invited you here though, I did not even know who you were until I began noticing you. Then I did some research, that's how I found out you were so famous. I took you here because I feel oddly connected to you, and I don't feel like that with anyone. I trust my intuition." He smiled at Harry, once again filling Harry with a strange, uncomfortable feeling. He wanted to cry almost. He had waited his entire life to meet someone like him, someone to repudiate all of the horrible things the Dursleys said that he was slowly beginning to believe. Here he was.
"You know that you have not asked me my name the entire time we were together? How strange," the boy said, flipping through the menu.
"What is it?"
"Tom. Probably not what you were expecting. It's dull. My parents could not care enough to give me a better one I guess."
"Harry's just as bad. And at least you have parents. My aunt and uncle are terrible."
"What do they do to you?"
"Uh…" Harry began to feel uncomfortable from Tom's prying.
"You don't have to answer. We'll be spending a lot of time together anyway. Today is supposed to be special. You are underweight and your growth has probably been stunted by malnutrition. You will eat. Have you decided what to order?"
"Uh, this looks fine." Harry said, pointed to an appetizer.
"Oh, that's nice." A waiter appeared shortly after as Tom roved through the menu.
"What will you be having today, sirs?" The waiter had a nasally voice.
"Number 10 for both of us. And for an appetizer, we want this," Tom said, gesturing towards the menu.
"Will that be all?"
"We'll pick dessert after dinner." Tom said curtly, not even alluding to politeness. The waiter picked up the menus and dismissed himself.
"Why the hell did you order that?"
"I ordered what you wanted. I just added something. You can't just pick something reasonably cheap. I'm paying, and you will eat like a king today."
"But the price?"
"I can take care of it. Unfortunately, being that my parents left me with nothing, I am financially unstable. However, I have ways of attaining money, and I can provide this for you."
"Tom," Harry said, testing the name on his tongue, "You have been bossing me this entire time."
"Don't you enjoy it?" For some reason, Tom's question caused Harry's neck to flush.
"I don't know who you are," Harry said painfully.
"Well, why don't you try to find out by conversing with me instead of by boring me with the same old statement?"
"I," Harry paused in frustration as he slurped some of his drink, "God, when I'm with you, I sound so stupid. I can't seem to say what I need to say."
"People often feel that when in the presence of God," Tom said with a wry smile.
"You probably don't even believe in God."
"I believe in you."
Those words caused Harry to shake. Too much information was flooding him, and this boy, Tom, was suffocating his senses with too much stimuli. He wanted to scream or throw something. He wanted to leave. These options were unavailable to him, however, seeing how he was used to be so complacent with the Dursleys, and Tom was being very kind to him. Is this how he responded to kindness? With anger and confusion? Harry began to think about the fence, only half re-painted, the paint boiling in the sun, the primer left untouched and unhidden. He had literally dropped everything and left with a stranger. Then, his thoughts strayed to the one thing that was bothering him the most. It upset him because out of all the things that should be upsetting him, this one vouched for the least attention. When Tom had touched his scar, he had felt that awful sensation. It was a very light burning, a horrible tingling and a connection that was terrible in its utter intimacy. Tom acted as if he owned Harry on some level, dragging him about and buying him expensive food. Maybe he did on some level, being the first wizard that Harry had met. Harry was at loss about how to act or what to do. Should he just be friendly or polite?
"When you were angry, did your magic ever hurt anyone?" Tom asked.
"No, well, not really," Harry's mind darted to the earlier events of the day, remembering how Vernon's hand had bled after a piece of shattered glass had embedded itself in it, "Well, today, after my uncle called my mother that name, the glass shattered, and my aunt's expensive bowl changed into the shape of a butt," Harry grinned at the memory, "But I felt like a freak. The power, it was so wonderful. Usually I'm the one doing everything: cleaning, cooking, and chores. I don't even get food sometimes, and they lock me in the cupboard under the stairs. But I've never really wanted to hurt them. Today, though, when my uncle got a shard of glass stuck in his hand, I did not feel sorry for him at all. I just felt that he deserved it. And I almost burned him." Harry avoided Tom's gaze, guilty about his omissions. He never told people things like this. He was usually very private, but somehow, just by the taction between Tom's finger and his scar had caused his reservations to drop. He felt so scattered and confused.
"You shouldn't feel bad. Harry, when we receive our wands and go to Hogwarts, we will be able to use the power within us. We have more of it than most people, you will soon see. People that hurt us simply don't deserve to live, even less our sympathy."
"What's Hogwarts?" In response to Harry's inquiry, Tom's face slipped into shock, before he recovered and asked, in a dangerous tone,
"You received your letter, didn't you?"
"Well, I received many letters, all from owls. It was from some wizarding school. But I never got to read them because my aunt and uncle destroyed them." Upon seeing Tom's face, Harry felt an urge to defend his family. Luckily, however, the waiter came by with what seemed to be a scrumptious appetizer. Harry figure that they must look so strange: two slightly ragged boys that closely resembled each other sitting closely together in the classy, expensive little restaurant. Harry thanked the waiter, noting the thinly veiled surprise, and stared at the appetizer. Tom had already begun to place some of it on his plate and had stabbed it sharply with a knife. At the same time, Harry felt a hand on his leg. He almost jumped in surprise. What was going on? Suddenly, Harry was filled with a sinking feeling. The expensive restaurant, the table for two paid by one, the tingling scar, the burning gaze, and now a hand on his leg all fitted nicely together like the pieces of a puzzle. He distinctly felt like he was being hit on. But why? He was not very attractive, unlike Tom, and did not have much to offer in the realms of conversation or, dare he even think about it, sex. Maybe it was because he was supposedly famous. Either way, Harry had to escape this situation, and fast. The hand burned on his leg, sending horribly pleasing sensations throughout his body, made even worse by the fact the Harry had not been touched with any kindness and tenderness for most of his life.
"Not going to try?" Tom asked, gesturing towards the appetizer, and for the first time since they had sat down, his face lacked a smile.
"Please. Move your hand."
"No."
There was silence as Tom piled some of the appetizer on to Harry's plate. Harry felt anger, a much more comfortable emotion, bubble up inside of him.
"Why the hell not?"
"Fine. I'll move it." Sighing in relief, Harry began to try his appetizer, unconsciously "mmming" in pleasure from the most delightful food he had ever tasted. He nearly choked on it, however, when he felt the hand move closer to his crotch, resting on his thigh.
"Why are you doing this?" Harry said shakily.
"Why do you think I am doing this?"
"I don't know what to think."
"Good. It's good not to assume."
Harry attempted to ignored the hand as he ate, but then he felt those fingers spreading on his legs, and it was too much, too unfair.
"Stop!" Tom moved his hand.
"It took you five minutes to say that. Why? Did you really enjoy it that much, being touched by a stranger? Uncle and Aunt never loved you, so you're ready to accept any type of affection from anyone?" Tom said in a cruel tone.
"That's not it," Harry said, confused at how he was being attacked for being the victim.
"Than why didn't you say it when I first put it there? Didn't want to upset your God, huh? Not after he rescued you from slave work and took you to a nice restaurant, telling you that you are famous. How disgusting."
"No, that's not it! I just was confused, and don't make it sound like I liked it! I told you to move your hand."
"Ever so politely. It was as good as an invitation."
"I'm sorry, okay then? I'll express myself more clearly from now on."
"What the hell are you apologizing for? There you go again, being the victim. You let people do what they want with you, you will be destroyed. Just because you obey your aunt and uncle like a little slave does not mean that you should obey everyone else like that." Harry began to respond, but Tom cut him off.
"You know what Harry, just listen, okay. I'm not mad at you. I'm just trying to make a point, and if it hasn't become obvious to you by now, it probably never will be until someone has broken you beyond repair. Just know that when you are in that situation that you have allowed them to break you if you have not done everything in your power to escape or fight them. So. How's the appetizer? You seemed to be enjoying it before I ruined everything." Tom smiled.
"I want to leave," Harry said, staring at his hands in his lap.
"Then do so. But I'd rather that you stay, especially since you don't really want to leave. I hope that I have not made you too uncomfortable. I want you to enjoy this food. If it helps, we can talk about happier things until dinner's over."
"No, that would be making this into something that it shouldn't be."
"Here." Tom said, placing the last of the appetizer on Harry's plate in a silent truce. Harry met his gaze and knew that he could not leave. He needed to figure everything out, and even though Tom shook all of Harry's foundations, Harry felt a kinship with him.
"Hm… I bet your aunt is going to neigh like a horse when she sees her precious glass has suddenly become a butt. How offensive! I hope one of her little neighbors sees it before she does," Tom said, sipping on his drink. Harry tried, with no avail, to hold onto his anger, but couldn't help but laugh.
"And she actually looks like a horse! Tom, how did you find out about me? You said that you 'noticed' me."
"Those boys that beat you up at school. Not the group with the really fat boy, the ones with pale hair and arm bands? I know them, they were involved in an altercation near my orphanage. I can't believe that you don't remember it, seeing how I saved you." At this point, Tom's voice became sort of somber. "You may think I am intolerable, but this entire time, I have been relatively honest with you. I don't do that. Ever. I also don't save people. It's not my thing. But you…There's something about you; there's a connection. Can you feel it too?"
"Yes," Harry said, looking at his silverware. "I can't remember you, but I do remember that someone rescued me. They threw off my eyeglasses, so I couldn't really tell who it was. If it was you… thank you."
"You are that dependent on your glasses? Curious. I will find a way to fix your eyes, but I don't think I'll be able to do it until I get a wand. A potion would probably work better. I'll do some research. Take your glasses off for a minute. I want to see your eyes."
Harry took off his glasses as Tom muttered something about Harry's eyes being the color of his favorite spell, one that he unfortunately would be unable to use for years. As Tom declared them "wonderfully violent," Harry had the distinct, numbing feeling that he was way in over his head. Yet, he was enjoying his time with Tom and this was the first time that his stomach had been full in what seemed to be forever. The food was delicious, and Tom had a way of making him feel special. With time, Harry would force some issues of his own, but for now, he would content himself with the delicious food and drinks. Though Tom had given him no reason to believe it, Harry felt protected around Tom. Tom had saved him from those boys. Harry felt safe. As their conversation turned to lighter things, such as comments about the other people in the restaurant, Harry began to relax. He began to forget about the picket fence that he had never finished painting, and instead began wondering what dinner would taste like and reflecting upon the great ambience of the restaurant. Tom was skilled with his words and could take Harry to places he could barely imagine. Through Tom, Harry began to feel excited about the wizarding world and less worried about suppressing his "freakish" tendencies.