Harry Potter was not like other children. The six year old boy had accepted this as a truth from a very young age. He sat alone on a swing in the park of 'Little Whinging, Surrey', short legs kicking up clouds of dust in the gravel with every downwards swoop, and his shadow standing behind him quietly, waiting for them to finally move on. Eventually, as the street-lamps began to flicker on, and the sun drooped low in the sky, the boy slowed the squeaky swing, dropping to the ground with a dull thump and shrugging his oversized jacket onto is shoulders better before stuffing his hands into his pockets and wandering in the direction of home.
The Dursley Household was not a loving one, at least, not for it's youngest occupant. Stuffed away into the cupboard under the stairs, Harry and his shadow were nothing more then an annoyance to the occupants of Number 4, Privet Drive. He was never directly mistreated, merely pushed aside with a cold indifference and boarder-line fear that had instilled a level on apathy in the young child, who would watch them with detached fascination. Their shadows were different to his own.
Vernon Dursley's shadow couldn't have been much older then the man himself, round and stooped, the figure had the faintest peppering of grey hairs, and tired wrinkles around his eyes and forehead. He may have been slightly thinner, slightly more tired looking, but the similarities were unmistakeable.
Petunia Dursley's shadow, on the other hand, was that of a crone. A wizened figure with sunken cheeks and hollowed eyes, she stooped and creaked as she followed Petunia from room to room, long neck the only resemblance remaining to her young charge. To Harry it always seemed like she was on the verge of a Petunia-esque tut, though she never actually did. The shadows couldn't speak, that would be ludicrous.
Harry found himself most interested in the shadow of his Cousin, Dudley Dursley. The figure that was always one step behind the boy was tall and slightly plump, a head of hair swept to the side revealed a face that never failed to smile in Harry's direction. Harry often pondered at how strange Dudley's shadow was, because Dudley never smiled at him. But this was not what truly fascinated Harry, what intrigued him about his cousin's shadow was not the unfamiliar figure or the smile, but instead, the ruby bloom in his chest. The puncture in the man's chest looked painful, yet he never winced or did more then occasionally straighten the shirt, lining up the fabric with the hole below so the ribcage would glisten white through. He always seemed oddly pleased with the injury, like it was a badge of pride of some sort, or at least that's what it seemed like to Harry. The boy often wondered if his shadow knew Dudley's, as they seemed to be of close ages, but he was left in the dark, because the shadows couldn't see each other, or at least, they never acknowledged each other.
Harry's own shadow was a lot less tolerable to look at, though Harry peered up at it constantly anyway, too young to fear what trundled along behind him wherever he went. His shadow was a mess of a thing, tall and thin, with wild dark hair that was partially glued to his face by blood. Jagged cuts diced across the skin of his arms and legs, and what was left of his shirt was sliced to ribbons, patterns of red decorating the skin underneath. Sometimes, when Harry peered closely, he could almost make out the words carved into the spectre's skin, but as though self conscious, his shadow would draw in on itself, covering up the words with a sad smile and the shake of his head. Harry's shadow had a face from the horror movies Dudley wasn't supposed to watch. One eye was missing from it's socket, and along the cheekbone was a deep carving into the skin, random wavy lines flowing out and twisting up his lips. His other eye always remained closed though he seemed to be able to sense Harry, turning his head to follow the boy has he moved.
Harry often wished for a less intimidating shadow, not that his was the only nightmarish creature around. There was a girl in his school who's shadow didn't even have a face, just a sheet of red that dripped onto a white cotton dress. Many shadows were old, but some were young and didn't have a mark on them at all. Sometimes, Harry wasn't sure who he should look to first, the person, or the shadow standing behind them, which often lead to people looking at him funny as he peered up, perplexed at the figures that only he could see.
No, Harry was not like other children.
His story started on a Wednesday afternoon in the summer, when he was walking home from the park. As he ambled along, he passed a girl with long dark hair and a floral dress. She was several years older then him, and Harry wouldn't have paid her much notice if it wasn't for her shadow. The figure had a look of resignation on a face mottled purple. There was a nasty gash across her cheekbone and one of her feet was bare, the other in a white sneaker stained muddy red. What caught Harry's attention, however, was the shadow's dress, it was identical to that of her persons. Harry looked between the two, fascinated, he had never seen a closer resemblance between a shadow and it's charge before. The girl glanced at him curiously but made no comment as she wandered on, and as she overtook Harry, he heard the tinny wailing of headphones protruding from the girl's ears, a walkman was just sticking out of her satchel. An odd sense of fear trilled through the six year old boy, and, discarding his curfew, he turned left at the next corner, away from his home, following the girl.
He didn't need to diverge from his path for long. The girl, blissfully unaware of the danger that she was in, cut across the main road. Harry had just enough time to sing-song the road safety phrase he had been taught to parrot from a young age; 'Stop, look and listen.' before there was a squealing of breaks and a single short scream.
A motorcyclist had veered around a slow moving car. His movement was legal, the fault, not his own. Harry had plopped himself down as the girl crossed the road, sitting cross legged on the pavement with open mouthed astonishment as she crumpled to the tarmac, like a marionette who's strings had suddenly been cut.
Perhaps a normal child would have cried, or flinched at the blood that pooled it's way across the road. But Harry's eyes were not on the girl, or at least, not for long. Like a cloud of dust, a dark vapour seemed to rise from the girl's body, and the shadow, who was standing alone now, reached out with a bruised hand, purple fingertips brushing the cloud, before, with a sudden inhalation, the two joined. Harry gulped from his spot on the curb, his eyes flickered between the figure lying prone on the floor and the shadow. The girl, who mere moments before had been the epitome of health, had a mottled purple face and a nasty gash on her cheekbone.
The motorcycle driver was on his knees beside her, hands frantically pumping at her chest in some CPR attempt that Harry already knew was futile. The girl was dead. She had become one with her shadow.
Strange as he may be, Harry was an astute six year old. He looked up at the mangled form of his own shadow with bright green eyes slightly shiny.
"Are you me?" he asked. His shadow didn't respond, though it's brow furrowed as though in pain. Harry clambered to his feet, dusting mud off his trousers before he turned and began to walk back home. His shadow teetered along behind him, his usual unnerving presence slightly more nightmarish in the dim street-lamps.
That night, the cupboard under the stairs felt slightly more suffocating then usual. Harry lay back in bed with his eyes clenched shut and the sheets tugged over his head as he breathed deeply.
"I will not become that." he muttered to himself, over and over again until he finally fell asleep. His panic made it hard for him to breathe and his heart slammed like a sledgehammer into his ribcage. Unlike most children, Harry James Potter had no one to comfort him when he woke up, drenched in sweat and sobbing in the early hours.
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