A/N: It's been ages since I updated. However, here it is: chapter 2! Enjoy.

Disclaimer: I don't own True Blood or Harry Potter.


Boredom: the Desire for Desires

Leo Tolstoy

The mirror had shattered slightly in its edges.

It had not been anything to look at when it had been bought, new and clean, and was disturbingly depressive now that it lacked a few shards and deep cracks ran along its edges. The glass itself was undeniably grey and murky; a heavy curse laid upon the dark bathroom. Maybe the source of its appalling appearance came from dirt and dust or age. Whatever the cause, it was a horrible sight.

Harry desperately wanted to remove it. However, unfortunately for the bathroom, he could not prioritise lifting the curse; not with his current paycheque.

Every morning, when he woke up to get to work, approximately 6.30, he would trudge tiredly into his minuscule bathroom and meet his reflection. It was the fact that the mirror actually reflected anything at all that made it even less desirable.

The glass would echo its surroundings and show Harry an image of himself that every other person saw. An image disconnected with the way Harry perceived himself.

So, when Harry thought about it, it was not the current mirror that was the problem, just mirrors in general. Every surface that could, in any capacity, reflect was undesirable. So remove it, was a thought that always would appear when he reflected on its hateful , if Harry removed it then he would only demonstrate that he could not confront his own problems.

Not that he was confronting his problems at all when the mirror was hanging on the wall.

The journey from his beloved, but loathed, home to the new world had changed him. His very being had bene folded into something else. He could feel it. Yes, sometimes he could even see it. His existence had disintegrated. Broken up into dust and then reconstructed in another frame, another skeleton.

The result was a timeless and indefinite skeleton that was in constant putrefaction.


Normalcy comes easily once the mind settles. Or so Harry believed.

His arrival had not been anything spectacular. Dehydrated, malnourished and weak, Harry had been stuck in a hospital bed for weeks. The time had ticked by in the clock above his head and Harry had felt lost. His lost feeling did not originate from disorientation to place and time; no, Harry was not delusional. He was fully aware, and knew how he had traveled from one world to another. The transport device was known, just not the mechanic behind the device itself.

The feeling that haunted him was a result of him not feeling anchored in the new world. It felt as thought he was a ballon far away from earth, lost and adrift.

It was difficult not to belong. More so than it ever had been when he had lived with the Dursley's.

But life went on, and the feeling of disconnection lessened over time. Now it only lingered in the back of his mind. Constant but discreet, reminding him of the fact that he had no place there.

No birth certificate indicating his birth.

No proof of his existence.

And no individual to prove that Harry James Potter actually existed.

Now, Harry, or what was left of 'Harry' after the journey through the veil was a lonely existence. At first his only company had been his memories and nightmares. At day soothing. At night tormenting.

Fortunately, he could, and would, live with that.

The man, who had saved him from the green water, had introduced himself as Sam Merlotte when Harry had been lucid for the first time. And with the introduction Harry achieved a person who knew that a man named 'Harry Potter' breathed the same air as every other person.

Sam had been standing close to the white clothed bed, eyes alight in unexplainable concern for a stranger. Harry had stared into the man's brown eyes and smiled weakly as he realised that Sam had no intention of letting Harry walk away from the hospital alone.

Sam had kept himself two short steps behind Harry ever since. Radiating heat and a concerning awareness of abandonment.

Maybe he saw Harry as a source of forgiveness for past crimes. Or redemption. Or maybe he just longed for closeness as much as Harry once had done. It was impossible to say what Sam really desired. Nevertheless, Sam had taken a seat at the front row in Harry's life and presumably intended on keeping that place for as long as possible.

Harry did not complain.


The library was haunted by emptiness; as it often was. Small and crowded by bookshelves, there were little space for man. However, it was a comfortable room, full of dusty and old books waiting to be borrowed by people, who rarely came. Harry had fallen in love with it the first time he had borrowed a book there. The light above him had flickered and the old man by the counter had coughed loudly. It was a world of its own. Old and dying, and Harry had felt a desperate need to get a last taste of that world before it vanished.

The owner was old enough to be dust, with long white hair and missing teeth, but he, unlike so many Harry had met in the new world, was not scared of death. Rather he accepted its slowly arrival in his body. He was a wonderful man with so little time left.

The library itself was a small squared room, but it made up on space by having a second floor. A small compact stair, built to occupy minimum space, stood at the far end of the library going up to the upper floor. Unfortunately, the second floor was no higher than approximately 1.70 meters so few women and men felt welcome there.

Not that it mattered. Few people ever came.

Harry licked his lips, looking at his current book over the rim of his glasses. He did not need them - his glasses -, not anymore, but it felt 'safe' to have them resting at the top of his nose. Like a shield protecting him from everything unknown. Such a childish belief.

The dusty air in the library shifted as the heavy oak door creaked, struggling painfully to move from its usual frame. Suddenly, it swung as if young again, before coming to a sudden halt. Harry knew, from experience, that the door would not move another inch. Even when forcefully pushed, the bulking floor would never let it move naturally again.

"What…? " Deep, and slightly hoarse; it was a strangers voice.

Harry's eyes widened slightly in interest as he heard the unrecognisable voice. It was not Richard, Emma, Sofia or Theresa; none of these people were able to speak in such a tone. It was a new visitor. He stood hurriedly up from his chair, the floor screaming as he shifted and leaned carefully against the counter.

He listened intently to a few other helpless attempts at opening the door further, before he kindly spoke. "It's no use, that door will not move further unless kicked down… And I certainly don't hope you'll go to such lengths to enter. The owner would be furious."

The shuffling halted suddenly and the visitor sighed. "Well, then…" A black, leather boot shifted inside, and closely behind the owner followed clumsily. Once, the man had to take a step back when his jacket was caught by the door-handle, but he managed to enter the library without any physical injury. His emotional state, however, was fatally struck. Frazzled and humiliated, the, Harry now realised, gorgeous man glanced hesitantly around the room.

"If I were you, I would fix that horrid door now." He bit out irritatingly, brushing his large - breathtaking - hands through his maroon locks.

Harry was studying the man intently now, his earlier boredom forgotten; slaughtered by the arrival of this captivating man.

And how long will he be captivating?

Shaking his head, refusing to let his usual mindset control him, Harry smiled. "What can I do for you? Is there anything special you're looking for, Mr…?"

The other man laughed loudly as he glanced around the room, hands lifting in amusement. "Why would I want anything from this old, junk shop?"

Harry sat slowly down into his chair, lifting an eyebrow.

The man smiled widely at Harry's expression, sharp, blue eyes glancing appreciatively over his features. "Jessie, Jessie Baxter," He murmured, his hand once again pushing heavy locks away from his eyes. It was an unconscious habit, that much was obvious.

Nodding, Harry closed the book at the counter. "So, Mr. Baxter-"

"Just so you know, Jessie is a male name," Jessie spoke hurriedly, as if correcting Harry after a terrible, almost unforgivable, mistake had been made. "-just as it can, sometimes - I imagine - be a female name… However, I am certain few parents will ever name their baby girl 'Jessie'. After all, it is a very masculine name." His blue eyes were staring chillingly at Harry, as if challenging him to disagree.

"I am certain," Harry began, "that 'Jessie' is a perfect name for a handsome specimen such as yourself." Licking his lips, Harry studied the man.

Wondrous was the only word Harry could use to describe Jessie. His maroon hair was thick and slightly curly, falling down around his neck. Harry could already imagine how wonderfully smooth those locks would feel on his fingers. Skin, tanned but not tainted by the sun, was gleaming, young, at the brick of life. Indeed, Jessie was the symbol of youth, with all it's beauty and disfigurement. Not that Jessie's only appeal rested in his hair and skin. His facial features were a sight to behold; even his slightly long nose was irresistible when moulded beside tantalising lips. Not to mention that his body was beautifully proportioned. He was not fit, nor robust, but handsomely lanky.

Jessie smirked. "Yes, I can't deny my perfection." As he spoke, his coal coloured eyes searched yearningly over the room's surface, before halting suddenly. They rested in passion at the jug at the counter. At his face reflected in the glass.

Oh.

A small, oh so harmless, comment was all it took for Harry to truly see Jessie. The man in front of him promised an end to his daily boredom. Why? A simple reason really. He was a narcissist. A wonderful, twisted human being who, if Harry had to guess, continually was sitting at the riverbed, staring lovingly at his own reflection.

"Charming," Harry returned, "do you say that to every person who gives you a compliment?"

Jessie opened his mouth to reply, but Harry lifted his hand in rejection. "No, don't answer,"

Holding his breath for a second, Jessie rolled his shoulders."I am gorgeous - even you think me captivating - so you can't say I'm wrong in loving myself. However… however, you too have a beauty. Not on level with mine, of course," of course, Harry returned humorously. "but," Jessie continued, "it is worth studying from time to time." As Jessie was talking, his left foot was tapping hurriedly against the floor. A soft and almost unnoticeable drumming, that Harry would not have noticed if he had not spent hours upon hours in the silent library. Maybe another habit?

"Thank you, I'm honoured by your compliments." Harry leaned back into the chair, staring intensely at Jessie, who had begun to glance around the library with obvious distaste. "I can't help but notice you're dislike for books, or maybe it's just for this bewitching, dying, room," Harry gestured to the room. " - so, please, don't be too offended when I ask you. What are you doing here? If no words will satisfy you, what will? There is nothing here, but old tomes and creaking floors."

"Please, go out with me." It left Jessie's lips in a puff of air. Nervousness tinted his tone, but underneath there was a clear current of excitement, and another unidentified tone. "I saw you, some days ago, when you closed the shop. I was standing on the other side of the road, studying my reflection in the window, when you grasped my attention - and let me tell you, it is unusual for a mere man, or woman for that sake, to catch my eye. I-" He glanced away from Harry, swallowing convulsively for a moment, before he continued. "I need to feel you, somehow. So let me take you out, just for an evening, just for a night." Jessie inhaled sharply, eyes refusing to look at Harry.

If Harry had been anyone else, he would have identified Jessie's action as embarrassment. Or maybe the fear of rejection.

However, he could taste the lies. Sweet, acidic and amusing; Harry had no reason to reject the man. Not when Jessie had annihilated Harry's apathy - for the time being.

"Why not," Harry pushed his ugly glasses further up on his nose. "Where? If you don't mind me asking,"

The wooden floor exhaled in agony as Jessie stepped forward, closer to the counter. The door had been left ajar, and gusts of fresh air disturbed the desolate dust-desert on the floor.

Jessie threw his hands out in exhilaration. "There's only one place that'll accept grandeur and beauty," His lips was stretching over his white teeth, pink and flushed with life. "Fangtasia!"

To be continued.

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