Chapter 2
"You know, wandering around in the middle of the night, by yourself, is not the safest thing you could do. It sort of defeats the point of me being here."
The look on his face was priceless, I had to admit.
"Um," he stammered.
"Um, indeed. Do you often break out of your house to come to this beautiful," I sneered, "park?"
"I didn't know I was being followed, sir," he spit out. "So has Voldemort sent you here? Or Dumbledore?"
"Shut up, Potter. I have been standing in the bushes all evening "protecting" you. I will not now be insulted by you," I hissed. Why does he always get under my skin? He's just a child. "Besides, I'm sure you need your beauty sleep. I would imagine you need you need all your strength to open your many presents tomorrow."
Potter snorted and gave a humorless laugh. "That's rich. I can't image the Durlsey's would ever celebrate my birth. More like the other way around." Potter stood up and stretched. He looked thin, tired and ill. I was suddenly irritated by his attitude.
"I don't have time for teenage melancholy. Go back to your uncle's house." I knew I was being an ass, but I was tired and wanted only for this evening to end as painlessly as possible.
"What if I said no, huh? What if I stopped following orders from everyone? Stay inside, be calm, stay with your aunt and uncle," he shouted.
"Silence, Potter. We all have to do things we don't want to. You don't see me throwing a temper tantrum right now, do you?" Hysterical Potter was something I was not in the mood for. Suddenly, however, it was over. He looked like all the fight left him, as quickly as it has rose to the surface. In spite of myself I was interested. What is going on with him? "What's the matter, Potter?"
"Like you care," he snapped.
"Fine. By all means continue wallowing in self-pity."
"You have no idea." He turned to face me, illuminated in the orange light of the park. He seemed struggling for control. "None." He pointed a finger at me, and that's when I noticed. Cuts were all over his wrist. I struggled to keep my face as neutral as possible.
"Potter," I said slowly. I wasn't quite sure how to procede from here.
"I'm going to bed." He turned around and headed down the block. Again I realized how thin he looked.
"Potter. Look at me."
"No, I won't have you looking into my mind. It's private!" he shouted.
"I will not be spoken to like that!" I had caught up to him by now. I stood in front of him and put my hands on his shoulders. "Now look at me, Potter. What's going on with you?"
"Nothing," he said hesitantly. "Nothing," he repeated, looking down at the ground. I took my hands off his shoulders and sighed.
"Okay," I said. What else was there to say? I wasn't about to perform Occlumency on the boy. We walked silent back to 4 Privet Drive. Harry began to climb up the makeshift rope. As he climbed in the window I called to him. "Good night, Potter."
"Good night, sir," he whispered and shut the window half way. I melted back into the bushes I had previously camped out in and stared into the window. The light was on, still. What a bizarre evening! Who would have thought that Potter would be cutting himself?
Seeing the cuts on his arm brought back a flood of memories; of being sixteen and alone, of self-hatred, of abuse. In the middle of these musings an owl flew out of Harry's window and down to me.
"What?" I asked. The bird was pecking me, and after examining it I realized it had blood on it's wing, but no injuries of its own. "Fuck," I breathed. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
