Harry knows that he has experienced (and done) some strange things in his relatively short five years of life, but this one takes the cake.
A particularly bizarre, loopy fruitcake.
"I was you?" He echoes, puzzled beyond measure. What is he getting at?
"What do you mean by that?" He questions the strange, black haired young man who is strangely familiar to him.
He is captivating, carrying himself in a gait that seems too elegant to be human. His style of clothing is interesting as well, reminding him of the 18th century style of clothing he once read about in a classical novel in the school library, where he usually hides from Dudley and his gang.
But those aren't the reasons why he is intrigued at him.
It is his eyes, those twin, ever-changing dark-colored orbs that looks identical with his own left eye.
He has a feeling that this person is much more than he seems.
"I know I have just said something absurd, but please stop staring at my face, young Harry. It's considered impolite." The black-haired young man's chiding voice snaps him out of his thoughts, and he flushes, ducking to hide his face in his embarrassment.
"I'm sorry," he mumbles, "I didn't mean to."
The young man sighs, but he seems a tad uncomfortable with Harry staring so intently at his face just moments before, particularly his eyes. Harry can guess why. He ducks his head even more with the realisation, a twinge of guilt seeping into him. He knows how it feels to be stared by people as if he was not something human.
It is a horrible feeling (—cold, cold uncaring—hating—eyes boring into him—the jeers, the mocking laughter thrown at his face—).
The young man interrupts his thoughts once again. "Raise your head, Harry. Your reaction is understandable, and it is not good to submerge yourself in guilt, especially with things that you did not mean to do." Harry's eyes widens, amazed by how easily the man read his thoughts.
The young man steps closer to him, his coat swaying lightly with every step he takes. Harry slowly raises his head upwards, meeting the young man's dark-colored eyes, solemn face seemingly evaluating him. A hand clasps his lithe, bony shoulder firmly.
"My name is Leo Baskerville. We have much to talk about, Harry."
Leo. So that's his name.
Harry tentatively tests the young man's name on his lips. Looking at the captivating, regally dressed Baskerville, he decides that the name suits him.
A royal lion, that's what he is.
The emptiness he saw in his gaze worries him though. Even with the golden flecks in his multicolored eyes, it feels like a part of him is missing, leaving a deep hole in its place.
It is saddening (—maddening—slowly driving him insane bit by bit and he's not altogether aware of it—).
He shakes his head, dispelling his train of thoughts.
"So," he starts tentatively, a bit conflicted on what he should call him. "Mr Baskerville, what do you mean by you were me before I was me?" His question ends up becoming more of a question to himself, his confusion clearly apparent in his tone, brows furrowing in a manner that is considered cute for a child his age.
"Call me Leo, please. To explain that... Harry, are you familiar with the concept of rebirth or reincarnation?"
"Rebirth? Reincarnation?" Harry parrots and tilts his head in confusion, his unruly hair draping over his face with the movement. He has found the word in a few books, but he never truly understood what it means.
Leo purses his lips, wondering how he can explain the concept to Harry correctly.
Oh my god, I'm so sorry for the very late update for everything! It's been three months, and my internet wouldn't open Fanfiction at all. I'm moving to my relative's house, and imagine my sheer relief when their wifi can actually let me open this website.
Since it's been a while since I've written anything, I guess my writing style will be a bit rocky, so I apologize in advance for this.
And thank you very much for the favs, follows, and reviews! It really makes my day. More reviews would be very nice though. ;)