Imagine,
if you can,
the thundering silence in your mind,
with no one to fill the gaps between your thoughts.
He turned to other things then, the boy named Harry James Potter. Other, quieter things.
There was the time he studied for a test and got perfect marks, and when Aunt Petunia raised a ironcast saucepan at the nine year old boy, he looked at her, just looked and looked and she was filled with such terrible, bone shaking fright, that she turned away and never said a word.
There was the time Dudley and his gang cornered Jimmy Perkins on the playground and Harry had looked at them and said "No, Dudley. You may not." And then Piers, Dudley's right hand man, had screamed and blood had streamed from his nose in a bright, scarlet rivulet and nobody moved, nobody breathed and Harry said, "Come on Jimmy," and Jimmy came, willingly placing his hand in Harry's, looking up at him with wide, brown eyes and said, "Thanks Harry," all fervent and amazed, and Harry, just for a moment, felt the ache Tom had left, recede for a moment.
(there was also the time the Dursleys' pet cat, Clementine, ended up dead, her neck twisted unnaturally, in the upstairs bedroom after Vernon backhanded Harry for burning his toast 'you goddamn bloody useless freak!'. the Dursleys never bought a pet again.)
(harry never cooked again either.)
