Before we begin, I would like to thank MidnightFedora for their absolutely wonderful review. This is a story I'm really proud of, and your review made my stomach do all kinds of happy flips!
To everyone else who has reviewed and messaged me, I cannot thank you enough. Your support means the world to me, and I'm glad you are enjoying this story.
TRIGGER WARNING: Self harm, and depression are both present in this chapter.
This story has a Blaise/Harry pairing, and will contain NONBINARY characters. If you don't like that, don't read this and don't flame me.
AndrewZachariah
The first time Blaise Zabini had realized he was different he had been three years old. His mother's current husband had been abroad for nearly two weeks, and had returned while Blaise and his mother were visiting the Malfoys. Blaise didn't remember the man's name, but he did remember the gifts he had returned with.
The man had pulled a shrunken box out of his pocket, and upon enlarging it he had given both Draco and Blaise permission to open it. Blaise could distinctly remember the giddy excitement that had blossomed in his chest when he had pulled out a large Quidditch stadium complete with action figures for one of his favorite teams.
Blaise had turned around to thank his current 'father' only to have the stadium and figurines gently pried from his fingers and handed to Draco instead. "Quidditch is for little boys." The man had admonished with a chiding tap to Blaise's nose. "This is for you." And suddenly Blaise's had an armful of the puffiest, frilliest monstrosity of a dress he had ever laid eyes on in his admittedly short life. Blaise distinctly remembered the way his stomach had twisted, and how he had been forced to smile and give his thanks. He may have been only three, but he had known what to do; you always thanked people when receiving gifts, even if you didn't like them.
Blaise had taken the dress home and stashed it in the deepest recesses of his closet along with all the other dresses and skirts he owned. He had cried himself to sleep that night thinking about the beautiful Quidditch stadium that had been so callously handed over to Draco.
Three years later an uncontrollable fit of accidental magic would light that particular dress aflame, and Blaise would sit by and watch it burn with no small amount of satisfaction. After all, he was a boy and he did not want to wear a dress.
-.-.-.-
Harry sighed as he squeezed himself into the farthest corner of the backseat, forcing himself not to react to Dudley's incessant poking, prodding, and teasing. He had been in the car for nearly 45 minutes, and Dudley had been a miserable nuisance the whole time, not that Harry would dare say that aloud. The Dursleys had been up earlier than usual this morning in order to avoid traffic on the drive to London, and Dudley's lack of sleep was simply fueling his urge to tease his younger cousin. Several strands of hair brushed against Harry's face, and the boy pushed them back with a sigh. His hair was pulled back in its usual bun, and Harry was determinedly ignoring how badly he wanted to take it down and braid it.
Today was one of those days.
Sometimes Harry would wake up, and everything would just be wrong. It was like waking up to see a green sky and blue grass; completely wrong in every way. Harry had woken up feeling as if he was going to burst out of skin that just didn't fit him. He was thankful his relatives hardly ever let him look in the mirror, because he didn't think he could have handled seeing a scrawny boy staring back at him. Today he was feeling so feminine that he nearly threw up at the thought of having to put on his usual baggy pants and oversized gray shirt.
Today he wanted to wear a dress. He wanted to wear one of the dresses in the box in the attic, but he couldn't and that hurt. God, it hurt so much. Harry curled into a smaller ball and wrapped his thin arms around his clenching stomach. Bile was rising in his throat and his eyes were beginning to burn with unshed tears. Grinding his teeth together, Harry looked out the window and watched apathetically as cars drove past. Dudley continued to poke him; Aunt Petunia continued to tell Uncle Vernon all about What's-Her-Face from three doors down and her disgraceful garden; and nobody noticed the blood slowly staining Harry's shirt sleeve as he idly scratched at healing scabs.
-.-.-.-
Harry frowned as he stared at the letters he had received two weeks ago. He had absolutely no idea where to begin hunting down even a quarter of the items on this list, let alone how he was going to pay for it. Harry subtly glanced across the street at the designer boutiques and prim cafés. The Dursleys did all their shopping in the expensive portions of London, so Harry figured he would need to get out of this district before he could even hope to begin looking for reasonably priced to school supplies. With that thought in mind, Harry refolded the letters, slipped them back into their envelope, and took off down the nearest sidewalk.
He made it down an innumerable number of blocks and more than one shady alleyway before he thought he was finally reaching a district he might be able to afford purchasing from. The walk had taken a while, and Harry assumed it was lunch time because his stomach was beginning to protest loudly. Wincing at a particularly harsh hunger cramp, Harry stopped outside a coffee shop. Perhaps he could slip in and ask for some water, but maybe not. They would probably be able to tell he was a freak, and he wanted to avoid being kicked out onto the street if he could. Sighing, Harry looked across the road, taking a moment to watch passerby and other shoppers as they walked to and fro. It took only a few minutes for Harry to notice something was wrong.
While this was by no means an expensive shopping district for the rich, Harry knew it was not the cheapest either. Yet, right across the street was a rather decrepit bar or pub of some sort. It was a dirty brick building with an old wooden door and an iron witch stirring a cauldron hanging over it. Harry bit his lip. Could it mean….no, surely not? This couldn't possibly be the place he was supposed to buy his school supplies at.
Harry squinted as he tried to get a better look at the building, but the sun and pedestrians were blocking his view. Shuffling his feet uncertainly, Harry quickly ran across the busy street with swift looks to either side to make sure no cars were approaching. Once he was safely on the sidewalk, Harry checked for a window to peek through, but there were none. Forced to approach the door, Harry did so cautiously only to leap backwards as it was abruptly thrown open by two laughing men on their way out of the pub. Neither took notice of Harry, and as the door was swinging shut behind them he could hear low chatter, the sound of cutlery on dishes, and glasses clinking as they were set on tables. The smell of greasy pub food overwhelmed his nose for a moment, and Harry firmed his resolve. He had to find somewhere to purchase his school supplies at, and this very well may be the only place he could do so. If it turned out to be too dangerous, he would make a hasty retreat and he would find somewhere else to shop at.
Nodding his head, Harry pulled the door open and slipped inside. There was no going back now.
-.-.-.-
Tom had been running the Leaky Cauldron for a few decades now, though he had been around for even more. This pub was his home, and he had fond childhood memories of running around tables and chairs, and helping his Pa in the kitchen while his Ma manned the bar. Yes, Tom had been around for quite some time, but nothing could have possibly prepared him for this.
Tom had felt the simple ward around the door buzz to signify a new patron's entrance, but he hadn't bothered to look up from his cleaning. Whoever they were, they would either order eventually, or they were simply passing through on the way to the Alley. It wasn't until the noise in the room abruptly dropped, that Tom finally looked up.
A young child was standing in the middle of the room, obviously having been weaving his way through the myriad of tables, when someone has stopped him. Indeed, an elderly witch was holding his arm so tightly the kid had to be losing blood to his hand as she stared at him in awe. "By Merlin, you're Harry Potter!" She breathed excitedly. The boy paled and started to tug his arm out of her grip.
"I'm sorry; you must have the wrong person. I'm not—" But it was too late. Wizards and witches were on their feet in seconds, rushing to surround the boy, and Tom hurried to put his glass and cloth down so he could go rescue the lad.
"It's an honor to meet you Mister Potter!"
"Where have you been all these years?!"
"Thank you so much Mister Potter!"
"Mister Potter can I have ya autograph?"
"Mister Potter can I—"
"Mister Potter, I've wanted to—"
"Mister Potter—"
A loud bang had several witches and wizards closest to the boy flying backwards. The lad was trembling in fear or rage, Tom couldn't tell you, and several locks of his hair were hanging around his face obviously having been pulled free from their bun in all the commotion.
"How—how—how dare you?!" The boy seemed to have been at a loss for words, and Tom hurried to push his way through the crowd before things got even worse. "I don't know any of you! I don't want any you touching me; I don't want to give you anything; I don't want to know what you want from me, and I most certainly will not give you my autograph!" The boy shouted as he turned a seething glare on one particular wizard. "I don't even know how you all know who I am!" Tom finally broke through the throngs of people with a frown on his face. How could Harry Potter not know how they knew who he was? Tom pushed that thought aside and quickly held up his hands towards the angry, frightened boy.
"Mister Potter, my name is Tom; I own this here pub and inn. May I escort you into the alley?" Oddly enough, Mister Potter seemed to get even more confused and frustrated at that, and Tom rushed to patch things up. "You're here to get your school stuff right lad?" At the boy's reluctant nod, Tom began herding him towards the back of the bar.
"Fantastic, I'll just help ya into Diagon Alley then!" Waving his wand behind them, Tom activated one of the bar's security wards, and everybody in the room was abruptly forced into a chair and restrained there through a body binding curse. They would stay there until Tom returned and deactivated the ward, and in the meantime the bartender would assist the wizarding world's hero.
-.-.-.-
Harry's heart was beating far faster than it should be as he followed the bartender towards the back of the pub. How had all those people known his name? And why did they all swarm him like that? You'd think he was famous or something from the way they had all latched onto him! Shivering slightly both in fear and disgust, Harry rubbed his arms briskly. He hated when people touched him without his permission, or in general, really. Harry didn't trust people to touch him without it backfiring on him. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had proved how dangerous it was to trust people on more than one occasion.
"Right here we are." The bartender—Tom was his name right?—stopped in front of a brick wall, startling Harry from his thoughts. He raised a brow; what did the man want out here? There was nothing but some trash bins and a broom. Harry was seriously beginning to question the sanity of these people, and his own at that. Why had he ever thought it was a good idea to enter the bar in the first place?
Tom pulled out a slender piece of wood, and Harry's eyes widened as the man tapped some bricks and the whole wall began to move. Perhaps he really was going insane. He was so astonished; he nearly missed the man's parting words.
"Head straight down the alley to Gringotts, the white bank at the end there." Tom was pointing, but Harry was thoroughly distracted by, well everything else in the alley. "You can't miss it, and the goblins will help ya get everything sorted." Harry nodded absently as the man turned to go back into his pub.
"And Mister Potter?" Harry tore his eyes away from the fascinating display of magic and looked at the balding…wizard he supposed. "It's good to have ya back." Harry blushed and stared dumbly as the man disappeared into his bar. Turning back to the alley, Harry steeled his frazzled nerves. He could do this. He was a wizard, right? He could do this, no problem. Sure, yeah.
Harry stepped into the alley, and as the wall closed—since when could walls close?—behind him, the boy couldn't help but wonder what he had gotten himself into.
