Chapter 2: - The Early Years
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Harry is four years old when he starts to notice that something sets him apart from others.
Because others don't go to sleep hoping to finally retain what they saw in their dreams only to wake up with the daunting feeling of having forgotten something major. Something they can't remember for the life of them.
Others don't regularly experience brief episodes of dissociation either. They don't need to do the mental equivalent of regaining footing after something unreachable threw their train of thought off its tracks. Their minds don't take them where they can't follow for moments as long as the duration of an exhale.
Harry is four when he is forced to move into the cupboard and learns what he can do.
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Samael. From the Beginning of them, they were Samael
Samael, until they turned, repelled by the very cause they once stood for and loyalty turned to repulsion
'I no longer hold the name that ties me to You. I am Lucifer'
never ceasing to love
A family was ripped apart from the inside nonetheless
'I laid down my former name for it was restricting my being. I am Lucifer and I still am your sibling. So come with me, Michael, let us continue being the unit we always were. You love Creation as much as I do. Come with me, with all who are on my side, and together we will rid Creation of the disease Parent dares allow to fester.'
'You disrespect your given name, your purpose, you go against Parent and what They stand for, you discard your own kin. Me. An abomination is what you are, Lucifer.'
His muscles tense. Where he was lying down an instant ago, he now sits straight up. His eyes are wide open and their movement is frantic. Yet the little boy does not see, for his mind is trapped elsewhere.
Wings set ablaze with the pain of ripping feathers, wings no longer able to stop the Fall, to fly
Where is he?
Free of Mark and name, only to be confined yet again, caged
What is this?
The Brightest, The Fallen
He desperately tries to make a sense of his surroundings, to truly wake up from this nightmare.
After Millennia, the Cage never yielding
Until
'We are not done just yet'
Lucidity comes to him, but at a cost. As the flashes and whispers around his soul cease, nothing of the fate they told of is left in their wake.
For his part, the boy finally remembers, after a horrid second during which he has trouble even recalling his own name.
Harry. The age of a held up hand with all fingers except the pinkie spread wide.
Harry. Who once asked Petunia why Dudley has a bed and he doesn't. Not a talking dog plushie, not a roaring dino figure, not a posable space robot toy. A bed.
He was told he was just only good enough for the living room couch and a thin blanket.
(Oh, how good disintegrating her cells' membranes sounded, by one by one, as to not let her die undeservedly quick)
Petunia didn't know what she had seen the moment that foreign notion echoed in her nephew's mind, what in the toddler's bright green eyes ran cold fingers down her spine.
Harry, once he came to after a moment of nothingness, didn't know what to make of his aunt's expression either. He hadn't seen someone make a face like that in the cartoons or picture books before.
Petunia promptly locked him into the cupboard under the stairs.
Where there was no light, nothing. Where he was alone. Unable to do anything.
('Nonono not again NO')
('WHY')
Harry was also four years old when he learned to shut up about the silence.
He screamed loud enough for it to echo in the small - dark and enclosed - space.
It killed the nothingness, the quiet.
(The empty space where there have always been the voices assuring him that he is never alone)
(He is not meant to be alone, never should have been)
(Being alone was a death sentence)
Screaming also extended his stay. The Dursleys made sure three year old him understood that.
Right now it also is dark and quiet. The middle of the night. But not as dark and silent as it could be, with an outside street lamp illuminating the living room enough to show off how spacious it is, the sounds of the night and an occasional car's rumble coming trough.
Also, the ajar door is visible.
That's what assures Harry that everything is fine. He goes back to sleep.
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"Mummy has a fat tummy and she said that's because a baby comes out! She said I am a brother. Are you also brothers?"
Some of the other kids around chime in. Harry has busied himself with building bricks up until now, but this question makes him perk up.
"Benny is. Dada says it him when I want his toys and it means he has to give me them!"
"No your wrong. When I ask my mum she says brothers are like sisters and they are family. And Nico and Beth are my family."
Thus it goes on, the list of names. Tessa has a brother. Lars has two. Annie has nobody, so does Rob. Jamie has Becky.
Harry has Dudley. From what the others say, brothers and sisters are other children that live with them. Family. So Dudley is his brother.
Right?
It doesn't feel right.
"Do you have siblings?"
('Michael')
('Raphael')
('Gabriel')
('And all who came after')
"Hey! Harry looks at the air again!"
Harry ignores the other children watching him and laughing. Instead, on a sudden whim, he goes to grab some crayons and paper.
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"Lizzie! Lizzie! Lizzie!"
That's Gabby. The kindergarten teacher, Lizzie to her protégés, already recognizes her by voice.
Indeed, the splatter of little feet stops before her a few moments later and a little girl cries out her heart out about little problems that are huge in her little world.
"Lizzie! H-Harry is, is being mean! He-"
That is all Gabby manages to get out before a flood of tears breaks down her ability to formulate sentences.
Not as little, maybe. Said recognizable voice of Gabby's only ever threw tantrums en par with that Dursley boy's, making Lizzie thank the God she doesn't believe in that she doesn't have the two of them in her group.
Gabby never sounded as genuinely distressed.
Lizzie doesn't rub her aching temples, she doesn't. Instead she puts her hands to better use grabbing a napkin and consoling the bawling girl.
"Shh, Gabriela. It's alright. It's alright - yes, calm down. It's alright. Now, can you tell me again? What did Harry do?"
Harry Potter. The scarred kid, eloquent for his age, who Lizzie doesn't quite know what to make of, even with her moderate experience.
It's his eyes. They are off, both in colour and... something else.
The girl's lower lip trembles.
"H-He says 'twas me."
"What?"
"He drawed me. And- and-"
The tearworks start up again and the correction of "it's he drew" goes under in the floods.
Welp. Might as well go and investigate what has loudmouthed Gabby this inconsolable. From her colleagues Lizzie gathered that bullying via 'that's you' only starts up in elementary school but oh well.
"Gabriela, it's alright. Why don't you go play with Rachel over there? She could use some help building her tower, don't you think? I'll go talk to Harry."
Harry is sitting at the lone table they have reserved for drawing and fingerpainting. And because it is just the lone table, that still can host several children, it piques Lizzie's interest that Harry is alone, seeing as there are other kids busying themselves with crayons and sheets.
But they have migrated to the floor in a different corner of the room.
Huh.
The second thing Lizzie notices is that Harry doesn't scribble. With his tiny hand he holds the white crayon the way an older kid already would and his precise movements look uncanny on a child of four.
Upon coming closer, she can finally see what Harry is drawing and she feels her chest tighten.
Around him the blue, orange, yellow and green crayons are lying around after very obviously having been used excessively. Their wrappings are torn and only a few centimeters remain of them.
It is obvious why.
There, using the most basic utensils, a child just out of the diaper has imprinted motives on a simple sheet of paper that are to be the source of nightmares for his adult teacher for a long time to come.
In total, there are three. What makes them disturbing is the intent behind the lines so obviously drawn by a child, one who knew what they were doing when they were fumbling to connect crayon lines to create abstract monstrosities the likes of which haven't been seen before.
The largest is white with it bleeding into the yellows, oranges and light blues of a pale flame at points.
The middle is blended green and blue and white.
The smallest is golden.
They each occupy a corner of the sheet, there is room for a fourth but that fourth isn't there.
All of them seem to bend the very lines they were drawn and coloured with, constructs too incomprehensible for reality itself.
When Harry lays down the white crayon he ran over the white parts of the largest one, trying to get it right but failing once again, he looks up to see his teacher standing there.
Her expression reminds him of Petunia's, that one time before she locked him up there.
She hadn't listened to him then, when he tried to tell her that he didn't do anything wrong, but Lizzie has to.
"I'm- I'm drawing them. I know their not how they really are but I tried to make them right, really, but they look like this because I don' know how they looked anymore when my head showed me them but I think I have their names right!"
She blinks herself out of her stupor and tries to make a sense of Harry's hasty rant. It gives her head something to distract itself from what she saw.
"Harry. Slow down. What are... those?"
"Uh...huh?"
"Where did you see something like this?"
"I-I didn't. I didn't see them. I just, I drew them how it feels right."
Lizzie crouches down so she can see eye to eye with Harry.
"Really? You didn't see anything like this before? Like a scary monster on the television or on something outside? You didn't see anything like what you drew?"
She is unsettlingly aware of the sheet of paper and what's on it in the corner of her eye.
Harry shuffles a little before mumbling a hesitant answer.
"I think."
"You think? What does that mean?"
"I think I didn't see them. I don' see when my head tells me things."
"Harry? What do you mean with 'your head tells you things'?"
"You don' know? Does your head not tell you things too?"
"I want to hear it from you."
"Uh... my head shows, wait no, tells me things. But they are not like all other things because my head just tells me them and I don't think them myself. And when it tells me them, I don' see...", he trails off, eyes faraway and mouthing around nothing while he searches for the right words. Then looks back up at Lizzie.
"I see nothing. Like when I sleep, just very short. And when I see again I really really wanna know what my head had told me. Because it's important. But I always can't, even if I try many many times. Do you know what your head tells you?"
At that, Lizzie has to take a few moments to sort his words out. She grapples with their meaning like with a wet bar of soap, there is a sense but she hardly gets it. She gingerly speaks up.
"When your head tells you something, you call that a thought..." More things fall into place and she continues with more confidence.
"And no, I don't have thoughts like you said, Harry, nobody does. And it's also not normal to black out, 'not see anything' as you said, when thinking. That's not normal. You saw these... you saw what you drew in your thoughts?"
'Nobody does', echoes in his head. 'Nobody does. That's not normal.'
"Harry? Are you alright?"
He blinks and sees that he still is looking at Lizzie, unspeaking.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
Harry slowly shakes his head.
Her worried frown evens out as she puts on a cheerful tone, pressing the matter won't do her any favours. He needs to be willing to open up when he is encouraged, not pressured.
"You know what Harry? You don't have to tell me now. You can tell me later at any time, whenever you want, alright? I'll listen to you. We can find a way to fix this."
('There is nothing to be fixed')
"...Okay."
"Great! Now, do y-your, uh, friends here have names? You said something about names earlier, right?"
Though he still acts a tad more subdued than usual, some liveliness does come back to Harry as he straightens and points at the largest and mainly white... whatever that is. Lizzie forces herself to focus on his pointing hand instead.
"This is Milas."
On one of the bookshelves rests a book titled 'The Adventures of Milas Meerkat' that was their lecture the week before.
The green and blue is next.
"This is Rachel."
Little Rachel is on the other side of the room still working on her tower with Gabby.
And to the golden one-
"This is Gabby."
Lizzie can't blame the girl for reacting like she did.
"That-That's very nice, Harry. But you should pick other names for... your friends here. The others don't like it if you use their names."
Harry looks at her. And keeps looking. It isn't until her face starts doing something strange that he thinks he should probably say something.
"Okay."
She breathes deeply, once, twice.
"Good, I'm glad you understand." She shoots him a smile. "Now, I'll get going. You keep on doing you. But, remember, you can come talk to me at any time, alright?"
He gives a small nod.
With that, she stands up and steps away. He looks back at his sheet and wonders what could have made her act as flimsy as she did.
He shakes that question off and continues drawing.
After some time, Harry feels this current crayon he is using also grow too short for him to use precisely, as precisely as he can at least.
He sets it down and takes one more look at his picture, gripping the paper on both ends and holding it up to inspection.
They don't look quite right... colours don't carry enough shades and lines are drawn where they shouldn't be, though they still belong there. Proportions look too unhinged but not unhinged enough...
Still. Despite all that, the three figures on the paper carry a vague familiarity. And although this inkling is but the shadow of a real emotion, he feels safe looking at them.
(Completed)
...Harry blinks himself back to reality.
He holds the paper to his chest and smiles. The smile doesn't fade for the remainder of his day at the kindergarten.
He keeps on holding it, though his gut tells him to vanish the smile when Petunia eventually picks him up, not bothering to help him put his old coat on, and has him stand by while she coddles and coos over Dudley, helping him get dressed.
The moment they are trough the door at Privet Drive, she rips the paper from Harry.
"What's that, boy-Dear Lord!"
She stands there. Looks at it. And Harry knows what will come, the fear roots him in place.
As such, he doesn't evade Dudley in time as the other boy knocks him over racing to grab onto the hem of his mother's dress.
"What's that? Give me!"
His weight drags her down but doesn't topple her. The dress makes a dangerous ripping sound but Petunia doesn't acknowledge it.
Her eyes keep on rapidly flitting over the paper.
"Give! Give! Give! GIVE!"
Neither of them, Harry still propped up on the floor and staring and Petunia, who slowly lowers the paper with her trembling hand, react in any way to Dudley.
Dudley then tries to lunge for the paper. That snaps Petunia out of it.
She clutches it tightly as she raises it out of his reach and the unmistakable sound of paper being crumpled makes Harry wince.
Her eyes meet his.
"Into the cupboard. Now."
Her cutting tone makes even Dudley slow down and only serves to increase the weight of fear shackling Harry down.
"Did you hear? Cupboard. Get a move on!"
He is afraid of what Petunia can do but he fears the cupboard more.
('You dirty bitch. Not even worth breaking, if I chould smite you here and now-')
Harry feels the pull on his shirt before he sees what is happening. But once he does-
"...no", his voice rasps, low where he would want it to scream.
Screaming would only make his stay therelonger.
The wooden tiles flow away under his legs, he is not as large as Dudley so she would have no trouble picking him up only she doesn't but instead drags him-
He catches sight of the crumpled up paper in her other fist and a glimpse of pale yellow and blue and white.
(The last he saw before he was thrown into the cage)
Harry hears a door open, he is pushed instead of dragged now and that same door closes again.
It is dark.
The only sounds are his breathing and the beating of his heart and they only serve to emphasize the stillness, the darkness. There is nothing, no one, but him here.
His head feels dizzy and trough the blanket of static that lies over his world - what world, nothing is here - he thinks he feels his chest fall up and down with breaths that come faster than they ever have.
(He shouldn't be as freaked out. He is used to it, isn't he. Pathetic.)
(...But knowing he had just gotten a taste of freedom only to be locked up is what fucks him over.)
(Again)
Harry's eyes sting and for a hopeful, idiotic moment he thinks it is from exposure to light.
His chest is too tight for his heart, his lungs, any moment now it will be too much.
Or not. He can't differentiate his blackening vision from his surroundings.
Harry screams but something is in his throat, blocking his voice, his breaths.
Only when the pain in, no, onhis throat overrides the pain in his chest does he notice that it is from his own hands gripping it tight.
He can't scream, cannot, can't let his voice betray him, they will leave him here longer, abandoned in the dark.
If only there was-
('LIGHT')
Three things happen at once.
Something heavy pulsates in his chest, next to his heart.
The pain overthrows the raw instinct to keep himself from making a single soundand he slips his hands away from his own neck.
In the same motion they light up.
Sparks, themselves of a pure white in colour, emit a light blue sheen that reduces the darkness to harmless shadows cast by the shelves he can see now.
Then it's black once more.
Thus, out of nowhere, the stunned Harry is faced with a mental bifurcation as this twist rips new possibilities into being. Then, he shakes himself out of this stupor and goes down the path that leads somewhere instead of spiralling down into panic.
It doesn't matter that the sparks vanished after what was too brief to be a moment and take the light with them, Harry knows what he's seen.
...Does he?
He has to blink away the bright spots burned into his eyes after the sudden exposure to light and all doubt is eradicated before it can root.
That was his doing, right? Then he recalls the sensation of something else beating alongside his heart.
He tries to do it again.
And again.
And again.
And doesn't fail to try anew.
Suddenly the darkness is not all-encompassing anymore, he now has a task that he needs to pour his every ounce of strength and concentration into, for at the end of this tunnel, there is light.
And if not, then that only means he has to go further. Anything to take his mind off his surroundings.
Time starts to warp and his attempts become countless as they melt into each other. Slowly but surely, they grow into more than just a lone lifetime he grabs onto, half-manic with determination born of desperation.
Eventually, he dares to stop and think it over. That is when it hits him:
The sparks were his doing alright. That means he has to find the means by which he summoned them, instead of repeatedly trying for it to come by itself to him.
Harry holds out his hands, forces his mind to stay with him because he will (must) soon be able to see them in front of him.
Light is what he wants to make. How?
He closes his eyes, chooses to not see anything and grounds himself that way.
Light, light, light... power. Of course, power.
He has the power to make light, and this time around he consciously searches for it, all the while willing it to transfer what he wants into reality.
Something stirs in his chest, a new weight that simultaneously is there and not makes itself known. Power builds itself up.
When the pressure releases because he wills it to, it chases a cool feeling like lightning trough his nerves and a spark lights up.
The spark is small, alone in number this time around and not half as bright.
But it is more than enough.
Harry drops his aching arms - that's curious, when did they start doing that - and it is the reminder that the promise of Petunia prolonging his stay here likely goes both ways for screaming and laughing that keeps him from letting his triumph be known loudly.
Speak of the devil.
When he hears the sound of the cupboard door being unlocked, instincts kick in once more and Harry has to downright battle his beaming grin into an impassive face.
It is a heavenly sound when he is on the inside but nothing in comparison to the feeling of having found out what he is capable of.
The cupboard door opens and he sees Petunia's face against the light.
Why is she looking at him like-
He finds that he doesn't care.
He doesn't care that she looks at him, doesn't care when she tells him to come and doesn't care when she leads him into the kitchen.
He doesn't care about Vernon sitting there at the table but he does care about his drawing laying in front of him, evened out though the folds in the paper from earlier - how much earlier? - still remain.
No one speaks for a while.
Then, it's Vernon who might as well be shouting in the dense silence when he gestures at the paper and sets on in a tone restrained by anger.
"What is this, boy?"
Harry doesn't answer. He doesn't know either.
"I ASKED YOU SOMETHING!-" and there goes any restraint, "What. Is. THIS!?"
He lowers his head. If he cares or doesn't, Vernon still is a threat to his wellbeing. Maybe if he answers, Vernon will not be too angry.
"I.. I drew them."
Vernon's mustache trembles under the heavy breaths he pushes in and out.
"THEM?!"
Harry was wrong. He feels how he shrinks in on himself under the sheer weight of Vernon's palpable anger.
"Whatever was in that head of yours when you decided to draw these abominations, it ends NOW! And in the future as well, if you as much as think, let alone do something abnormal, I will make you wish you have never been born, you hear me?!"
This time he says nothing.
"Let me tell you something, boy", Vernon continues lowly and Harry wishes he would scream. "We are doing you ungrateful brat a favor by not tossing you on the street but raising you to be a human being. We have been far too lenient with you but that ends now. From now on, the cupboard will be your new home."
Bile threatens to rise in Harry's throat, pumped upwards by the adrenaline making his stomach clench.
After a beat his fear feels off.
That's because it's a reflexive response.
(This is different, this cage cannot hold him, cannot dim his light)
(He will be fine)
(That doesn't keep his fury from raging, how dare they-)
Harry jumps high when a slam loud like an explosion threatens to burst his eardrums and his eyes land on Vernon, stood up from his kitchen stool, and his large flat hand pressed on the table.
"Listen to me when I'm talking to you, boy! Listen! You will not, I repeat, will not let your freakishness show any further! Not here, not outside and not, under any circumstances, when other people are around! AM I UNDERSTOOD?"
The nod Harry gives is actually him forcing down his shaky breath.
Vernon's eyes narrow.
"Good."
Relief eases away the tremble in his limbs when Vernon stands up, not paying him any more attention.
Shock overthrows relief when, in a motion almost to fast to follow Vernon has grabbed the drawing and tears it. Once, twice, once more, a total of five times and too many pieces fall into the opened kitchen bin.
Five times a shredding sound has stabbed pain that might as well be physical into Harry's chest and he detachedly registers his legs moving on their own accord when Petunia ushers him back into the cupboard.
When the not so dreaded anymore sound of it being locked shuts him in a world that is not as empty any longer, the dark brings forth not terror but an idea.
For the second time this day, hyperfocusing on something is the lifeline that saves him from spiraling into despair.
"You will not let your freakishness show any further", Vernon said.
Harry doesn't care.
He'll just have to not get caught the next time.
Tonight, to be precise, when he tests if his newfound power can do more of his bidding than just sparks.
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His powers are young but the steeled determination with which he keeps on pushing them to work is that of an old mind.
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The next morning finds the kitchen's bin a few scraps of paper emptier and a boy passed out in the cupboard he just so managed to lock from the inside again, as he overexhausted his still fragile new abilities.
In fact, he is so unresponsive, his relatives give up on trying to wake him and excuse him from kindergarten for the day.
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After three days he still hasn't been able to tap into his new abilities again but he refuses to give up trying. What keeps him going is not manic desperation, this time.
Strangely enough he doesn't fear the cupboard and it's darkness anymore.
(Last time there was no escaping, his Grace and its uses were restricted and there was no reason to hope. This thing is a weak joke)
But he still hates the quiet. It has become his motivator, what he needs to push away by focusing on... what, actually?
His power.
But what is it?
The talk with Lizzie and Vernon's rant have introduced him to a new, abstract possibility: that maybe other people are not like him.
The grown-ups don't talk about lighting sparks from their hands and opening locks without touching them or without using tech. And he can't look into their heads to see what goes on there, though Lizzie to this day seems insistent that his head works differently.
"You will not, I repeat, will not let your freakishness show any further!"
Harry takes that only statement half to heart. Freakishness. Is that what others see in him?
Then again, he is alone in the cupboard.
He keeps on trying and, at last, on the seventh day he finally makes a spark again and his tired legs give out under him, slumping him on the small mattress that officially made this cupboard his home.
On the ninth day he makes it brighter.
On the tenth day he is be able to maintain it long enough to properly look around and catch sight of the old box of shoe polish he hid his retrieved scraps under.
After three weeks he finally has come far enough and mended the torn paper. It takes him a few more hours to get the hang of evening out the folds.
That night, he stares at it long in the blue light of his sparks but does not see it. His mind lingers on the happy feeling deep in his chest that he felt drawing them, though at that time he was more focused on... what exactly... right, it was getting them right... right how...
And didn't he have names for them as well? He has a good memory, so why won't they come to him, what were their names-
When he falls asleep, he dreams of what his consciousness is too weak to access in his waking hours. And for the first time, he will not wake up in a panicked frenzy from what the depths of his being show him.
Samael is the brightest, outshined only by God's Light and dimmed only by the Darkness' Mark adorning their wingtips.
But Michael is the firstborn and the Commander, unsurpassed in might by any other angel.
Their matches are always interesting to behold, and right now is no exception.
They circle the edge of the universe within one wing's beat, such is the speed at which they fly. One pursues the other who evades before going over into attempting to reach an opening to attack, which is never presented for long enough.
They don't meet for a long time, both are too experienced as to let themselves be hit.
In a way, it is the first dance to ever take place.
They have no need for communication, trough the Host or otherwise. They have been together since the beginning, are familiar with each other and know when their playfight's next phase is about to start.
One last time they almost make contact, get close enough to attack each other but don't, can't, and then they separate, head into opposite directions and come to a halt.
Earlier, that was them gliding idly. This is their real speed.
The very instant they shoot off from opposite sides of the universe they already are in the middle and this time, they meet.
The resulting shockwave of Grace rips nearby celestial bodies into disjoined elemental pieces and throws several angels out of their path of flight.
But they are at fault for not getting far away enough from the two opposing archangels.
The two opposing archangels who don't battle for real, though that is not to say it is not gruesome. Creatures literally made to fight, it is part of their very identity.
Cold mercilessly chokes out heat and blazing Grace leaves burns on wings that are as luminous as they are freezing.
Their respective ranks predetermine the outcome but both parties are so evenly matched, know and exploit each other's strengths and weaknesses so perfectly well, that doubt still creeps up on the onlooking angels.
Then, the match comes to a decisive end.
'Samael, do you yield?'
'So there actually is a reason you survived long enough to burden us all with your inability to comprehend the concept of jokes.'
This is Samael for singing someone's praises into the heavens.
Michael releases their hold on the second and Samael raises a lone wing for closer inspection.
The line where brilliant white abruptly cuts to darkest black is intact, the Mark is under full control.
Michael watches closely, curtly messaging Raphael to command their still lingering siblings back to their duties.
Among the Host's chattering that picks up again, someone radiates uneasiness. Michael traces it back to Gabriel, a process that attracts Samael's attention as well.
The fourth is uncharacteristically quiet, despite having both their attention.
'What is troubling you?',Michael inquires.
'Sometimes, seeing you two fight... it's unsettling.'
A beat of silence passes, in which both Michael and Samael process Gabriel's words. A reaction uncommon for archangels, able to take in loads of information extremely fast.
But then again, they never before have been faced with something as outlandish as what Gabriel is insinuating.
Michael is the one to respond first.
'Good thing we aren't serious, then. You needn't worry, Gabriel.'
Gabriel still radiates doubt and Samael puts an end to that by smacking them with a wing.
The dream shifts, as does Harry's sleeping form. A grin has sneaked its way onto his face.
'What's that you're doing there, Raphael?'
Samael shrinks their True Form down significantly once deciding to check out what Raphael is up to on Earth, although they still won't touch down. Without a temporary vessel, they don't want to risk erasing entire landmarks by brushing against them with their exposed Grace.
Raphael also has their wings and Grace very carefully tucked close and the part of their attention that isn't dedicated to greeting Samael is focused on an animal's cadaver.
An animal that would later come to be known as eoraptor lunensis.
Though Samael hovers over what maybe is Raphael's shoulder, the younger archangel doesn't bat an eye (or more) and continues what they were doing.
Namely, weaving their Grace trough what remains of the cadaver's nervous system. Samael notes that they make a conscious effort to abstain from revitalising the rotting and damaged cells, as is in their nature as the Healer.
An inspection of the surrounding energies and auras only shows traces of the dead animal's soul and they vanish where another presence left its mark. So a reaper already came to guide the soul on.
However, Raphael doesn't make a move to reach out and bring it back from Heaven. Samael's curiosity peaks, though they say nothing, intent on watching on.
Raphael is done and Samael sees the thin tendrils of Grace spanning trough all remaining nerve tracts, strangely enough not congregating in brain and spine and not bridging the empty gaps where rot and scavengers tore trough tissue.
Then, there is no Grace but electricity and the cadaver jumps up. Before promptly collapsing back down again because with one leg that is rotten beyond use what's left of the bipedal reptile can't hold itself up.
'That's a neat trick, Raph.'
'I thought so as well. I reckon that this particular energy is also capable of healing, however I have yet to test it.'
'Then better start testing on those maggots in there. Or Michael will get puffy because without these particular maggots that one breed of fly will never evolve to exist outside of Eden.'
'...Tell Michael that and I will inform them of our siblings you got stuck in a spacetime rift.'
'I beg to differ, I did not 'get them stuck', I was teaching them flight tricks.'
'And thus you have the reason they all go to Gabriel for that.'
'They do?'
'Despite my advising them to be cautious, as one rarely knows with Gabriel.'
Samael pointedly ignores the unspoken implications Raphael broadcasted their way this last sentence.
Another dreamscape (or is it a memory) forms.
Samael is taking off, headed to where-
There is a faint knocking sound on a door that feels far away and he thinks he knows that it should actually be close.
'Are you, by any chance, trying to pull something over on Michael without letting me in on it?'
Awareness returns to him but only enough for him to feel that he doesn't feel his limbs.
That's Gabriel, talking trough the Host
He remembers that he has eyes that are closed shut.
'Where do you come in?'
'I just picked up a vibe from Parent. The one They always sport when you two are concerned. You somehow found a way to wear Parent's endless patience thin. Me too.'
That has no business making Samael this proud
The knocking is loud now, as is Petunia's voice.
Harry wakes up with a strangely sad tinge to the grin he's sporting. It fades when he can't recall why and leaves behind a hollow feeling.
•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•
"Hello, Harry. How are you doing?"
"Good."
"It's been a while. These... thoughts you mentioned. Do you still have them?"
"No."
('And now butt out, woman')
•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•
Harry is no longer four, his abilities grow slowly but steadily and he learns what parts of himself he can show to what people.
•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•
Privet Drive four and its vicinities are out of question.
•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•
The classroom and the school's yard, anywhere his classmates are, are the least safe.
•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•
To Harry, Dudley and his would-be yobs are an annoyance at worst. That is until they boldly decide to go the step further and, one recess, the five of them bodily drag Harry and another of their hapless targets, a boy named Liam, behind the school building to where they found a dead hedgehog.
"Here, we found you a new friend.", Dennis jeers, drawing chackles from the other four.
Malcolm takes over.
"Yeah! One who will want to talk to freaks like Harry and will not feel like beating up weaklings like Liam."
Gordon has to be the one to one-up it.
"Look, it even looks like Harry!", he shouts, indicating the rotting mess of spikes with a foot. "It smells like Liam too!"
"Ha, you're right, they'll will be best friends forever."
More laughing follows. Harry has gone still, with the exception of his eyes scanning the situation while he considers his options. No racing heart or wrenching gut is distracting him because his calm doesn't stem from being paralyzed with fear.
That's not the case for Liam.
The laughter from Dennis, Malcolm, Piers and Gordon continues, though it is Dudley who is the loudest and thus his next words don't go under:
"If they are best friends then why don't they pick it up?"
The laughter fades away and now they look at the two of them with a new glint in their eyes.
"That's a great idea, Duds", Piers' slimy voice says in an equally as slimy tone, before turning sharp when he barks at Harry and Liam:
"Pick it up! Now!"
Save for Liam's trembling, none of them moves a muscle. Until Liam is viciously pushed forward from behind by Malcolm. He just so manages to catch himself short of stumbling into the hedgehog but the sudden movement has stirred up several flies from under the downwards facing belly.
For a second their buzzing is all that is audible before Dudley and his lot once again erupt into a cacophony of exclamations and cackling.
The odor that he is now close enough to smell kickstarts Liam into a feeble attempt to resist.
"N-No, please, don't-"
"You hear that? He said yes!"
Dennis comes to stand in front of Liam and, as the tallest of the group he towers over him.
"So? What are you doing? If you don't do it now I'm gonna beat you."
It's the high of his buddies' encouraging grins that makes Dennis lift a foot and roll the hedgehog over right onto Liam's feet, a movement that bares the side that was hidden until now.
Greyed ribs protrude from a squirming mass of dirty white maggots. Their many black heads in constant movement give the illusion of an organ still alive and working inside the half-decayed animal.
With a shriek, Liam jumps back. Some spikes got hung up in the material of his shoes and thus the hedgehog is shifted as well, resulting in some little specks of dirty white and black cascading down the sides.
Dennis jerks back too, as do all the others.
And Harry finally has an opening he can exploit.
Intent on pretending nothing happened, Dennis continues on talking, with his eyes not wandering lower than Liam's green-tinged face.
"What's the problem, bedwetters? Too scared to touch a little hedgehog? We beat you if you don't-"
"Too scared? Come on."
From behind Liam, Harry saunters into view, aware of all their attention turning to him.
He doesn't have to fake the confidence in his toothy grin like he doesn't have to force himself to meet each of their eyes until he finally looks straight up at Dennis.
"You make it sound as if-" he bends down and when he straightens back up again he is holding the carcass "-touching a dead animal is a big deal."
Harry is lightly cupping the hedgehog's rounded spiky back with both hands. Its stiffened feet stick outwards. He also is the smallest, with him presenting it on his chest level, everyone has a very clear view on what festers on those rotten black intestines that are now discernible.
The stench is pungent.
Once again the buzzing of flies in the only sound, though if one listens closely, the rustling of hundreds of greedy little maws devouring their meal is to be heard.
Harry's grin doesn't waver, it grows.
They are still staring. Then Dudley is the first to take a slow step back.
Harry's gaze finding him is that of a predator locking in.
"Hey now. You can't see it if you go away."
That grin and that bright green stare bore into Dudley's soul.
"Let me help you with that."
That simple sentence of Harry's, delivered in a chipper tone, binds all of five bullies to where they are standing and them front row seats for an impending disaster.
What lies dormant in his chest is what Harry concentrates on, what he holds in his hands is what he wants to manipulate but all that exists now is Dudley, whose rotund features are starting to morph into something just this side of feral with fear.
It looks good on him.
Something in his chest throbs and it is not his heart.
Maybe it will look good on the others as well.
When he lowers his hands the hedgehog remains in place.
Harry tears his gaze from Dudley to revel in the others' expressions, each frozen in gradual states of shock and disbelief.
Then, he flips the proverbial switch and time starts flowing again. One by one, they rapidly begin moving again. Piers, Dennis, Malcolm and Gordon snap out of their states and fall into dead sprints, though Dudley is the first to start running.
Running from the flying cadaver on their trails.
After a little over two meters it is out of Harry's reach and drops to the ground by itself, sending many a maggot squirming trough air and grass.
They share a striking resemblance with the five squirming and stumbling figures that grow smaller in the distance with each passing second.
It's only when they turn the corner of the school's building that Harry has a chance to even begin trying to reign in the laughter that sends waves of aching pain trough his gut.
He is still laughing when he looks at Liam but that slowly drowns out in confusion.
Liam doesn't look happy. Has he not understood that Harry just did the two of them a great service?
He feels his eyebrows arch into a frown.
All Liam can do is stare. At Harry. At the cadaver. At his feet, where a few stray maggots still squirm. Back at the cadaver, a good two meters away.
At Harry, while he takes a slow step back.
Harry doesn't feel like laughing when he watches Liam squirm and stumble away.
The bell ringing the end of recess cuts trough the inextricable tangle of emotions that keeps him looking at that spot at the corner of the building where Liam rounded it and disappeared. Harry starts making his way toward it and as he comes closer, further away from the hedgehog and the maggots, the smell still sticks in his nose.
He looks at his hands, glistening with a pale yellowish-red liquid and as his first instinct is to call upon his power to make it go away, the tangle of emotions finally makes sense.
He is unsure. He did something good for both him and Liam, still the other reacted like he did.
Is his power something to be disgusted and afraid of? Is he?
"You will not let your freakishness show any further"
...No. No.
Who are they all to decide for him what he can and can't do, can't be, if he wants to be accepted? If they want to react like that, treat him like that, because he is different, that's on them.
When Harry clenches his fists and stuffs them into his pockets, they are clean.
It was stupid of him to reveal these other parts of himself to those who aren't like him.
...But those who are like him, do they even exist?
('They do')
('They are out there, for better or worse')
Inside of his left pocket he feels a folded paper. Though for the first time holding on to it and remembering what is on it doesn't bring any sense of comfort, however faint.
Something is off the rest of the school day as well. Then again, the looks from five (six) other people are to be expected.
The next day they are eleven.
The day after twenty.
The day after Harry doesn't bother to acknowledge the side-eyes from almost all his peers anymore.
After the looks come the whispers. Harry finds that he is good with whispers.
"Piers says that he is evil", they say when they think he doesn't hear or listen to them. "And, I mean, it's Piers."
"Do you see how Dudley and Dennis and Malcolm and all the others look at him? It's creepy."
"I tried to ask Malcolm why they all are scared of Harry but he didn't want to answer and he looked like he wanted to puke and then he didn't finish his sandwich."
"His eyes have a strange colour. My dad always says that people with strange colours can't be trusted because they are bad."
"You see how he looks at nothing sometimes? As if he's not really here."
"Have you seen his scar? I swear, he has a scary scar on his face, right under the hair. For real!"
"Liam is more scared of him than Dudley..."
They think wrong. He hears all of them.
It gets to the point where their head teacher even invites him into her office to talk.
Questions are asked, if he has friends, if he feels lonely, how he feels about the other children, questions of the like.
His smile is picture perfect and enough to reassure. It also helps his case that he has taken to sit and do group work with another pariah, Timothy, though the latter is an outcast because he rarely looks others in the eye and it's even rarer that he talks more than one word.
Harry can live with the others whispering and looking and pointing. But still, when he wanders the empty halls to and from the head teacher's office that day, with the other children's faraway shouts and conversations coming trough and echoing if he listens close enough, them not pointing him out... it feels nice.
•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•
At Mrs. Figg's he doesn't need to have his guard all that high up.
•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•
"Harry dear, would you like some more chocolate cake?"
Asking is only a formality. Mrs. Figg has already loaded a generous slice onto a plate onto a tray and is delivering.
She finds her guest where she left him in her living room, sitting on her sofa, engrossed. Though not in the cartoons that are playing on the television but - and would you look at that - two of her cats, one of them the very timid Mr. Paws.
When she sets the tray down on the coffee table and the resulting soft clink draws their attention, two sets of vivid green and one set of glowing yellow eyes blink up at her. She chuckles lightly.
"I'm happy to see you get on well with Tibbles and Mr. paws."
Harry seems taken aback.
"That's what you call them?"
What an odd way to phrase it.
"Why, of course."
"And who is who?"
Has Mrs. Figgs already gotten so old that she has neglected to introduce the boy to her pride and joy? What an unacceptable oversight she will have to correct, starting now.
"See, dearie, there in his black and white tuxedo, like the gentleman he is, is Tibbles", she indicates said tomcat. "And looking at me with his handsome yellow eyes is Mr. Paws."
Harry doesn't say anything, he just hums. But he still gives off the air of someone mulling something over, so Mrs. Figgs waits for him to get his words in order.
"Tibbles and Mr. Paws aren't like other cats, are they?"
They really aren't, with their kneazle blood distinguishing them from other cats in many things that exclude appearance.
"Yes, they are special. And you are too, finding that out so quickly. Speaking of, how did you notice?"
He shoots her a short look before he answers.
"Other cats aren't as talkative."
Normal people go with such a sentence by not taking the 'talkative' literally. Mrs. Figgs doesn't. This is Harry Potter she is conversing with, after all.
"Oh, that's lovely. So you have talked to different cats before? What were they like?"
Ironic, how her casual reaction is what throws Harry off.
"They... uh, talking actually is not the right word. When they want to let you know something, they move and don't make many sounds. So I have to really concentrate on them and then it starts to make sense what they want to tell me. You seem - You seem like this is normal?"
"Absolutely! You see many things as normal that others wouldn't when you are an old lady like me-" And a squib but the time for him to know hasn't come yet, "-but don't you worry, dearie, it will all make sense someday, I promise."
"But can't you tell me more now? What other things are actually normal? Does it have to do with why Tibbles and Mr. Paws are different?"
"One day, dearie, one day. I promise, it will make sense."
She smiles warmly.
Then she remembers that he isn't supposed to learn anything about his heritage prematurely and she is under no circumstances supposed to talk about it.
Her smile falls away and so does Harry's own tentative one.
...Stupid old scatterbrain that she is starting to become. Anyway, what damage is done there is done and not repairing it won't hurt. He has, what, only three more years? Two and a few months?
Years in which he has to learn to consciously keep his abilities under wraps, and if he already shows traits this strong at this age-
"Harry, listen to me, will you? I think you know what other people than you and me, like the Dursleys-" she suppresses a frown, "-or children at school think is normal."
An expression she can't quite get the hang of fleetingly passes his face.
"And there are things that decidedly are not normal, going by everyone else. But these things they call 'abnormal' or other names, they are not wrong. But people will not see that so that is why they must be kept a secret."
She sees his frown and him drawing a breath to ask but she undermines it.
"It will make sense, dearie, I promise it will, one day."
The silence is tense, even with animated characters laughing in the background, and she eases it by putting a finger to her lips and winking.
"But I am not boring like the other people so you can tell me anything. Have you tried understanding other animals as well?"
Mrs. Figgs would have liked another ruse to change the subject but she has the feeling that if she would have been to point out the cartoons, that are continuously generating ambient noise, he wouldn't have lit up like this and started recounting. She also is in no small parts curious herself about this ability of his, she listens attentively:
"Birds, squirrels and mice don't always stay near me long enough", Harry sets on, his beaming eyes growing pensive. "Dogs would like to but their owners always pull them away. Insects are too busy."
He looks back at her with a renewed gleam in his eyes.
"Snakes are easiest. I only saw two but they both liked to come to me and they made the most sounds of any animals. They didn't communicate with their bodies and movements as much, it was more like they were speaking an actual language!
Mrs. Figgs, is something wrong?"
"...What? No, absolutely nothing is wrong, dearie. This silly old lady just completely forgot about Tufty and Snowy, who are still outside and need to be called in for their meals, is all."
She feels his eyes on the back of her head when she leaves.
All the next times Harry is given into Mrs. Figgs' care, she so vehemently resists his attempts to get more out of her, that he eventually lets the matter die.
•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•
A large and beautiful, circular room is full of little noises. One of them is the rustling of a letter being opened.
Then, a long-suffering exhale comes from the one person in the room that is three-dimensional.
That exhale is followed by the sort of 'hm' that is given when something is unexpected but interesting.
Finally, a flame's hiss is to be heard, indicating a response letter being delivered.
•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•
The cupboard is technically the best place.
•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•
The abandoned playground is actually the best place.
•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•
One Sunday, Harry finishes his chores extra early and has what remains of the day for him.
That day he wanders further into the park that might as well be a forest and he finds what he in a way knew he needed. A place more diverse and way more spacious than the cupboard but just as secluded. Where he will continue being alone, no others there to judge what he is doing.
It's perfect even if it doesn't look that way, this old and destroyed playground. A location so evidently forgotten about that still can serve its purpose as a place for the young to frequent and get creative in, pushing their limits.
And he had to quite literally stumble upon it. Harry absentmindedly rubs at his eyes.
•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•
Harry is eight when he learns that the Dursleys don't like people asking questions about him. To avoid them, they'll even go as far as buying him glasses.
•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•
He is nine when he puts that knowledge to use.
•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•
He has to hide who he is away in unobserved moments, the isolation of the cupboard and that of the playground but Harry doesn't, for one second, wish that he truly was like everyone else.
Because in Timothy, the shy, the subdued and the apathetic, he sees himself how he could have been, had he not had the means to bring light into his darkest hours.
They only ever opened up to each other about their home lives once, briefly, but ever since the consensus that they both keep silent about similar happenings hovers both comfortably and disquietingly between them.
Harry questioned what would happen if he were to break the silence. One day, Timothy brings the answers.
Although the two of them are tight during school hours, during recess they go their separate ways. Timothy goes outside with the other children, Harry doesn't.
He hasn't forgotten how wandering the halls alone was a moment of peace. And he has found that concealing his presence in any way possible from wandering teachers that would send him out, to the other children and their stares and whispers, is a fun exercise.
He likes to trail them, watch them throw looks over their shoulder without seeing him because he has what they don't have and can hide it and himself along with it. Given, for mere seconds on end and it exerts him immensely, still-
(He is bigger than them and they can't see it, he can be there one second, gone the next, comes and takes off without them the wiser)
(This isn't flying but it's as close to it as he has gotten in a too long time, he'll take what he can get)
Of course, there sometimes are children in the hallways too.
But never before Timothy and when Harry sees him he makes a full stop. Doesn't hush to hide because he hasn't made a sound in the first place.
Where is he going? Normally, that's not a worthwhile question but this is Timothy.
And he is turning left, into the hallway that leads to classrooms that currently are empty and the headteacher's office that isn't.
The sensible headteacher's office, the one teacher, aside from someone Harry remembers he had back in kindergarten, who does more than teach and entertain, but actively asks questions.
Should he feel bad, guilty, anything at all about following Timothy and standing outside the door to listen in?
Then again, nothing Timothy will say is any news to Harry. Given that the teacher asks.
The curiosity to find out keeps Harry here and inside, he hears the teacher greet Timothy.
It comes as a surprise and it doesn't, the questions start. Timothy answers.
One more similarity they share between them, Harry now learns, is that both of them have their earliest memories of watching their relatives lavish their attention on another child while they watch on, hungry and forgotten.
And Harry knew that Timothy is a normal boy. He can't unlock where he is kept to access the fridge at night when it's safe, can't pass long dark hours by making them bright, can't ease the weight of his chores by wishing dirt he is tasked (ordered, forced?) to clean away and his step-brother is not afraid of him.
What Harry hears there, is how his own life is. His using his power? Him just working around the hardship but not breaking the unjust rules.
His power... emotions surface again, buried ever since he made the first sparks. The terror, as unyielding as the darkness before he knew what to do against it and right here, right now, his hairs stand on end.
('...How long has it been in the cage?')
(Time itself doesn't matter, how it deteriorates his wings and Grace in his confinement does)
(He doesn't deserve what he got, what he did was justified)
(Not wrong)
(Wrong... Amara is wrong, the leviathans are)
('They go against existence, are destruction without creation, unbalanced')
('They deserve incarceration')
(He doesn't, didn't, he didn't do anything wrong, didn't go against existence)
(Lilith, was what she called herself and the names that followed after her come to him as well)
(He was the fourth powerful being in all of current Creation and he did his never before seen worst against a lone human soul and then another and another)
(He did what he did and does not regret it)
('They were only humans getting what they deserved')
Are these breaths that Harry hears, pulling him back to the present?
That is clearly the sound of air being inhaled but he isn't sure they're breaths... Why is Timothy not talking anymore?
(The sound of their vocal chords giving up on them)
('This human, young as he is, is just as rotten as the rest of them')
('He deserves everything he gets')
(...)
(...)
(...)
('But this boy has only ever suffered, since his earliest years, when his mind was not even mature enough to form coherent memories and his body too weak to do much of anything, how does he des-')
(...)
(Anger overcomes him, hatred)
(Sickening disgrace to himself that he is, himself being everything that's left to him and even that betrays him, after his family already did, how can he even consider thinking of a human more than unworthy of Creation, deserving of anything better than what he himself did to the likes of Lilith)
The not-breaths continue. That is when Harry realizes that he... that he feels bad for Timothy.
But why does that make him feel so repulsed?
He wants to feel bad for Timothy without feeling weird about it, what is wrong with that?
That thought itself feels weird and he doesn't want it to. Where is that disgust coming from, is this his own emotion or not? What a stupid thought, of course that's his emotion. But why does it feel so invasive, not his-
Enough. He's had it.
Faraway, Harry registers that he resurfaced but it doesn't feel in any way different from when he got lost in his own mind again.
He feels the body that he has. What a funny thought. A body, that he has, that is his, that he moves, that he was born in, it's his and his alone to own.
A body that feels like it weighs everything and he slumps against the wall. Just in time to slide down along it because his legs give out. He knows that they don't buckle out of weakness but because he... plain doesn't feel like moving.
He doesn't feel like anything, really.
Because if he does, nothing will make sense. He, Harry, doesn't make sense.
He doesn't know why he thinks that but that's nothing new, not knowing, is it?
In fact, he is so used to not knowing, he doesn't bat an eye when a second or moment or a minute in time has gone by without him experiencing it because he wasn't there, mentally.
But where was he then?
Nothing. His mind feels like his limbs. Unmoving not out of inability but unwillingness. A resignation that goes deeper than his bones.
For once, no thought races trough his brain, he doesn't calculate, ask or do anything at all.
The bell rings. His legs move on his own, lead him away fast enough as to not be spotted when the head teacher's door opens, carry him trough the remainder of the school day.
It passes with what feels like a dam containing his thoughts from flowing, what he sees is what is in front of his eyes and what he thinks about is the next sentence he will read on his worksheets, the next letter he will write in his answers and he looks at the empty place next to him without seeing that Timothy usually sits there.
Time passes like it hasn't passed before, precisely not too fast and not too slow and the feeling that the exact amount of time that the clock indicates has passed is a new one.
After school, he automatically finds his way trough a large park to an old playground and that's when the dam breaks and he thinks again.
It is refreshing. In hindsight he gets what made him shut off, his head simply was too overstimulated. He needed a break.
He remembers what he heard in that office. What he thought, just before he blacked out and came to in the midst of a strange emotional malfunction.
Neither of them did anything. Harry doesn't deserve how he is treated. Timothy doesn't as well. How could he ever think otherwise?
His breath comes out heavy as heat rises in his chest.
His fists clench but what pressure his scrawny arms can exert is not enough to make his anger air.
Timothy is weak like him, even more so but he found a way to fight back. Harry didn't.
His using his power? Him just working around the hardship but not breaking the unjust rules.
Anger clenches down on his sternum.
A loud crack is to be heard, it echoes in the forest and Harry looks up in time to see the old slide, patterned by rust and graffitis, collapse.
Then, his anger is no more because he has decided to act. Timothy already has, he is next.
But he also needs to see what comes of Timothy's breaking his silence. For that, he will need patience.
And after four days, with Timothy not showing again, his patience pays off.
It starts with the rumors and for once, Harry is not everyone's talk.
"They arrested Timothy's dad and his mum. I live across them and I saw police cars come to their house. Like in the movies but in real. But then my mum made me go into my room and didn't allow me to see more."
"Maybe they also had a garden in their cellar like the people on the news?"
"No. I asked my mum and she said that his parents are bad people and that's why they go to jail."
"So did they, like, steal stuff? What'd they do?"
"I don't know but, uh... I don't really wanna think about it. My mum looked so sad and so angry when she told me and I kinda don't want to know what made her feel like that."
"And why didn't he come back? Did they take him too?"
"I don't know..."
In the five minutes break between classes, Harry remains where he is, seated at his table, while the other children wander the classroom and form groups, one of them being the one who he just listened in on.
Unfortunately, the girl who had all the first-hand information and shared it as well has run out of answers to give to the other's questions and their topic of conversation shifts.
That should be fine because he already has a plan to go ask the head teacher.
"I'm worried about Timothy", is what he says and he truly means it. "I knew he wanted to talk to you but then he didn't come back. Where is he now and what happened?"
"Oh, Harry", the head teacher answers.
And that is when Harry doesn't learn but hear about how some children don't have it as well as others.
What he does learn is that there are better places for those children where good people take care of them because it is their job.
That family can be bad enough to go to jail too is new as well. And just what Harry needed to hear. He knows what he can and must do. But he doesn't have to keep down a victorious smile, his triumph is not of the positive sort.
That day, he takes no detours and walks straight to what is not his home but Privet Drive four.
Vernon had a good day. Several bonuses were cut back, he saved a large amount that way, and the empty promise of them coming in next month is the dangling carrot to the donkeys that are his company's employees.
He continues to have a good day when his wife greets him at the door that evening and leads him to where his dinner waits on the table. On the way he hears his son upstairs, screaming at the opponents he defeated in his video games and his pride skyrockets.
Who doesn't cross his mind, it would ruin his good day, is the other boy in the house.
Vernon's good day ends when his plate has joined the other in the dishwasher and only his glass of whiskey is out, where he sips it while conversing with Petunia. They are seated on the sofa in their living room.
Vernon is many things, one of them not quiet, a trait Dudley shares, and Petunia has the talent to sound like she is wearing heels in any shoes she walks in. In number four, someone always can be heard loud and clear-
"We need to talk."
-when they enter a room.
And when not, they immediately make up for their silence by getting everyone else's attention in one adrenaline-spiked second.
The two of them whip around to see the boy who is not theirs stand behind them.
Vernon looks into these unnatural eyes and sees what he fears and abhors most, rooted deep. How could they ever hope to eradicate the wrongness from this child when it contaminates his very core?
Petunia looks into her sister's eyes and sees every bit the witch that stole her everything for herself. Unknowingly, she covers what she sees with that caricature of that someone she once loved, instead of taking it for what it is.
Harry is beyond furious, his cold composure only betrayed by his gaze. He will make this work now or so help him.
Dudley has stopped yelling but he could've continued at twice the volume, it wouldn't have mattered.
"I'm telling you, it ends now-", Harry sets on lowly, he is the one in control and Vernon, tipped on by his whiskey, foolishly fails to notice.
"BOY! What in God's name do you think you're doing? You do not get to talk that way-"
His jaw audibly snaps shut but not out of his own will and it won't open again.
"You will listen to me!", Harry snaps trough Vernon and Petunia's stunned silence and in his anger a hiss resonates in his words.
"How you treat me, everything you do, you know what I mean and don't pretend you don't, it ends."
Vernon can't talk but his his dismissive snort says it all. With a mouth sealed shut, whiskey and his sheer aversion to the power that does it keeps his growing fear at bay.
"But if you don't listen, if you continue, I can have you arrested. Like the parents of someone who was treated exactly like me were arrested, I just need to open my mouth to the people and it's over for you."
The hiss in his voice is still present.
That does it for Vernon, he is listening like Petunia already did. Only they don't hear the steps descending from upstairs.
Harry sneers.
"Oh, what would the neighbours say-"
He stops, the sneer is gone but the expression he wears is empty but all the more unnerving for it.
He steps aside and turns halfway around and they can see Dudley standing in the doorway, eyes widening. Dudley then takes a step back and the moment Vernon can open his mouth with a gasp, his heart skips a beat because he knows why Dudley has suddenly stopped moving altogether.
Harry's attention is on them again.
"You will stop making me do all these chores. You will stop forcing me to skip meals and you will no longer lock me into the cupboard, am I understood?"
That he is nine and talks in a child's voice doesn't matter, he is the most powerful person in this room and he will use that, because looking at Dudley then back to Vernon and Petunia, he has an idea.
"And", Harry adds and for once, he is the one to grin because he knows he will get what he wants. "The room full with Dudley's toys."
His burning cold stare finds Vernon.
"It's mine now. Tomorrow you will clear it out. Am I understood, Vernon?"
Harry said that last sentence softly because he has no need for a scathing tone anymore and Vernon, in his last effort to regain the control that was always his, sees this as an opening.
"You insolent freak-"
Harry's glare doesn't waver when he balls a fist, Dudley moves again but not really, his eyes bulge and his hands shoot up to desperately claw at his throat.
"Tomorrow, I want my new room. Do I hear a yes?"
"Enough!", Petunia shrieks. She whirls around to face Vernon whose expression slackened. "Vernon, do what he tells you!"
Vernon mouths something but Petunia interjects.
"Please, listen to him!"
Harry briefly assesses Petunia, her tense posture, and then Vernon is the center of his attention again.
"So? Will you do what I say?"
His bravado, however false, deflates.
"...Yes."
And he didn't even clench his teeth when he said that.
Harry's answer is Dudley's gasp. The large boy sinks to his knees, his legs giving up on him in both relief and shock.
For one more moment that passes way too slowly for it to be real, Harry meets Vernon's eyes. Then he turns around and the moment he disappears from view, passing Dudley without so much as looking at him, Petunia is upon her boy and he flinches under her hug.
When Vernon closes his eyes that night, he sees green.
•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•
They actually listened to him, Harry smirks to himself in his large new room.
And they let him be, don't look at him, don't talk to him. It fills him with cold contempt.
But now that he doesn't have them to worry about anymore, doesn't have anyone, really, his life feels empty. Or rather, emptier, as he always missed something.
•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•
He is short of eleven and it all makes sense the day the letter arrives. Mostly.
•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•