Harry Potter did not understand.
His mother did not answer his cries.
The red eyes did not care.
The green light took away his worries.
And he was empty.
…
He knew that something was wrong.
With him.
The world should not be twisted.
Not like this.
Should not feel.
Like this.
He should cry, locked in the dark.
In his cupboard. His prison.
But he did not. Could not.
He had eyes of crimson malice in his soul.
The eyes were him, and he was the eyes.
So many eyes.
The cupboard door unlocked with a wave of his hand.
The cool night air kissed his upturned faces.
Another, another, another wave, and the doors locked, locked, locked.
The warm glow spread quickly, the flames voracious and ecstatic, but the wonderful screams took such a very long eternity to die.
It was a lovely evening. The stars were bright ton-ight.
He blinked blinked his eyes.
In the light of flames and the symphony of screams, he was not as empty.
…
The lady with the cats that were not. Cats.
The fig Lady.
She looked for him. Searched for him. She did not have enough eyes.
He could give her more, he supposed.
It would help her spy spy spy.
It was so very sad,
That she was so blind.
It was so very sad,
That her cats that are not cats were stuck with her.
He liked cats.
Stuck with the one who looked for him.
Since she would not look look for long.
He didn't like being looked at.
Not by her.
…
Orphan. Orrrr pha nnnnnn
A fun word.
It fit Him well.
Orphan-age.
He could fit, here among the other forgotten things. The broken things.
The other empty Things.
Even if they stared at him.
Even if they hurt hurt hurt.
Him.
They didn't have enough eyes.
They would see, eventually. It wouldn't hurt.
So much easier to blind, than to give them more eyes.
The Blind would help them see.
One or two or three blind Things in exchange for the rest of them gaining more eyes.
That was a nice, a generous price.
Not toooo much to ask, he thought.
Such music. Such symphony. Such lovely sorrow, to fill his empty cup.
The empty things didn't stare so much after that.
Except.
For the ones who could only ever stare. Could not look, not anymore.
Could only stare.
Out of their empty eyes.
…
The red eyes were his. He was them and they were. Him.
He knew but did not. He saw out of too many eyes.
Magic magic magic.
What is magic? Why is magic?
Hmmmmmmmmm.
Is it the eyes?
Would the magic fill him, so he wouldn't be empty?
Or was it only the music that could satisfy?
…
Albus Dumbledore hummed contentedly in his cluttered office.
The summer months in the ancient castle were always peaceful. He enjoyed the quiet solitude in preparation for a new year of joyous cacophony.
He sucked on a lemon drop while he considered.
They were really a lovely sweet. The muggles did a far better job with their treats. No earwax or escape attempts.
He considered Harry Potter.
The boy would come to Hogwarts this year.
Albus considered checking in with Arabelle to see how the boy was doing, but he knew that she would alert him if there was anything amiss.
He wondered if the Dursleys had come to accept Harry's magic. Maybe they would have no trouble, and the boy would respond happily to the first letter.
Dumbledore hummed some more as he thought. An upbeat tune.
Maybe he would send Hagrid to introduce Harry to the wizarding world, if the Dursleys had continued on their path that Minerva had observed all those years ago.
Speaking of which…
"We have a problem, Albus."
She emerged from his fireplace, quite a bit more flustered than he expected.
"Good morning, Minerva. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
In response, she slapped an envelope addressed in green ink down onto the desk.
Wool's Institution for Child Welfare
The headmaster's day suddenly got considerably worse.
…
"I'm sorry sir, but the investigation has been closed for years. The house burned down in an electrical fire; the three occupants unable to escape in time."
This did not bode well for multiple reasons.
"I have it on good authority that there were four occupants of that home. You have no record of a Harry Potter living there?"
"No sir. Just the two deceased adults and their young son. They only claimed one dependent prior to the accident, from the look of the case file."
"Curious. Thank you for your assistance. Please forget that we were ever here."
"Of course, sir."
…
"I'm afraid that I cannot divulge any specific details, although for a case this old I'm sure that no one will mind too much. Her unfortunate passing was deemed an accident. There was no evidence of foul play."
"There must be something that you can tell me. Arabella was a dear friend."
"Only what was publicized after the incident, sir. The medical report stated that she died of a heart attack and was only found after her cats began making a ruckus."
Most concerning, indeed.
…
Wool's Orphanage, now Wool's Institution for Child Welfare, had changed greatly in the last fifty years. It was modernized, and at least moderately well-funded by the muggle government.
Dumbledore still could not shake the grim feeling of foreboding as they approached.
It felt like the building had eyes.
"Why didn't we know about this sooner, Albus? Lily and James' son…"
The headmaster wasn't happy about all the questions.
"The protections that I put in place blocked him from our sight as well as the ministry, and the Death Eaters. I thought that Arabella would be sufficient to monitor him, and I was under the impression that no news was good news. I was, obviously, mistaken."
"He's been here for six years…"
"I'm sure that Harry will be just fine. There are plenty of children who grow up in the state's hands and do perfectly well."
"What about the fire? Why doesn't anyone know if he was there?"
"I suppose that we shall have to ask."
…
"I'm sorry for the wait; you're here about Harry Potter?"
"Yes, Mr Potter has a place at our school. His parents signed him up before their untimely demise."
"You have information about his parents? My supervisor would love to get in contact with you, we have been trying to figure out who he was for ages."
"What do you mean?"
"He arrived on our doorstep when he was five, dirty and bruised. He told us that his name was Harry Potter, but we could never find any more information on him. No record of parents, no previous medical history, it was like he just appeared out of thin air at five years old."
"Very curious. I'm sure that these details will be satisfactory."
Her eyes crossed as she stared at the blank paper.
"Oh, of course, very good sir. I'm so excited that he has a place at your school; he's such a sweet boy. Everyone loves him, it's a pity that he's never been adopted or selected for fostering."
"Do you have any idea why? Anything strange?"
"No sir, he's a lovely boy. Perfectly polite and gets along with everyone. The other children love him, especially the younger ones, and he dotes on them. We'll miss him, if he decides to leave for your school."
That was excellent news. Harry was growing up nicely despite the circumstances.
"Well, we would love to meet him and deliver the necessary forms. He does have until the end of July to decide."
"Excellent. In that case, please follow me."
…
They passed a classroom with several older, blind students, dark glasses covering their sightless eyes.
"The children with special needs always have more trouble in foster care, so most of them end up staying with us. They're wonderful, though."
…
"Harry? You have some visitors."
The boy in question looked up from his desk to where they stood in the doorway.
One of the reasons that the manager doted on him was immediately apparent.
He was a beautiful child.
His wide, emerald green eyes almost glowed from underneath his jet-black locks. He grinned at them guilelessly as they entered, his smile angelic and radiant.
"Good morning! I'm Harry Potter, it's very nice to meet you!"
He was probably a lovely child. Why couldn't Albus shake the dread and foreboding?
This was so different, yet potentially so much worse, than his last visit.
There was nothing to worry about. Harry was fine. He wasn't Tom.
The manager smiled and left them alone with the boy.
"Hello Mr Potter. My name is Professor Dumbledore, and this is Professor McGonagall. Do you mind if we have a seat?"
"Of course not! What can I help you with, Professors?"
Why did he feel like a mouse in a trap?
"We work for a school, called Hogwarts. You have a place among our students, if you are interested."
"Hogwarts."
Why didn't that sound like a question. It must be.
"Yes, Hogwarts is a school for people with special abilities. Tell me, Mr Potter. Have you ever made anything happen, anything unusual, when you were angry, or scared?"
It was his own fears that put the flash of red in the boy's emerald eyes. A trick of the light, nothing more.
"You might call it that, I guess. I can make things move without touching them."
Harry casually raised a hand and the pens on the desk spiraled into the air in a tightly controlled spin.
McGonagall was gaping. Dumbledore was fighting his own flashbacks.
"Is that what you mean?" Harry asked.
"That's… very impressive, Mr Potter." McGonagall said.
"Thank you! It took lots of practice, but it's so very fun. I haven't told the staff, or the other kids. I didn't think that they would understand."
Dumbledore shook off his daydreams. "Well done, Harry. You're correct on all counts. What you can do is called Magic, and it must be kept secret."
The boy's smile didn't falter.
"Magic! Oh, that's wonderful. Are you magic too?"
"Yes, Harry."
Dumbledore waved his hand and the paper on the desk began to orbit Harry's pens.
"Can you do other things, with magic?" Harry asked.
"Oh yes, Mr Potter. Magic can do most anything. Have you ever done anything else with magic?"
The angelic boy's eyes gleamed.
"No, sir."
…