Chapter 2: A Welcome Encounter
"Don't burn anything! Vernon will be furious." It was a fact, not a warning.
"Yes Aunt Petunia."
Tom wouldn't say something like that. Never. That's how he knew he wasn't still dreaming. Yes, he was definitely Harry Potter.
"And then I told Summers that if he didn't move out of the way, I'd kick him real hard."
"And did you, big D?"
"He cried like little baby, too!" his rotund cousin crowed, as his equally distasteful friends howled with laughter.
Harry glared at them from the swing-set, not impressed with the story at all. He looked away quickly though, hoping he wasn't noticed.
No such luck.
"Hey freak! You got something to say to me?"
He cowered a little, and almost shook his head meekly, but instead he froze. There were times when Harry Potter was a very practical boy - in fact, dare he say it, he was usually quite smart. He knew when to keep his head down. Don't speak unless spoken to, look at the ground, keep your face blank - he knew all the rules; he'd written them himself. But there were times when he was overtaken by this strange sentiment - this yearning for something more, something better. When it seized him, he liked to think of it as bravery.
"I do, actually."
"Oh yeah? And what's that, freak?"
He took a deep breath. "I think you're stupid, and weak, the lot of you. I wish I'd never heard your ugly voices, and I think the world would be a better place if no one had to hear them again!"
The three bigger boys gaped at him for a moment. But only for a moment, before fury overtook them.
"Get him!"
That was when the sentiment abandoned him, and Harry's eyes widened in fear before he turned around and sprinted away from the playground, Dudley and his friends hot on his trail.
Bravery indeed. More like stupidity.
Thus began the sport known as 'Harry Hunting'.
They never caught him, at first – he was much faster than they were. Unfortunately, Dudley wasn't quite as stupid as his dimwitted friends, and he discovered rather quickly that there were other ways to go about catching a Harry. After all, after the front door of Number 4 Privet Drive was locked and sealed, there was no where left to run.
"The freak stole my lunch!"
"He ripped up the picture I drew for you, mummy!"
By the time they were in the first grade, Dudley had discovered the fine art of blackmail.
That's when Harry Hunting became a rigged game; when Harry and Dudley reached the unspoken agreement that unless Harry gave himself up by the end of the day, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would hear all sorts of nasty lies about him. There was simply no winning for Harry.
He knew it was just a game. But it still hurt to lose, both literally and figuratively. Weren't games supposed to be fun?
"You should be happy, freak, no one else will play with you."
It was true. Dudley made sure everyone knew there was something wrong with him. What it was, Harry didn't know. Neither did Dudley, really. Sure, strange things tended to happen around Harry. But it wasn't his fault, or at least he didn't think so. So what? Sometimes things change colour, move, explode...it's not that unusual, he would think to himself. It was a natural sort of denial, and it lasted until March 2nd, 1987.
It started out as a normal day.
"What are you smiling about, boy?" Vernon growled from behind him.
He wiped the grin off his face, but it wasn't enough to dampen his spirits. He'd dreamt of Tom again last night – he'd dreamt of the day Tom met his first friend.
Last night, it was summer again; that much was evident from the way the humid, warm air clung to his skin like a wet blanket. The sun merrily danced in the sky, obstructed only by a few wisps of cloud, while a pleasant breeze danced in the leaves and the grass, carrying with it the sweet sound of songbirds and laughing children.
Tom hated summertime. The mornings were nice, but the rest of it was rubbish. Everyone was always so happy, so cheerful, so loud. Honestly, could they hear themselves? Screaming joyously without a care in the world, footsteps thumping happily throughout the yard – disgusting, the lot of them. He wasn't jealous. Of course not. He didn't need friends, or fun, or games. He wasn't some stupid child who needed to be coddled and distracted from the cares of the world. He knew better.
:You seem sad.:
Tom blinked, his head whipping from side to side. Had someone found his hiding place?
:Who's there?:
:You can hear me?:
Tom growled. :Where are you!?:
:Down here.:
His eyes travelled downward, and he started a bit when he saw the new addition to his hiding spot; a small green serpent, tongue flicking out amiably as its head rocked from side to side.
:Are you talking to me?:
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