Chapter 8


Dursley residence

"Boy! Get the mail, now!"

"Yes, sir," Harry muttered softly, as he left his cupboard to get the mail, throwing a nasty look towards the kitchen and his relatives. He sneered and wondered just how it was that he was related to those…animals.

He stopped suddenly at the tingling in his hand, and he looked at the only letter in the pile junk mail. It was addressed to him. He smirked and headed back to the kitchen, slipping the letter into his cupboard on the way.

Harry handed the rest of the mail to Vernon, slipped around the table and gathered dishes, and put them in the sink before sliding back towards the table to gather the platters of leftover food. He grudgingly disposed of the remaining food; such a waste.

He'd burnt the toast this morning, so he wouldn't be getting any food unless he managed to finish his chores before dinner. The brunet snorted at that thought; the list of daily chores that he was given to do was impossible to complete by himself by the deadline, so naturally he would be going without.

Like he cared.


Somehow, Harry just knew that his relatives were getting paid for their inhumane treatment of him. Just the way that he knew he wasn't supposed to be here, knowing without knowing.

And it didn't help that he kept seeing that man in his dreams!

Harry was positive he had never seen the man before; he'd remember it.

The man was very tall (to him, at least), with shaggy - not messy, because it was haphazard in a purposeful way - blond hair that fell halfway down his back with uneven bangs in the front, shadowing what he just knew were enchanting, dual toned eyes. Harry could still picture in his mind the man's inhumanly beautiful, aristocratic face. Sharp cheekbones and pale, soft skin.

But it was the man's clothes that struck him the most; no one Harry knew could pull off that look so fashionably, as if he weren't some relic of old days past - so comfortable in his strange attire, like he'd always been that way and would always be that way. Tight leather pants hugged lean legs, tucked snugly in form fitting, knee high boots, and his chest was partially bared by the ruffled poets shirt, a triangular pendant on a leather cord resting teasingly on the bared skin.

But most curious was the man's strange habit of rolling a crystal ball fluidly - appearing here and there, traveling along his hands and arms as if a part of him, shattering and reforming in the blink of an eye - between long fingered hands hidden behind black leather gloves.

If not because of the beauty, the crystal balls were what made Harry hesitate calling the stranger a "man." Because no real man could shape the world as he wished, could bring ephemeral dreams to life, and create life and snuff it out as easily as breathing. But Harry knew of no other way to describe him, because even though he obviously wasn't a normal man, there was no other way to label him.

Whenever Harry dreamed of him, he dreamed of being safe, of knowing that nothing would harm him because the other would not allow it…which was why his aunt always had such a difficult time getting him out of bed.

Why face harsh reality when you can savor sweet dreams and fantasies?

But dreams were just dreams and wishes didn't come true, so he pushed it to the back of his mind