Full description: Afraid his uncle was going to kill him, Harry runs away to Diagon Alley to stay there for the remainder of the Summer. Little does he know that one simple burst of accidental magic and one late night stroll will have changed everything he's ever known and everything he's ever been. SLASH, Vampire!OC/Harry, (set in the summer before 5th year onward)
Disclaimer: I'm not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this
Warnings: slash (which, for the less well rounded fanfiction readers, means male pairings), swearing, mentions of abuse, sexual themes which likely will break T, other possible unsavory themes- you've been warned!
Reviewers are, of course, welcome and encouraged. Flames are welcome, yet not quite so encouraged.
Harry didn't know which was worse: the perpetually dry condition of his hands from all the scrubbing or the constant layer of sweat on his skin from the heat. On one hand, the dry soap that had been neglected to be rinsed off chaffed on his palms but, on the other, the sweat provided an unrivaled greasiness that made his scalp crawl.
Both had their merits yet, at the moment, arteries swelling and skin blistering and head broiling under the torrid heat of the sun, the only thing he could think of was how much he hated Aunt Petunia's garden. Her stupid garden. With stupid begonias. And equally stupid avens, marigolds, sunflowers, and thorny roses. All sweltering and stewing like fried fish. Not unlike himself, dressed awkwardly in a long sleeve shirt that stuck to his back and bent over the ruddy flowers.
Yes, the sweat was most definitely worse. At least when he scrubbed the dishes he could take quick swigs from a sink brimming with gloriously cold water. Cold water: a phrase which was both foreign to him, the hose, and the watering can.
Hot sun and grubby soil and stubborn weeds were, nevertheless, intimately familiar. Along with hot, undrinkable water.
It was times like these when the only thought that rebounded in his head was, I can't wait for school to start.
A thick voice with the consistency of mustard rang in his ears, "Boy!"
Harry turned his head with a dazed look, rubbing at his brow and guarding his eyes from the sun.
Vernon, who looked as plump and sausage-like as ever, glowered at him and tightened his tie until it receded under his chin, "I am going to gone until later this evening, now, I don't want any funny business to occur while I'm gone, if you give Dudley or Petunia any trouble-"
"There will be consequences, I know," the boy recited, shoulders drooping as he rubbed at his calloused fingers.
He sniffed and grappled onto a scuffed briefcase, "What will you do when..."
"Yes," the man grumbled, which was as close to praise as he ever got before he allowed Harry to turn his attention back to the begonias.
Hearing the key clink into the ignition and the dinky little car rumble away down the street, the boy sipped from the mouth of the hose and staggered to his feet.
Things were much better when he kept his head down and his hands busy; even if it meant pruned fingers and a drenched forehead, it also meant a lot less bruises.
Wiping off his shoes on the doormat, he ducked into the house and scrambled into the kitchen.
Aunt Petunia looked up at him with pursed lips from the kitchen table, her ring finger and thumb pinching onto a crisp magazine page poised in mid air.
She blinked, "Yes?"
"Can I have a glass of water?"
"May I," she coughed.
"May I have a glass of water?"
Her eyes narrowed into fine points, she searched Harry's face with flaring nostrils, "One small glass."
The boy immediately scrambled to the cabinets, hesitantly grasping a medium size cup.
He let an inaudible sigh and put a small cup under the faucet, downing it abruptly and looking back at his aunt with a silent question. He was so very thirsty.
"I suppose so."
She was especially generous this afternoon and the rest of the evening, it seemed; she had even let him adjourn to his room. He had spent the rest of his day reveling at the sight of the sun sinking below the hills and flipping through old textbooks he had hidden under his bed.
As the early evening had hit, a soft breeze had rolled in through an open crack in the window and grazed his back, making the text blur into a wash of unreadable gray, and he dozed.
Footsteps plodded up the narrow wooden steps.
Meaty arms thumped on his door, "Freak, open up."
Raucous laughter and his eyes opened.
"Shit," Harry cursed under his breath, rubbing at his scalp and saying louder, "What is it that you want Dudley?"
"Yeah, come on, open up," another boy said with a hic and, judging by the mouse like quality of his voice, Harry could only conclude it was Piers Polkiss, "Where's the entertainment?"
Deciding it was best to get it over with, the boy pushed himself up from the bed and spun open the handle, "I don't have anything for you."
Dudley shoved the door open farther, making Harry stumble back and glare at them, "What is it, don't have any ten-year-old's to shove around?"
His jaw twitched, "No, but we have you, freak."
"Don't take after your father, Dudley, it's unbecoming," he spat.
The other boys blinked, looking confused, "At least I have a dad."
Harry's blood stirred, "What did you say to me?"
"I said, at least I have a dad," he taunted, grinning, "That wants me, too."
"Mine didn't abandon me."
"Oh really," the boy laughed, spinning around the room, "I don't see him anywhere."
Piers stumbled back and put his hand to his mouth, "Oh, wait, look, he's here! Look!"
"Don't talk about what you don't know which, unsurprisingly, is a lot of things," he growled, "In that case, maybe you shouldn't talk at all."
Dudley shoved him, spitting, "At least I know what it's like to have people care about me."
Harry saw red and, this time, when Dudley grasped onto his arm to shove again, his magic zapped and sent the boy slamming to the other wall. Piers staggered violently, not bothering to give the boy one last look before bolting out of the room and down the stairs.
It was the mousy, high pitched screech which forcibly dragged Harry out of his thoughts and sent him spiraling back to reality.
He stumbled towards Dudley, shocked, and when he saw the swell of red tinting the creme wall from Dudley's head, the only sound in his ears was a high pitched ring.
He sunk to his knees like melting vanilla ice cream, digging his fingers into the other boy's wrist and exhaling in relief at the steady thump, thump, thump, thump.
Vernon was going to kill him.
No, worse than kill him, let his existence linger on for days like the string of a harp being pulled until-pop- he broke.
Oh, no. No. No, no, no, no, no.
Harry staggered to his feet and grasped his wand from a loose floor board, stepping in and out of his open doorway like a water bug trying to break the surface tension. He glanced timidly at the unconscious Dudley before rushing down a narrow hallway and narrow steps. Thump, thump, thump, thump.
He had barely registered the sensation of the warm wand in his hand, or the feel of his feet colliding against wood than linoleum then grass and, at last, sidewalk.
Plod, plod, plod.
He couldn't, he wouldn't be there when Vernon got home.
He had to go somewhere and, with that in mind, the boy sprinted several blocks before slowing to a halt when his need for oxygen overpowered his adrenalin.
Diagon Alley, he'd stayed there in third year, why not now?
It'd be perfect.
He smiled at the sound of the Knight Bus.
Short and sort of rushed, I know, but I hope you liked it nonetheless?