Wonder
Harry has a father.
Harry has a father he sees once a month and a house too big for him alone, where the silence is so deep that the drops of water falling from the tap sound like a big cannon. It doesn't matter, Harry is used to it, and James Potter's absence has no place in his heart when his uncles welcome him with open arms every weekend.
When he was younger and more rebellious, he used to kick and cry, begging uncontrollably to be allowed to stay with them forever. His father always refused, and his nanny had no say in carrying out the wishes of a little boy, no matter how much it broke her heart. Harry never understood why James so fiercely refused to let Harry live with Sirius and Remus or why his uncles wouldn't fight his decision, despite constantly repeating how much they loved him.
Harry never understood, but he didn't live a bad life. There was always food on his table and enough clothes to wear, he attended the best schools and played all the sports he wanted. Money was not an issue, and was the perfect substitute for James.
Harry never wanted for anything but his affection. And he would never listen to a no to his requests as long as Harry followed three simple rules: never talk about Lily Potter in front of his father, live with him when he visited, and never leave town if it wasn't to visit his uncles.
A small price to pay, Harry could deal with that. So he dedicated himself to his studies and took part in every club possible, saving as much money as possible in the trunk under his bed in anticipation of his coming of age, to leave and not look back.
Maybe, after a year or two, he would send some mail to his uncles and ask about them; maybe he would return home after having seen and known the world, maybe not. He didn't know, but he was ready to see what lay beyond Edinburgh.
Harry both hates and loves the city. It's where he grew up and the only place he knows, if he doesn't count his constant trips to Musselburgh. It's the same sky, the same streets, and the same people he sees in the supermarket around the corner from his home.
Nothing ever seems to change. That had bothered him greatly in his childhood, when the oppressive feeling in his chest waiting for something to happen never seemed to subside, when he would wake up in the middle of the night feeling that something was missing, that something wasn't right. Those flashes of adrenaline had died over the years, and Harry learned to love the routine and the quiet, even the awkward moments with James Potter looking at him awkwardly.
That day, however, Harry wakes up with an oppressive sensation in his chest, similar to the one he used to suffer in his childhood. Only this time the pain is greater, as if his skin is being torn open, as if his heart is about to be ripped out. His breathing is so erratic that he has to get up and open the window.
It takes him a few minutes to pull himself together, and as much as he wishes he could go back to bed, he doesn't. Harry instead takes a relaxing shower and starts his day. His doctor had attributed the strange episodes he was experiencing to signs of possible asthma, and had recommended that he maintain a healthy, active lifestyle. Perhaps a little morning exercise could ease the later discomfort the pain left behind.
The cool morning wind instantly improves his mood. He gives a friendly smile to the neighbor who is watering his garden and even stops to pet the little cat that definitely has a home but is always walking down the street. Harry can almost forget the strange way he woke up. Almost.
But Harry knows the streets he's running on all too well, and as he turns in the direction of the park he's visited for years, the feeling that something wasn't right flares in his chest. The wind crashing through the leaves of the trees sounds like a song, and Harry can swear that his footsteps are louder than usual. No one else seems to notice, Goyle is a few feet away, surrounded by his friends probably talking about some party; Mrs. Figgs is on the usual bench, a small bag of bread in her lap and a dozen pigeons around her. Harry is so distracted looking around that he doesn't see the hole in the ground.
The fall must be harder than he thought, because he feels like he's been falling for too long. Shit, James is going to be furious if Harry ends up in the hospital with any concussions.
When he opens his eyes, the blue sky greets him. The problem is, Harry has no idea where he is.
He sits up quickly, dazed and confused. Panic is growing rapidly in him because...there are huge plants and trees with eyes watching him with interest. Harry doesn't know whether to lie back down on the ground and close his eyes in hopes that someone in the park has seen the fall and called an ambulance, saving him from the very possible hemorrhage that was making him hallucinate or succumb to death's door and welcome it as a friend.
Clearly, Harry is also hallucinating the voices he hears behind him.
He is afraid to turn around, but he still does. He had no idea his imagination was so big to create something as majestic as what he's seeing: a huge castle, a group of strangely dressed people, and possibly the most beautiful boy Harry has ever seen.
It's his imagination, so Harry allows himself to stare at him for several seconds, in awe of his platinum hair and beautiful face.
Shit, shit, shit. Harry is dead. He's definitely dead and he's in the presence of an angel at the gates of heaven.
His brief thought dies with the sound of whispers all around him. People are speaking in a language Harry doesn't know, shamelessly pointing at him and looking at him as if Harry is a strange kind, completely in awe, some with tears in their eyes, as if there isn't a fucking tree with eyes right behind him.
Harry lets out a sigh and brings his hands to his face, closing his eyes briefly.
Okay, he's fallen into a hole. He's probably dying and hallucinating. His body must be in agony in the park and Mrs. Figgs' pigeons are patiently waiting for their next big meal.
The sound of footsteps approaching him makes him wary, and Harry brings his hands defensively in front of him. The boy stops, looking at him carefully. He brings his own hands up, as if to show Harry that he is unarmed and can't hurt him. It's stupid.
It's his imagination - how could he get hurt in his own mind?
“Are you okay, does anything hurt?” The boy says. Looking at him closely, Harry can once again affirm his beauty, even with the noticeable dark circles under his face and the pallor of his lips. “I'm not going to hurt you. No one here is going to hurt you.”
Harry blinks stupidly before nodding. “Uh, yeah, I feel fantastic. Wonderful. Uhm...” Harry looks around, nervously. All too aware of the curious glances. “Can you see it too?”
“See what?” he asks, carefully.
“The tree.” Harry says, almost in a whisper. “The tree behind me has eyes.”
The boy, actually, has the nerve to let out a laugh. Harry feels his cheeks flush in embarrassment. “Of course they have eyes. If they didn't have them, I'd worry too much.”
Harry rolls his eyes, standing up completely ignoring the hand reaching out in front of him offering help. Harry is not going to be humiliated in his own head. Hallucination. Death. Whatever.
Crossing his arms, he looks with poorly faked confidence at the boy in front of him. “Well, this has been...a truly recreational experience. Surely some medical or psychology student would be happy to study the phenomenon that occurs between life and death, if I'm lucky enough to wake up from...this. Or probably the knowledge will die with me.” Harry pauses. “But this place is giving me the creeps, so I'd rather, uh, lose consciousness. It's wonderful to meet you, I guess.”
Harry turns around, trying to ignore the tree following him intently, and with his head up he heads off to...he has no idea where. But away from the people watching him. Harry prefers to die alone. Loneliness is his great friend.
“Where are you going?” The boy's voice sounds strange. Somewhere between curious and annoyed. “Do you know where that road is leading you? You'll be dead before you take another step. Come back here.” It's an order.
Unfortunately, Harry is not good at following orders. Sometimes Sirius tells him that he takes after his father terribly, always impulsive and snappy, though Harry doesn't know the man well enough to agree with his uncle.
“It's my dream.” Harry says, annoyed. “You can't order me around in my hallucination, pretty boy.”
Someone in the crowd makes a noise of surprise and indignation. Harry ignores it, his gaze fixed on the boy.
“You must be confused.” His response is mild. “This is not a hallucination, not at all. And, if anyone should be called pretty, it should be you.”
Harry frowns, embarrassed. Panic again growing in him. “It's a hallucination.” He repeats.
“By Merlin, the boy definitely inherited his father's stupidity. Are all humans equally inept?” The strange man's voice is full of disdain, Harry watches him make his way through the rest of the bystanders.
The clear insult would make Harry respond in an instant, but he doesn't. Harry is too interested in the comparison to his father to take offense. Besides, the strange situation was dragging on longer than he'd like to admit, and a small part of him is beginning to fear that it's not a dream, nor a hallucination, nor death.
The conclusion turns out to be even more frightening.
“Ah.” The man says, as if Harry's lack of response is a welcome pleasure to him. “He's smart enough to shut up when he needs to. There's something of Lily in him, at least.”
The mention of Lily, if it's the same Lily Potter Harry has heard of, paralyzes him.
Lily Potter is more of a story and a myth than a mother. Harry knows her name and what she looks like, purely by chance. Harry was a very curious child and, in his desire to get closer to the father who seemed to avoid him so much, one night he decided to sneak into the room where the man used to disappear to whenever he was home.
The room was filled with paintings of a woman with bright red hair and eyes that looked just like Harry's. That night he sat on the floor admiring the woman's almost ethereal beauty, longing for something he could never have. The next morning, Harry innocently asked who the pretty woman named Lily was.
James never answered, and the door to the room was locked.
Some time later, Harry would learn from Remus about Lily, Harry's mysterious mother who seemed to have vanished into thin air.
“Uncle.” The boy's raspy voice caused Harry to focus his attention on him. His posture had changed drastically; from trying to be gentle to downright aggressive. “ He's not ready. Don't cross a line you're going to regret.”
The man laughed mockingly, but took a step back.
“If this isn't a hallucination then where am I supposed to be?” Harry asked, carefully. The boy looked Harry over from head to toe, as if assessing whether or not to answer.
When he did, it was with a smile. “Home.”