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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Harry knew the Dursleys' minds well; he had several years of practice by now. He determined that this was what he was feeling. Their thoughts and impressions against his eyes. He could read them and feel them without even looking at them. From the corner of his eye he could see them and see further through them. He knew what the students around him felt with a bare glance.
He felt proud. Why shouldn't he? This was his. Something the Dursleys couldn't take away. Couldn't remove even if they killed him.
And he would die before he stopped doing what he did.
It no longer felt like movement. Like he had fallen whenever he met their eye. It instead felt like the world moved around him, rather than he through it.
He saw the same girl who he often dived into inside the classroom. She met his eyes as he walked through the door, and he didn't feel the usual disgust and repulsion. Instead, he felt sadness.
He took his seat, quickly breaking the eye contact. He didn't need it to feel her.
Sadness, despair, loss perhaps?
He mentally shrugged as he attempted to decipher the girl. It could have been any one of those, or something else entirely. He felt a desire to know and turned back to her. He caught the corner of her eyes and saw and heard rather than felt.
There was color, a lot of it, not all where he had expected color to be. Of course, he wasn't using his eyes, so where he expected color was kind of irrelevant. He saw… a cat. It was skinny and grey and all bones. But it was well-groomedf and clearly loved. He saw a shoe box and a shovel. The colors shattered and he was brought back to the classroom he never left.
"Stop staring at me!" The girl hissed at him. He blinked in surprise and flushed in embarrassment as other students turned to look at him, some chuckling at his expense. The teacher turned from the chalkboard and raised an eyebrow.
"Sorry, I was just…" he trailed off, hoping to leave the impression he spaced out in her direction. It was partially true, but he didn't know how to describe what he wanted to say and ended up flushed scarlet, trying to sink onto his seat. He turned his attention to the teacher instead. She seemed to think he was disrupting things intentionally, he felt concern for her job and indignity at his behavior before he broke the connection and turned back to his desk.
He never entered the mind of the girl whose cat died again. He felt too embarrassed by the memory of his humiliation. He did, however, break further into Dudley and the Dursley's heads. He knew what he saw between black perspective lines and white wisps. They were memories; moments he had never experienced himself, never were there for, and yet felt them anyway.
He knew that when he saw things like this, it was too far. That he was pushing away the privacy of others. He didn't care, he felt wonderful things sometimes. Terrible things as well, true, but nowhere near as bad as the real memories made in his aunt and uncle's house.
So what, if his happiest memory was being proposed to some thirty years ago?
Harry picked up the letter and stared at it. He felt something in his chest move and a rush of feelings as he stared at the innocuous envelope that so boldly displayed his name. He had no friends, no one who cared for him. Who would send a letter to somebody like him?
But the words on the envelope were plain and clear, in deep green ink above a purple seal bearing four animals and the letter H.
Mr. H. Potter
The Cupboard under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
Surrey
The letter was snatched from his hand before he could so much as tear the edge.
"That's mine!" He seethed, trying to snatch it back from his uncle's meaty paw.
"Who would bother writing to you?" Vernon shook his head with the words. They came out taunting and biting. As Vernon inspected the envelope his face turned colors so quickly even Harry was slightly concerned.
I hope that's not contagious.
Vernon gasped out his wife's name, stumbling over the syllables is his… anger? Terror? Harry couldn't tell, but it made for an interesting color. Petunia grasped it with a curious expression, and when Harry read her he felt only confusion at the state of events.
Not particularly helpful.
She gasped and clutched at her throat and made stiff noises. Harry read her again, but he wasn't prepared for the onslaught of dread and jealousy.
"As that letter is mine," Harry announced loudly, punctuating each word, "I would like to read it."
Petunia met his eyes.
Red hair and green soft eyes, the face of a cute girl and the harder, more angular face of a dark-haired boy. A branch falling, fear and dread… a carved stick. Envy like Harry had never felt before in his life and, deep pain from wounds that were never allowed to heal.
["A witch in the family!" …" couldn't be" …"so proud" …" arrogant little" …" I'm going to tell mummy" …" You're a freak Lily!" …]
"What's that about-" Harry interrupted himself abruptly. He couldn't let them know. How would he ask about what he saw without admitting that he saw it?
A witch? What was going on? Was that Petunia's voice talking to my mother, Lily?
He caught Vernon's eye and felt his anger. Harry took a step back, retreating down the hallway to his cupboard. Dudley began to screech about wanting to read it while Harry backed up.
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