My Reflection

A/N: Wellll, hello tharr. Thanks for stopping by my fanfiction. I hope to one day make this piece several chapters long. I'm thinkin thirteen? To be lucky. This is the first chapter, but it's more of a prologue really. Just a glimpse of what I have in mind.

Professor Lupin thinks my greatest fear is fear itself. I'm really pleased he thinks so, but it isn't true. It's not fear I fear. It's being alone. I guess it came from those nights I spent locked away in the cupboard under the stairs.

It wasn't the closed in space that got to me. It was being completely alone. Night and day blended together. Day and night. Silence pressed in like something solid lodged in my ears. Sometimes if I got lucky I could hear a raised voice. Other than that, though, nothing.

But then the door would crack open, and a blinding light would fill my cupboard, and I'd see Aunt Petunia standing there in one of her flowery aprons, looking cross as usual, mouth turned down in a frown, but I wouldn't notice it because every time her face was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

Another human being.

After that it was like being reborn. I had a new appreciation of every little thing. I got my chores done when they needed to be done, and that was saying something, because the list went on and on. Uncle Vernon's loud complaints about my hair, Dudley's constant taunting and putting the blame on me, Aunt Petunia's accusing stares...none of it could get to me. I was free. For about a week.

Then something else would happen and I was straight back to being confined in the cupboard under the stairs.

It was horrible.

Until I met Tom...

"Don't write about me,"

He jumped at the all too familiar voice. He looked around, frowning. "What else is there to write about? That's the next part." said Harry.

"Skip it."

The roughness in that usually smooth voice surprised him. He lowered his gaze to the paper. A black ink blot had appeared when he had jerked the quill the wrong way. Now he studied it, thinking. Finally, reluctantly, he jotted a line across the last sentence.

Until I met Hagrid.

"Is that better?" Harry asked, looking up hopefully.

"Yes, Harry. That's better."

The smile that crossed that handsome face relaxed him. Harry wanted to return it, and he did, half-heartedly.

"Why can't I write about you, Tom?"

"Because...," Tom's eyes, almost pitch black in the darkness of the boy's dormitory, were fixed on the white knuckles of his long fingered hands.

He seemed to be searching his mind for the proper answer and Harry was again hit by the uncomfortable realization that this boy was not only older, but superior to him. It hadn't bothered him at first. He always shrugged it off, figuring that Tom was an older brother figure, so it was only natural to feel like that. But lately...he'd started to think he ought to be able to at least pretend to be equal. He felt embarrassed...though he wasn't sure why.

"because, Harry, it's a rule that goes hand in hand with not talking to me in public. Remember how the Dursleys got mad whenever you did that before?"

Harry did. He nodded.

"Uncle Vernon spanked you, didn't he?"

A wince, followed by another curt nod.

"Until your ass glowed red."

Harry snickered.

Tom arched a fine, dark eyebrow. "What?" he questioned.

"Nothing," said Harry. He could be evasive too; Tom had never answered his question, really.

"Does the thought of being thrashed please you? I never knew you were into BDSM, Harry. Or is it -- ass."

Harry snickered again, caught off guard by hearing the usually clean cut teen swear twice in a row. He grimaced soon after the sound escaped. Unfortunately for him, Tom could see right through him. It was almost as if he could read minds.

"You're such a kid, Harry." muttered Tom, with a twisted sort of smile.

"As much of a kid as you are." Harry retorted. He opened his mouth to say something else, but the sound of footsteps made him stop.

Tom raised a finger smoothly to his lips. "Shh." the whisper drifted to him through the darkness beyond his bed curtains, like a snake's hiss.

Harry nodded. "Nox." he extinguished the light at the tip of his wand, slipped the little black diary in the underside of his pillowcase, set the quill and ink carefully to the side of his mattress, and laid his head against the pillow for a moment.

With the hangings drawn, who ever had just come upstairs (probably Ron; he usually went to bed fairly early) wouldn't be able to see that his eyes were open and settled on Tom.

"Harry?"

Yeah, definitely Ron. Harry closed his eyes. Didn't respond.

After a few minutes of shuffling back and forth (Ron getting ready for bed), the lights went out again.

"Good night." said Harry, reaching out to pat Tom's shoulder gingerly.

"'Night, Harry." Ron mumbled tiredly.

"Good night, little snake."

...There was one thing Harry didn't understand. Why should Tom be allowed to talk to him when there were people around, but not the other way around?

As he set his quill and ink safely on the ground under his four poster, and settled back against the pillows with the covers drawn to his chin, he finally decided that maybe it was for the best.

People couldn't see. They couldn't understand.

A/N: So there you have it. Am I taking a crack at 'Loony!Harry', or is Tom really appearing to him? Hm. You'll have to find out in the next few chapters, won't you? Oh, and if you've got the time, review my story. I like to hear what my readers think.