Chapter 5-Birthright

Chapter 5: Birthright

Harry looked proudly up at the corner shop clerk, a bleached blonde with thick black eyeliner accenting her eyes, and an eyebrow piercing to complete the look. 'Jenny', according to the nametag pinned to her shirt.

"Did you find everything you needed?" she drawled disinterestedly.

Harry nodded his head eagerly. "I did ma'am, thank you for asking."

The girl cocked an eyebrow, clearly suspicious of Harry's good manners. Good manners were a habit Harry consciously maintained, a fact that he was quite proud of. Not only was it one less thing for the Dursleys to yell at him for, but it was to his advantage as well. Experience had taught him that even when someone wasn't inclined to like him (which, to be fair, seemed to be everyone), asking nicely would often get him what he wanted. It wasn't that people liked him more because of his manners...his theory was that they just felt worse about spitefully refusing someone that went out of their way to be nice to them. People are funny like that.

"Alright, well, that'll be a pound, then."

"Yes ma'am." He dug into his pocket, producing a moment later a handful of 1 and 10 pence coins and placing them on the counter, much to the ire of the clerk, who glared at him while he looked away sheepishly. He knew he was making her job that much more tedious, but he really didn't have a choice. Having no money of his own, he'd resorted to spending a sizable portion of his free time collecting coins that had been carelessly dropped on the street. He'd already amassed quite a collection over the past year, so it had only taken another week of diligent searching to collect the rest.

"You sure you ain't got no one pound coins in that pocket of yours?"

Harry nodded sadly. "But I can count these for you, if you'd like."

The girl snorted, before quickly sorting out seven 10 pence coins and 30 pennies.

Harry scooped up the remainder with a smile, placing the left over pennies in his right pocket and the little handheld mirror he'd just purchased in the other.

"You have a good night now," the girl said, her voice flat, if not a little bit strained.

"You too!"

Harry was beaming as he exited the shop. Finally, he had a means to communicate with Tom.

Tom had explained over the course of the last week that though he experienced everything Harry experienced, essentially living inside Harry's head, he couldn't communicate telepathically without expending a non-trivial amount of energy. The mirror was something he called a 'conduit' and would allow Harry to communicate with the other boy even while he rested and regathered the energy he'd lost while defending Harry. Harry wasn't entirely sure why he could only talk to Tom through the mirror – Tom had said something cryptic about the eyes being the window to the soul – but it was better than nothing. What Harry did understand, though, was that for Tom, communicating with Harry without any external aides was quite strenuous, and seizing control over Harry's body was even more strenuous; after attacking Dudley in December, Tom had little energy left, and it would be quite some time before he accumulated enough magic to do more than speak to Harry through the mirror.

So Harry had eagerly agreed to purchase a small mirror to aid in their daily communication. Tom had advised that he should simply steal the inconspicuous object, but Harry had vehemently refused. He didn't want to become a thief.

"I'm better than that, Tom. I'm sure you understand."

The other boy had raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Which, really, was not all that uncommon for him.

Tom was a quiet sort of fellow, Harry had concluded. The few times they'd talked, Tom's countenance had rarely changed at all – it was always this curious, tranquil, and yet somehow fierce gaze that seemed to pierce right through him. It was an odd thing, Harry thought, staring into his own eyes, albeit discoloured, as they burned with a light that seemed to mesmerize him in the most pleasant of ways, while still challenging him with a confidence Harry had not known his face could express. Tom's voice was usually soft, and spoke slowly as though to allow Harry to soak in every word; it almost scared Harry to hear the eloquent, skilled sentences Tom weaved pass through his own lips.

This Tom, he could not help but notice, was nothing like the Tom in his dreams – this was a Tom who'd learned not only to control others, but also himself. Harry had caught himself wondering a few times over the last week if something had happened between Tom's time at Wool's Orphanage and the point at which he had taken up residence in Harry's head (a phenomenon that Tom had so far refused to explain), something that transformed Tom into a well-mannered, perhaps even considerate person, the anger and frustration born of his stifled childhood having faded with the rashness of his younger years. But when Harry looked closely into Tom's eyes, or scrutinized his diction, enunciation, and tone, he knew that this was not the case – Tom had not mellowed over the years; the same anger and cruelty simmered beneath a carefully polished wall of glass; his calm facade carefully crafted yet easily shattered. This Tom, while clearly at least somewhat older and wiser, was probably just as dangerous as the little orphan boy who seemed to do nothing but plot and execute revenge.

Or at least, that was what he thought. It was still a bit early to do more than conjecture.

It was 1 am by the time he had returned to the Dursleys'. It was always a challenge, sneaking out in the middle of the night, but he had practiced many times before - not to get into any mischief, of course; sometimes Harry just liked to watch the stars. Looking up at the sky and knowing that those massive orbs of fire were so far away that he could barely see them - so far away that what he was seeing was thousands, maybe even millions of years old - reminded him that the universe was a big place, and he was only a tiny part of it. It was comforting in a way, and Harry found this sobering comfort to give him the strength he needed to get through the next day.

So Harry sneaked out often, but never got caught. Luckily, the downstairs floorboards weren't very squeaky, making the task doable, but still extraordinarily nerve-wracking.

Once Harry had returned to his cupboard, he allowed himself a deep sigh of relief, but wasted no time in withdrawing the mirror from his pocket.

"Tom? Tom? Are you there?"

"Always, Harry."

Harry grinned at that, his heart leaping at Tom's answer. "Now I can talk to you whenever I want."

"So long as you're not caught doing so."

Tom was looking out for him – the thought made Harry's smile grow even wider.

"Of course not!"

"Good boy. Now, on to business."

"Business?"

"Yes, business. We have much to do."

"We do?...like what?"

"I refuse to live in a cupboard."

Harry blinked. "But I live in a cupboard."

"Not for much longer."

Harry frowned. "Are we going to run away?" He wouldn't mind running away - it sounded like a grand adventure indeed - but he'd rather not have to sleep outside in late December.

Meanwhile, Tom sighed, clearly losing his patience. "No, Harry, your Aunt and Uncle are going to give us one of the bedrooms upstairs."

Harry's eyes eyes grew wide. "They'd never do that! They hate me!"

Tom stared at at him with crimson eyes that very clearly said, What, are you stupid?

"Think, Harry. Why do they hate you?"

"Well, apparently it's because I'm an ungrateful freak," Harry said earnestly.

"They fear you, Harry. They hate you because they fear the power you possess."

"Er...what power?"

"You know what I speak of, Harry."

He did. Harry was a freak, a freak that could do strange things, and that's what the Dursleys hated about him. "I don't understand how knowing this helps me."

"You need to use that power."

"To do what?"

"To break them."

Harry frowned. "I don't know how to break people. Can people break?"

"They'll break, Harry. They always break."

"Really?"

"You just need to apply pressure in all the right places."

"Tom, I need to talk to you."

"About what, Miss Anna?" he replied softly, his face carefully blank and seasoned with just a touch of confusion.

"Tom...Dennis and John have been saying things," the woman began uneasily.

"What kinds of things, Miss Anna?" He stared at her unblinkingly, secretly enjoying the way she squirmed under his gaze.

"They've been finding spiders in their beds, Tom, and Dennis has been having terrible nightmares."

"Oh?" Tom could not help the ghost of a smile that tugged on his lips.

"They believe it's you, Tom. They think you place spiders and ants in their beds and do things to them while they sleep. They insist. But that can't be the case, can it Tom?"

Tom looked up at her coyly."I did say I want my own room."

Miss Anna froze. "Tom, all you have to do is explain to me that you haven't done anything, and I'll tell Mrs. Cole you had nothing to do with it, that the boys were just playing games again."

"I want my own room, Miss Anna. I'm sure John and Denis will sleep fine...in a different room."

Miss Anna had grown pale. "Tom, you can't possibly-"

"I want my own room, Miss Anna," he said, his voice cold and firm.

Miss Anna sucked in a sharp breath, and stood slowly on tremoring legs. "Alright, Tom," she whispered. "I'll see to it that you have your own room."

Tom nodded curtly.

"Thank you!" said a soft voice – but of course it wasn't Tom; Harry was waking up.

As usual it took him a few moments to remember where he was. December 23rd, 1988, he told himself, Number 4 Privet Drive.

This was the day he was to implement Tom's plan. It wasn't much of a plan, to be fair. Tom said Harry needed to learn to think on his feet, so he had only given Harry an idea, a premise to work off of. Tom's idea was simple; Harry would scare the Dursleys a bit, then demand Dudley's second bedroom – that's it. But Harry was rather uneasy about the whole thing; he really didn't want to scare anyone...he'd had enough of people being scared for a lifetime, but Tom had been very insistent about it.

"Cupboards are for brooms and boxes and dust, Harry. Even the naughtiest of children shouldn't be kept in a cupboard. It's demeaning, and it's a health hazard."

Tom left no room for argument. And as uneasy as Harry was about the whole thing, he wouldn't have been able to argue even if Tom hadn't been so firm. He hadn't ever known anything besides his cupboard, but if all the children at Tom's dreary orphanage could all be afforded a bed, why couldn't Harry? And why the bloody hell did Dudley need two?

Yes, Tom didn't have to try very hard to convince Harry that he was in the right in this...otherwise he would never be able muster the courage to do what he was about to do.

He focused on his breathing, as he slipped out of his cupboard, light-footed as usual, and quietly made his way into the kitchen. As he did every morning, he went straight for the coffee maker. The next few minutes passed slowly, as he watched the little brown droplets create ripples in the coffee pot, and soon Aunt Petunia came marching down the stairs, Uncle Vernon bumbling behind her. He didn't look at them, as they sat down at the table, and just like every other day, was completely silent as he made their coffee, crossed the kitchen, and set their mugs on the table. Today, though, he didn't scurry off to make breakfast; today, he stood up straight in front of them, waiting to be acknowledged. He was, after a very awkward minute.

"What is it, boy?" Vernon snapped.

Harry took a deep breath. "I have a request, Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia."

Vernon's face reddened, but only slightly. "A...request?"

Harry nodded. "I want Dudley's second bedroom."

"You what?"

Aunt Petunia's eyes had widened at least three eighths of a centimetre.

Harry steeled himself. "I'm a a boy, not a broom. I shouldn't be kept in a cupboard."

"Now see here boy, we took you in out of the goodness of our hearts, and you have no right to ungratefully demand -"

"What do you think the neighbours would think if they knew you kept your nephew in a cupboard?" Harry interrupted.

Vernon's face rapidly darkened from rosy red to an ugly shade of purple, while Petunia instantly paled. "You wouldn't," the fat man sputtered, "No one would believe you!"

Well, so much for that. Harry had really hoped that he'd be able to convince them with words alone. It would have been better that way, easier for everyone.

On to plan B. "I know, which is why I've never said anything." He took another deep breath. "But no one would believe you if you told them your eight year old nephew threatened you into getting his own bedroom. Not to mention, if you told anyone, you'd be incriminating yourself too."

"Threatened?" Vernon spat, while Aunt Petunia continued to pale to an unhealthy shade of yellow. "What get are you getting at boy?"

Harry glared at him. "Boy? Aren't you going to call me freak? Because that's what I am, right?" He took a deep breath. "I'm a freak! And do you know what happens when freaks get angry?" The dishes on the table began to rattle ominously, and Harry had to keep himself from smiling gleefully. It had taken whole week of practice to get that part right. It turns out it's very hard to make things shake without breaking them.

"What is that? Stop that, boy! Stop that this instant!"

Harry closed his eyes. He was angry, he told himself, very angry. They hurt him, when he hadn't done anything to them. They treated him like a slave, like an animal – they treated him like vermin. They deserve this, he told himself. They deserve this. They deserve this.

"I'll have none of that freakishness here, boy! I don't know what you think you're playing at, but-"

Harry's eyes snapped open, and at that very instant, the two coffee mugs burst into pieces, scalding hot coffee attacking his Aunt and Uncle in the face. He'd done it. He'd actually done it! Tom was going to be so proud.

He was so thrilled with his success that he didn't even register Petunia's screeching or Vernon's roaring – he was lost, reveling in his victory until Vernon's pudgy hand grabbed him like a vice on his shoulder.

"You nasty, nasty little-"

"Let go!" Harry shouted, startled, and to his utter shock, the massive man listened. Thank goodness, because he didn't know if he could deal with a physical manifestation of Vernon's rage right now.

The adrenaline was dying down, and he had to keep himself from shaking. He needed to leave. If he showed any weakness in front of them, this would have all been for nothing.

He turned his back to them.

"Now, I'm going to the playground for an hour. When I get back, I want my toys and clothes moved up to Dudley's second bedroom, and his things moved out...or else."

"Or else what, boy?" Vernon snarled, lunging forward before he was stopped by a ghostly white Aunt Petunia.

Harry took a deep breath and glanced over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes and doing his very best to imitate Tom. "Or else I'll break a lot more than just your coffee mugs."

Seeing their frantic nods, he knew his mission had been a success. Now he just had to wait.

Harry was building a snowman. There wasn't much snow on the ground, so it was a rather pathetic snowman, but it was still a work of art, he had to say. He'd been so careful to mold the body and head smoothly, and had put much thought into what sticks to use for its slender little arms. Two pennies marked the eyes, and five tiny pebbles the mouth. Yes, it was a lovely snowman - it was just...delicate. Harry thought that his ability to create things from very little was one of his better qualities.

He glanced up at the sky, trying but failing to locate the sun behind the thick blanket of clouds stretching over the heavens. He sighed, retrieving his little mirror – Tom's mirror – from his back pocket.

"Do you think it's been an hour yet?"

"Just about," Tom replied, his face betraying nothing.

Harry nodded. "I suppose I should go back in now."

"Yes, you wouldn't want to keep them waiting."

Harry was silent, as he made his way back to Number 4 Privet Drive. He didn't really know how to act – he'd feel bad, acting as triumphant as he felt. After all, his victory and his prize...they were all at Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon's expense. Truth be told, he felt quite bad about the whole thing. He knew it had to be done - Tom wouldn't have it any other way - but he couldn't help but feel like a bit of a bully, scaring his relatives into giving him what he wanted...even if it was something that, arguably, he deserved in the first place. Was it ok to bully a bully? Was it wrong to treat badly those who have treated you worse? Harry really didn't know.

The house was quiet when he returned. Dudley was probably still asleep. The boy slept like the dead, and when school was out, he rarely woke before 10.

After divesting himself of his coat and boats, Harry slowly made his way to Dudley's – now his – bedroom.

When he got to the door, Petunia was still inside, collecting some of Dudley's toys off the ground.

"Aunt Petunia?" he called quietly.

The woman jumped, and spun around to face him with a look of terror on her face.

"Harry."

She calmed her breathing and attempted to stand up straight, only partially succeeding as she rushed out of the room, careful to avoid touching Harry at all.

Once she reached the bottom of the stairs, Harry sighed a sigh of relief. That could have gone a lot worse.

Suddenly, his scar began to sting. Soon after their first meeting, Tom had smugly informed Harry that he could cause Harry massive amounts of pain with little to no effort. He was quite clear that he would remorselessly do so whenever he wanted Harry's attention. Harry supposed that was only fair...it must be terrible to ignored most of the time, he thought.

He pulled Tom's mirror out of his pocket.

A smile was tugging at the corners of his – rather Tom's mouth. "Did you see that?"

Harry frowned tiredly. "See what?"

"The fear in her eyes, the submission in her voice."

"It was kind of hard to miss."

The subtle smile morphed into a sharp smirk. "And that is how it should be, Harry."

"I don't want people to be afraid of me!"

"The powerless will always fear true power – the muggles will always be wary of you; they will always reject you."

Harry cast his eyes to the floor, and he winced at the dull ache in his chest. "Then I'll be alone forever?"

Tom's face transformed into something Harry believed he was supposed to interpret as sympathy. "No, Harry, one day you will meet others who know the greatness of magic, too."

Harry's eyes brightened. "Then there are others like me?"

Tom's smile returned. "There is no one like you, Harry. But there are those who have tasted power, and who will flock to you for more. Their fear of you will not fuel rejection – rather, it will kindle respect."

Harry stared at him, feeling rather befuddled by Tom's statement, but Tom didn't seem to notice.

"Never be afraid of power, Harry. For greatness is your birthright."