A/N: I know I shouldn't be doing this because of my other fanfic-in-progress, but you see, this damned story was just sitting on my computer, and I kept thinking about it, and I couldn't help myself. For those of you who have read 'Stonewall High', let me assure you that this is not much like it, except for the punkish!gay!Harry bit. This isn't an AU, and any Draco/Harry relations won't pop up until later. Bear with me on this, please, and feel free to nag me if I begin to lag behind on either story. I don't really like this one...but dammit, I can't stop thinking about it.

One warm summer night in Surrey, England, Harry Potter decided he was sick of being Harry Potter.

Of course, he wasn't stupid, nor was he selfish, and he knew he would never escape who he was. The savior of the wizarding world, everybody's Golden Boy, the Boy Who Lived. He was tired of it all: the war, the fighting, the political slander from the Ministry, fan letters and hate mail, people staring at his scar…and most of all, Harry was tired of his friends and family dying.

After Sirius had disappeared behind the Veil, Harry had fallen into a state of mind that those around him considered unhealthy, but which he actually quite liked. At first, he spent his days at the house on Privet Drive locked in his room, ignoring the Dursleys' angry demands, numb and unfeeling. When Uncle Vernon threatened to knock down the door, Harry had laughed humorlessly and dared him to try. His tone of voice scared the Dursleys, and they backed down, leaving him to his own thoughts.

Then, one day, about three weeks into his summer vacation, Harry was sitting at the window of his small bedroom, looking out at the street but not really seeing it—envisioning Sirius tumbling through the Veil, limbs flailing, eyes wide and helpless. He felt a twinge of despair at this, and then that wonderful-terrible feeling of not feeling came back over him, and he thought about not much of anything at all.

A sudden blur of movement on the street caught his attention, and when he looked, he saw a boy a bit older than himself running along, long legs eating up ground effortlessly. Curious, Harry watched him tear out of sight around the corner. Seconds later, a group of bigger boys thundered past, panting and sweating but keeping pace, determined looks on their faces.

Harry sighed when he recognized them as Dudley and his gang of bullies. Whoever that boy was, he was in for the beating of his life.

For the first time that summer, Harry felt his hero complex surface within him. He wanted to dart down the stairs, out the front door, and give chase. He wanted to save that boy.

No, he told himself fiercely. You don't need to save everyone, you stupid git. Focus on saving the wizarding world, not some damned Muggle boy.

Instantly upon thinking this, he was ashamed. He sounded like a Malfoy, as if he felt he was too good to bother with Muggles and their "petty" problems. Harry got up from his seat by the window, unlocked his door, and ran downstairs and out the door before Aunt Petunia even realized what had happened.

He ran around the house and through the back yard, leaping over the neighbor's prized rose bushes. He knew a shortcut, if the boy was heading to the park like Harry suspected he was. He hoped he wasn't too late.

If Harry had stopped to think about it, he would have realized that this was the most emotion he had been feeling ever since Sirius's death. Adrenaline pumped through his body, spurring him on, and his eyes were narrowed in anger. His heart thudded as he sprinted down a neighboring street. His wand was a comforting presence, tucked into the back of his pants under his shirt, where it had been since getting out of Hogwarts.

His feet pounded the pavement and his legs began to burn with an exertion he hadn't felt in weeks. The park came into view, unusually deserted for this time of day, and Harry was relieved to see the boy mere yards ahead of him, still running for all he was worth. Slowing, Harry glanced behind him and saw Dudley's gang behind him, their broad red faces pinched with confusion at his arrival. He stopped entirely and turned to meet them.

They, too, slowed, and came to a halt some distance away.

Dudley looked furious. His face was the color of a beet, and his fat torso heaved dangerously. He managed to gasp out a warning between desperate gulps of air. "What're….you doing here…you little freak…get outta…our way! Go home...before you get…hurt!"

"Don't you threaten me, Dudley," Harry said quietly, not at all winded. That curious feeling of numbness had returned, but it was different somehow. It wasn't really numbness at all anymore, but rather a sort of calm fury. He felt as if, in this state, he could do what was needed without fear of the consequences. He brushed his hand against his concealed wand, and smiled.

Something in his smile scared Dudley, but the fat blonde boy fought not to show it. He sneered. "And what d'you think you'll be doing to stop me from getting to the other freak?" he barked, gesturing somewhere behind Harry.

Harry didn't turn around to see if the boy was standing there. He just shrugged and stood his ground. "Whatever I have to, really."

Dudley's best friend, a sneaky, rat-faced boy named Piers Polkiss laughed outright. "C'mon, Big D, let's pound him!"

But Dudley had gone pale. He was a stupid boy, but he was not blind. He could see the tip of Harry's wand, which Harry had palmed and slid up his sleeve when no one was looking. He'd allowed Dudley a quick peek, and now gave him a nod to assure his cousin that yes, that was his wand, and yes, he would use it.

"We haven't got time for this," Dudley suddenly blurted out, curling his hands into fat, frustrated fists at his sides. His friends looked at him in confusion, but he turned about and began to waddle away in a casual manner. "Let's go, guys," he called back over his shoulder. "I wanna get a soda." Disappointed, confused, but obedient, the group of bullies trudged after Dudley, shooting Harry nasty looks before rounding the corner.

The adrenaline that had been rushing through Harry quieted, but he could still feel the quiet, tight rage that he now knew lay within him, and try though he might, the void that had blocked his emotions would not come back. He sighed, and started towards the empty swings.

"Oy," a voice behind him said, startling him badly, "how'd you do that?"

Harry had forgotten all about the boy he had been standing up for, and felt stupid. He turned to face the boy, and was embarrassed to feel his mouth gape slightly.

His face was lovely enough to be a girl's, with fine bones and strong cheekbones, and wide, hazel eyes, framed thickly with heavy black eyeliner. His mouth, though painted sooty black, was soft-looking and quick to smile. The boy's hair was short and spiked with gel on top, its natural color lost amid a sea of shocking traffic light red. He had a piercing in each eyebrow and a ring through his right nostril. He had broad shoulders that tapered down to a narrow waist and long limbs, all encased in black material. His pants were baggy, and a bit plain; but his shirt was of torn fishnet with a black tank top over it. Silver bracelets clicked happily on his wrists as he raised one hand to shake Harry's.

Harry had little experience with people who dressed with a gothic fashion sense. Of course, he had seen them when the Dursleys took trips to the city and saw fit to bring him along; but in places like the Dursleys' sub division, simply no one dressed like this, and he knew of no one in Hogwarts who did either. Wizarding fashions were quite different from those of Muggles.

"Uhh, he's my cousin. He knew I'd get him in trouble with his mum," Harry lied. "New around here, are you?" he heard himself ask, and blushed.

The boy laughed and headed towards the swings. Harry followed after a moment. "Yeah," he said, looking around the pristine neighborhood with a pained expression. "Not really my scene, you know." He sat down on a swing and Harry sat next to him, feeling awkward but unable to walk away.

"Well, you may not know it by looking at me," Harry admitted, "but it's not my type of thing either."

The boy looked at Harry with friendly curiosity. "Really? Well, then, I suppose I should thank you for saving me. Those blokes were about to kick my arse!"

Harry leaned his head against the swing's chain. "I'm sure you could've outrun them. They get bored with pursuing people eventually, and then you're off scot-free 'till you see 'em again." He shot an unreadable look towards the boy. "I'm Harry, by the way. Harry Potter."

Was it his imagination, or did the boy's mouth go slack for half a second before he recovered and grinned engagingly? He said, "And I'm Ian Hale. Nice to meet you, Harry," and Harry thought he must have been mistaken; Ian Hale had to be a Muggle.

"Likewise…"

Ian smiled again, ebony lipstick framing straight white teeth, and Harry thought that maybe his summer was going to be a little better than he had expected. But even as he got to know Ian and liked him more and more, sitting on the swings with him until late at night, that quiet rage—directed at no one and nothing, everyone and everything—lay like a stone in the pit of his stomach.

A/N: That's it, guys. Thanks for reading, and I'll respond to any reviews you'd care to send my way.