It had never crossed Hadrian 'Harry' Potter's mind that the Dursley's would never vacation in a foreign country, let alone move to Italy, but they had. They had packed and packed, loaded their things up, found a nice, big house, and moved. Moved despite how un-Dursley such a thing was. He had always assumed they would live in that house on Private Drive until they turned old and grey, just another part of their bland, disgustingly normal life.

But here they were.

They hadn't moved to any of the major parts of Italy, although the city they lived in was large, it had long since been passed over for other places that had more people arriving, more life. Even its name had been long forgotten by all but the oldest of gravestones in its cemetery. It was still a city, however, and it held a multitude of large buildings and houses, each one old and with its charm. Some buildings slumped just slightly, and it was common to see cracks in the roads and sidewalks, creating intricate spider webs that left room for plant sprouts to pop up though, just as they would in the dirt.

It didn't make much sense for Aunt Petunia - she was neat, clean, valued order and gossip with like-minded individuals. For her, everything had to be perfect, and orderly. The plants in the garden spaced exactly, the lawn mowed to 5 cm, no more, no less, the walk swept and the house painted. When doing the shopping, she always made it clear on her less than complimentary views of the city, and how they followed no such guidelines.

Nor did it make any sense for Uncle Vernon. Constantly striving to be sleek and modern (although his waist-line reflected anything but). The latest, most expensive was what he strived for, and the buildings here that were more brick then glass didn't fit such a world view. The man often swore that it would be best to tear the entire place down and start over.

Dudley… well, Dudley was just a lost cause, be it in Italy, or even back in England. That one was truly dense.

Everything about the city seemed to be more suited to Harry; mysterious and cracked, long forgotten by all but the people who lived there, and needed quite a bit of care to reach the point of acceptance. A point nobody bothered to try and get it too.

He rather thought it gave them both a sort of charm not often found in anyone else.

Harry considered himself rather lucky when it came to Italy. Having spent most his life, and all of it that he could remember in Private Drive, he never thought he would get to travel before he turned 18. It was a miracle they let him out of his cupboard most of the time.

But now, he was in a foreign country, left mostly alone when it came to the Dursleys, and even had his own tiny bedroom.

Harry didn't think they would have ever moved to Italy. If it hadn't been for Uncle Vernon being offered some sort of job offer. It was clearly one he couldn't refuse and had been bragging about it to all who would hear, and even those that wouldn't.

Living in a less than perfect city was something all the Dursleys could tolerate, as long as they had more money.

Italy was interesting, in a way. Not that he explored much of it. Or could even learn much, at the moment.

He was learning Italian, which was a slow process. None of his relatives had bothered much with the attempt, that he was aware of, but most of his treasured books were not written in English, especially the older ones; the ones that felt like they would fall apart in his hands if he turned a page too quickly. Those were the ones he found the most interesting.

His written was coming along far quicker than his spoken - for it to be different, he would actually have to talk to someone. Something he wasn't prone to do. It wouldn't be a surprise if any of the people he encountered regularly thought he was mute.

The books were all he had. To learn, to entertain, to understand.

More often than not, Harry found himself in the local library. It was a large place, with a decent number of books, and a small alcove off in the upper part of the building, where the dust gathered and it looked like nobody -not even the librarian- had been there in years. He didn't quite need to hide; Dudley wouldn't enter a library if you paid him a fortune, and he rather suspected Uncle Vernon was the same way. Aunt Petunia didn't want to leave the house, both for the possibility of embarrassing herself with her butchered Italian, and the fact that they seemed different to her.

The library was his safe place.

Every day, as soon as the sun came up he made his way to the library, selected a book, and then lounged in the empty shelves, or sprawled on the open floor.

In the dusty old alcove, there was a seat - pressed right up against the window, large, wide, and well lit. While anyone else would have sat there, Harry just couldn't bring himself to do it. The spot was too open, too easy to see from the entrance. Too easy to spot from the street, if one knew what to look for.

No, his empty shelves were a much better option.

And so the window seat remained empty, just as the alcove had been before Harry had found it.

It had been a perfectly normal day when that changed, no storm clouds up above, no mysterious lightning, no warning or any such things one would think of with foreshadowing.

Harry had left the Dursleys' after completing all of his chores, a list that he had been working with since he was able to reach the cooktop. Cooking and cleaning, his knees and hands were sore, only to barely make it out the door just as the telltale squeaks that meant father and son had managed to wiggle their fat bodies out of bed. Aunt Petunia was often shortly behind them.

He sprayed himself down with the hose, washing quickly with a bar of soap he had long since filched from the house, cleaning off his clothes in the process. When it was all well and done, he started on his walk, drying off despite the cold winter air. Things like the cold never bothered him, despite the too big, threadbare clothes he wore.

It didn't take him long to reach the outskirts, with even less time dedicated to walking to the library steps. It would have been a shorter amount of time, but he often found it best to avoid the man on the park bench, who looked not quite so nice and often looked at him the same way Dudley looked at pudding and Uncle Vernon looked at the wives that came over for dinner. He always ended up walking several more meters and crossing the road exactly five extra times before he arrived.

A perfectly normal day, for both him and everyone else.

Except it wasn't normal, for as soon as he dropped himself to the floor, resting his back against the seemingly ancient wood of the window seat, another boy entered his sanctuary.

The boy was different in every way that he had ever encountered, with an other-ness to him that Harry only ever found in himself, although even that wasn't the same. His own felt almost more diverse, compared to the other angry, intense feeling.

He looked like a boy, if a rather pretty one. He had blond hair that hung in his face covering his eyes, and a rather pretty crown used as a headband. If he had to guess, Harry would say he was about the same age as the other boy, maybe younger. He had conflicting soft-strong features, soft in the cheeks and chin, where it was clear he was still young, but strong underneath, especially in the nose. Rather like when Aunt Petunia stared at the men on the telly, chittering with the gossip club, er, book club, over how aristocratic some man looked.

The blond rather reminded him of a prince, he decided. Although not the soft type.

He also felt strange, and dangerous, but Harry ignored it to return to his book. None of his instincts told him to move or prepare. His most trusted tool, honed with practice and highly responsive, and he felt no true danger to himself. He relied on his instincts when he couldn't rely on anything else, and while he was wary, he didn't feel the urge to run or hide like he probably should.

He would move if that changed, but had no reason for it now.

Harry leaned back to make himself more comfortable, opening the book on his crossed legs, not even glancing back up. He wanted to read about some history, not waste thoughts on another person.

That didn't keep him from noticing the boy mumbling to himself, sharp words that he couldn't quite make out, even though the feelings were clear. Malice and fondness, two emotions one wouldn't consider together, although it seemed to suit the boy.

Letting himself be further absorbed in the book, he ignored the other. He didn't know what he was saying, nor did he care, and as such was going to make no attempt to listen in. Harry had the feeling any attempts to invade his privacy wouldn't be well met, anyways.

And so the two boys sat there, absorbed in their own thoughts and company, not a word was spoken. A peaceful silence, and one that wouldn't be broken for many months.