When People Run In Circles

Discliamer: backwards disclaimer said write to time free enough has fan said if particularly, thoroughly one reading time said of amount any spend circumstance any for never should one and, time valuable of waste a often very are disclaimers, point in Case. fiction-fan be wouldnt it and, fan a be wouldnt they, fiction the owned truly fiction the of fan the had because, silly rather really is Which. lengthy occasionally and, monotonous oftentimes, repetitive frequently are Disclaimers.

Summary: Six-year-old Harry Potter would have been just as ordinary as Dudley Dursley, had he not been a Dursley-Diagnosed schizophrenic with a habit of seeing things which could never exist. Like massive black dogs, for instance, and then of course theres the whole Cupboard Under the Stairs situation, the scar on his forehead, and the question that has been wearing away at him since he was old enough to understand; are the things he sees products of his Freakish mind as the Dursleys tell him, or could they possibly be...

Authors Notes: So. I find myself in a rather compromising situation that forces me to undergo the laborious task of reading hordes of information about physical ailments of the brain; it's either study my rear off or find myself under a needle, and Im slightly averse to having anything forcibly inserted down my spine. So due to a mistake caused most likely by insomnia rather than any heavenly intervention, I stumble upon a load of info on Schizophrenia, and because it is three o' clock in the morning and my brain cells are slowly deteriorating, relate it to magic. I am woe.

Also: Other than the tiring explanation above, this story was inspired by the movie Donnie Darko, which while rather high in rating is an excellent movie for those old enough for an R rating. The Lyrics that will show up periodically, and the storys title both come from a song from the movie called "Mad World."

Chapter the First: Real

All around me are familiar faces,
Worn out places, worn out faces...
Bright and early for their daily races,
Going nowhere, going nowhere...

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick...

Privet Drive was silent, if one excluded the bumbling laughter coming from an upstairs bedroom, and the far more subtle noise that was the gentle ticking of the Grandfather Clock that was the newest addition to the Dursley household for six years (Petunia considered erratic changes in schedule or décor a sign of abnormality; only the freakish in nature required a change of scenery.) The movements of its smallest hand were marked by a soft clicking that was only audible if one was well accustomed to listening for it, or was enveloped in absolute silence.

For Harry Potter, it was his connection to a world outside the one he knew, which consisted mainly of dirty dishtowels and detergent, the two main chores he was tasked with, as he was not yet tall enough to manipulate the stove, and his Aunt Petunia would never go so far as to trust his filthy hands with her precious lawn. He hated those chores, the stool upon which he stood to reach the tap was stiff and creaky, and made his knees ache before he was halfway finished, and the washing machine was situated in Vernon's cellar, which was chillingly cold and dark and reminded him, ironically enough, of Vernon himself.

But the chores were manageable always, and hed learned long ago that complaining would only earn him a swift cuff about the head from his aunt, or a slightly rougher blow from his Uncle, depending on his current blood alcohol level. The enormous man was a struggling alcoholic, and the most horrifying night in Harrys memory was the night Vernon had staggered through the door, opened his cupboard, and torn him from his dreams to bellow words of rage that the six-year-old could no longer remember.

But as the Grandfather clock chimed the twelfth hour, none of his memories seemed to matter anymore. Beaming so brightly he might have lit up the darkness, he spat quietly on the hinges to the Cupboard door, before gently opening it and creeping out into the dark hallway of Privet Drive.

For two days in a row he had performed this ultimate act of defiance, leaving hisaunt and uncle'shouse in the middle of the night to peer out the kitchen window, beneath which was a bed of some of Petunia's finest specimens, and sitting in which was...

"Black!" The boy's eyes positively radiated delight as he peered down at the enormous black dog huddled in the flower patch beneath his window. With a start, its head jerked up, gray eyes immediately wide and alert, the dark muzzle already wrinkling in the beginnings of a snarl.

Reflexively, Harry shrank back, just as he had the two nights before, and also like those two nights, the shaggy dog's snarl receded into an expression that was so human, it was astonishing. With a weary wag of tail, it raised an enormous paw to scratch hopefully at the glass.

Harry hesitated. To gaze at the animal was one thing, but to remove the barrier that separated them was quite another. While he hated to admit it to himself, he was terrified of what might happen. Oh, it wasn't a fear of being attacked, or his aunt and uncle discovering this treason and raining him with blows, it was the events of yesterday that worried him...

"Shall we play Show and Share, then?"

A singsong chorus of agreement met the young teacher's query, her flock of students fussing excitedly in their seats, several hands already waving in anticipation. With an indulgent smile that spoke of years of patience, her eyes landed upon the tentative hand of one of her most troubled charges. Little Harry Potter was quite well mannered, and with that mess of black hair and those bright emerald eyes he could even be considered adorable, but there was something odd about him.

Still, it was not her place to prejudice against students for being different, and with an encouraging wave of her hand, she motioned the small boy to the front of the classroom.

Tripping on his shoelaces on the way up- which earned a wave of giggling from his classmates- Harry stood himself front and center, and seemed to realize the weight of his decision. With a terrified sort of noise, his hands went to his pockets and he stared at his laces.

"And what would you like to share, Harry? Have a pleasant weekend?" His teacher prompted him gently.

With a visible gulp, he seemed to gather his courage about him, and spoke.

"I..I made a friend over the...the weekend."

"Did not! Liar liar, pants on!" Dudley crowed, much to the amusement of a few of his peers.

"Did too!"

Ms. Gate had been ready to intervene, fully expecting the nervous child to cower, but for once he seemed resolute, and glaring at his laces, explained:

"I did, too, and he's...well, hes a bit...big..."

"Are you talking about Dudley?" Asked a timid boy, who quailed immediately as the obese bully cracked his knuckles. More titters followed.

"N-No..." A shadow of a smile, and then, "He's a...well, he's Black. His name is, I mean. Well, hes black too, but-"

"Ms. Gaa-aate! This is bo-ring." Whined Cynthia Tolls, a pretty little girl with a dress that was spattered with milk.

"Settle down, it's Harrys turn to speak, everyone." Came the gentle reprimand, underlined by a soft sort of exasperation.

"Anyway his...his name's Black and he's a...well, I reckon he's a dog."

A rat-faced boy spoke up this time,"How can you reckon he's a dog? Cant you tell? Are you stupid?"

"Pierrs Polkiss, we do not say stupid in this classroom."

"Yes, Ms. Gate." But he snickered.

"I durno, he could be a bear, I suppose. Hes got ears like Winnie the-"

"What'd he do?"

"He...I talked to him...and he...nodded a lot..."

"Teacher, teacher! Harry's telling tales!"

The class began to pipe up in unison, "Liar, liar!"

The raven haired boy might have been a kicked puppy for his expression, and placing a hand to the back of his head, his teacher guided him gently out of the room and into the corridor, shutting the door behind them even as the children continued to sing. Harry stared at his laces again.

"Harry, you know...sometimes, when people are lonely and haven't got anyone to talk to, they invent friends to keep them company. Thats alright Harry, but you must remember that while they're wonderful for listening and keeping secrets, Imaginary Friends like Black aren't real, they wont be there forever."

At the time Harry had sniffled a bit and insisted that Black was not imaginary, he was a real dog -or bear, perhaps- and he wasn't going to disappear. But as he gazed out the window at his friend, he couldnt help but worry that if he broke the barrier that separated them, his only friend would disappear...

But Black was whining so pitifully, and he was quite as skinny as he was tall. In the end, his conscience won out. Even if Black wasn't real, he knew all too well what it was like to be hungry. Moving resolutely toward the kitchen, he paused to notice the hair on the back of the animal's neck, that was slowly bristling upward...

Harry and the dog turned as one to peer at the street beyond the flowerbed.

The boy nearly laughed with relief at what he saw- it wasn't his uncle or a monster (Which were both equally horrifying) but a stiff tabby cat with strange markings on its visage.

Black, however, was far from reassured. With a yelp so loud that Harry was sure he had woken up the entire neighborhood, the dog seemed frozen to the spot, before staggering toward the shadows as quickly as he could manage.

The cat appeared much less troubled by this reaction than Harry, simply uttering a sort of reproachful yowl, before its gaze turned to the six-year-old.

Harry watched with a bemused sense of deja vu as the cat seemed to come to some startling realization- except, of course, that it was a cat, and cats didnt have realizations- and bounded for the fence-line, albeit with much more dignity than Black had managed.

Harry felt a severe pang of disappointment and guilt. If he hadn't have taken so long to consider things, he might have been able to slip the dog a bit of the jerky sticks that Dudley had recently begun to obsess over. And worse! What if Black thought Harry's residence was too dangerous, and never came back?

Shifting his weight from foot to foot, he came to a decision, and crept for the kitchen. A moment later he had returned, having carefully unsealed the jerky package, removed a few crisp strips, and laid them gently in the soft depression where the dog had sat moments ago.

A light flickered on upstairs, and with a jolt of panic, Harry closed the window and bolted for his cupboard, closing the wooden door behind him just seconds before he heard footsteps creak their way down the stairs.

His heart hammering wildly, he tucked himself carefully under the scratchy comforter, and lay panting on one side. Though he had expected to stay up for ages worrying about the dog, he found himself slipping into sleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. The Grandfather clock chimed one time, and he realized vaguely that this was the longest he had ever stayed awake in his entire six years, before succumbing to sleep.

After Notes: I know what you're thinking. A kid has the right to imaginary friends without being schizophrenic! And to answer this right off the bat, no, there is not actually anything wrong with Harry. Quite unfortunately for him, no one has bothered to tell him otherwise. If enough people find the storyline okay, I'll post the next chapter, in which what the Dursleys have told Harry about his freakishness becomes clear, and in which Dudley tells his parents about Harrys new friend..