Someone was speaking to Harry.

Dimly he was aware that someone was manipulating his head and neck and that seemed a little frightening, although he couldn't have said why.

It wasn't that important though, except once or twice when sharp sensations lanced through him, demanding his attention.

What was important was what the person who was speaking to Harry was telling him.

Sometimes, when he was very little, Harry would lay in his cupboard, listening to Aunt Petunia read Dudley bedtime stories. There was always an ache in his chest when he did so, knowing Freaks didn't get stories. The stories he listened to this way were stolen. He knew that. He also knew it wrong to steal. His Aunt and Uncle told him so. They told him when they caught him nicking food from the larder. When they caught him reading Dudley's books or standing outside Dudley's room, listening to Dudley's television shows, they told him that was stealing too.

Sometimes at school, his teachers would read a story. That wouldn't be a stolen story, but it would have to be shared with all the children in the class. It was never meant just for him.

Someone was telling him a story now, though. Not a stolen story, either. Nor a story he had to share with a room full of class mates. This was a story just for him. He knew this, without a doubt, because the teller was holding his hand tightly. And the hand was pressed against his cheek. A velvet sleeve trailed across his chin. The hand told him he was safe and wanted.

Harry had had dreams like this before, but never one so real. Never one that included scents of ginger and all spice or the warm heaviness of blankets.

"Your mother said this was her favorite one, Harry." The Teller-of-stories said, conspiratorily, "She liked the ones that made her laugh the best."

The Storeyteller began to tell the story of someone called Babbity Rabbity.

Harry drifted on the words. After a while, he lost the thread of the story and he just knew that the voice continued to speak, letting him know that he wasn't alone.

Later, sharp pains began to stab into his neck. He cried out, more in startlement than pain, and then bit back the sound, fearing that Uncle Vernon would hear. It would hurt like hell if Uncle Vernon gave him a smack on top of this.

"Harry?" someone whispered, "Are you hurting?"

Harry tried to nod, but his head wouldn't move, "Yes." he croaked. He felt fuzzy and he was beginning to be alarmed. He was not sure where he was or who was still holding his hand, "It's not so bad, though." he didn't want the owner of the hand to think he was a baby.

He couldn't help but clutch harder at the hand, though, as it tried to draw away.

"Let go. I can give you a potion for it." Harry did as he was told, reluctantly. Harry opened his eyes a little, but the room was dark. The head of his bed was raised, so he was half sitting. The Someone was sitting beside him. In the dark, without his glasses, he couldn't see a thing.

The Someone made some stealthy sounds. After a second, Harry felt the pain begin to ease.

"I've spelled something for pain into you. It's not safe for you to try to swallow anything until the Skelegrow's finished." said the Someone. It was a man speaking. It seemed like Harry knew the voice, but he couldn't place it.

"Did I fall off my broom?" Harry wheezed, although he didn't feel that kind of hurt. His alarm decreased though. He must be at Hogwarts, if he'd just had some Skelegrow and the Someone was talking about potions. That was all right then, Uncle Vernon couldn't get him here.

"You don't recall?" The Someone asked, seriously.

"No." Now, Harry wondered if he'd been doing something stupid.

The Someone sighed softly, "We'll talk about it later." he whispered, confirming Harry's thought that he'd been doing something stupid. He wondered how much trouble he'd be in when he was better. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

The pain potion made Harry rather more direct than he would normally be, "You were telling me stories." he said, "I've never heard stories like that."

"They're Wizard stories. They seemed to make you feel calmer while Madam Pomfrey was sorting out your neck." Someone replied, a trifle stiffly.

So, the Someone was the Storyteller from before. The one with the warm hand, that had a velvet sleeve.

"Thank you." It was important that Harry make the Storyteller understand, "Freaks don't get stories, you know." his words seemed a trifle slurred, "Children that people want get stories. Aunt Petunia told me."

"What did she mean 'that people want'?" asked the Storyteller, slowly.

"Promise you won't say anything?" Harry asked. He knew he wasn't supposed to say these things to strangers. Although, the Storyteller wasn't really a stranger, even if Harry couldn't place him, at the moment.

"You have my word." Harry knew somehow that the Storyteller could be trusted to keep his promises.

"She told me that my mum didn't want me, even before she died." He said in a hoarse whisper. It was Harry's darkest secret, "She said that my parents had to get married. That it would have been better for everyone if it had been me that died in that accident."

"Your mother didn't die in an accident, Harry." The Storyteller said, softly.

"Doesn't matter, she's still dead. Don't tell Aunt Petunia I told you what she said, okay?" his throat was weirdly scratchy and sore, his voice raspy. It hurt to keep talking.

"I won't." Agreed the Storyteller. Oh, of course. The Storyteller was a Wizard. He wouldn't know Aunt Petunia, "You know, Harry," The Storyteller said hesitantly, "Your mother actually went to some lengths to bring you into the world."

Harry didn't want to hear false comfort, "Aunt Petunia would know, though..."

"I know, Harry. I was there." The Storyteller seemed very, very sure.

Harry sat quietly for a second with his eyes closed, gathering his courage, "Will you..." Harry stopped, not wanting to upset the man. The Storyteller had been terribly patient with him, but it was stupid to ask for more.

The hand came back to take his. Harry raised it back to his face. It was the velvet sleeve that smelled like ginger and allspice, "Will I...what?"

"Tell me another story?"

A second hand reached over, coming into his limited field of vision, slowly. Harry cringed a little, nonetheless. The hand merely brushed his fringe out of his eyes, "Yes, of course I will." The Storyteller whispered, "As many as you like."