There wasn't a time, really, when he could remember being alone in his body. The others were always there. Always jostling about in his head, taking up space. Talking, complaining, laughing, crying. They were always there, and he felt content that way, knowing that they wouldn't leave him.

They helped him sometimes, too, he knew that. He always knew when he would "go to sleep" for a while, and when he came back, there'd be new bruises on his arms or his back, or the Dursleys would look at him in that particular knowing way he always hated. He didn't know what happened, but he knew it wasn't good.

He knew it wasn't good when Uncle Vernon began sneaking him out of the cupboard at night, either. That's when Kitten appeared, a small sylph-like girl with fiery red hair and a sultry expression. In Harry's mind's eye, she was quite pretty, but he didn't understand why she didn't dress herself properly, or why the hunted look existed in her eyes. He didn't understand and perhaps it was better that way.

He didn't understand the pitying look in Aunt Petunia's eyes, or the way she'd hand him the first aid kit every once in a while when he had no discernible injury. Someone else took over then, and that was all right. He didn't need to know, did he? Kitten and Blue and Tom and Jay and Lily-they took over for those things. It was their time, and he didn't want to interfere.

And so Harry grew, and his blackouts grew longer and longer until one day, he couldn't remember there were others. There was just Harry. Harry and his blackouts. His sleepy times, as he referred to them, and if things happened during those times, he didn't know. He didn't want to know, and perhaps this was why the dissociative wall had sprung up in the first place.

His Hogwarts letter came, delivered by the Keeper of the Keys, and Hagrid showed him about Diagon Alley. He barely "went to sleep" during this trip at all, far too fascinated by the people and the funny clothes and the funny things sold in the shops. He took an instant dislike to the pale, pointy-faced boy in the robes shop, and a queer sort of revulsion to Ollivander, the wand-maker. There was something about the way the man looked at him that reminded him of his Uncle Vernon, even though he knew his Uncle would sooner spit on the man than be "like him." Like a wizard.

He went to sleep all the time during the month between getting his letter and catching the train and he didn't understand, when he finally got onto the platform (assisted by the strange, sprawling redheaded family) why he had such a hard time catching his breath or why his back hurt so much. It didn't make sense, and so he filed it away somewhere safe, somewhere it didn't matter anymore. Like he always did.

And Harry looked around and smiled and laughed with the Weasley boy and stifled a grin at the bossy Granger girl and life seemed like it would go swimmingly at Hogwarts, dropped into this new life of magic and wonder...

Swimmingly, that is, until the Sorting Hat opened up its rip of a brim and yelled "SLYTHERIN" to a shocked and entirely silent Great Hall.