Clearly I have not posted enough today.

This, however, is COMPLETELY gmth's fault. See, she had these bad requests for betas, and one of them mentioned the pairing Harry/A Crayon, and ...I bet you see where this is going, don't you.

God. Two crack fics in a span of about four hours.

*facepalm* (times 1 million)

---

Crayons

It really was just as well crayons didn't have flavors, Harry reflected as he lay on his stomach on the thin mat that kept him somewhat off the floor in the closet under the stairs at Number 4, Privet Drive. Because then he'd eat them to stave off the pangs, and then he wouldn't be able to admire them any longer. Thought really… did they taste like anything in particular?

He didn't have many, of course. Dudley's cast-offs, the colors he didn't like, the ones that broke. His personal favorite was the burnt sienna. Dudley hadn't liked that color from the first and had pelted Harry with it immediately upon opening the new package. It had chipped when it hit the floor, so that was too bad, but else, it was unmarred and whole, with unripped paper around it and only the slight wear from the time he'd made a small mark on a scrap of paper, just to see whether it colored thin and translucent, like the cornflower blue, or thick and opaque like orange-red.

He also had periwinkle, broken in half and rather more worn because Dudley had used it a bit before concluding it was a poufy color and snapped it, and a similarly abused lavender. The rest were worn and long-used, then abandoned upon becoming too used-looking. A plain white and a chipped flesh-color with the points worn down completely. The stub of a dark bluey-purple that Dudley had used a great deal coloring bruises on drawings of Harry, to match the actually-inflicted ones, and bright scarlet used for drawing bloody noses. A number of others, totaling nearly twenty.

He looked at them, all lined up under the lowest shelf, then reached forward and picked up one half of the periwinkle. He blew on it to get rid of dust (and spiders), and licked it experimentally. Not bad. Not good, but not bad, and at least having something to suck on allowed him to pretend it was one of the lollies Dudders got at the market every Tuesday and Friday. He carefully peeled off the paper and stuck one end in his mouth to suck on.

--

The room was different now, but the crayons were the same, lined up in the third drawer of the desk, all in the condition they'd been in before, except the half-a-periwinkle that was wearing down, just a bit, from the sucking. It was a comfort, while he worked on the homework he wasn't allowed to state he had. He sucked at it all summer, aware he was eventually going to have to choose a different one to suck, because this one was wearing down from occasional tooth-made chips that made the tonguing of it that much more interesting.

When Ron and his brothers appeared with the flying car, he thought a moment, then tossed the crayon into his trunk with everything else.

--

He wasn't entirely sure why, but every time he returned to his dormitory after Quidditch practice, he needed his crayon. He had news ones now, because Dudley had declared coloring with crayons "for babies" at some point, and finally the crayonish section of the refuse had made its way into Harry's room. He'd filched the lot of them and now, he could choose, day by day. Sometimes he'd let the pointed tip of one--and orange one, usually--slide back and forth on his tongue. Other times he'd choose lemon yellow and put the whole thing in his mouth. In any case, it calmed him, after the frantic pace of practice--and after a game, he often took two of them into the showers with him, after the rest of the team had gone. His collection stayed in the crannies of his headboard, where even Hermione wouldn’t see them, and often at night he found himself sucking on one after lights were out.

He mostly ignored the way his body reacted to this; he was nearly sure it was very wrong, but he wasn't about to ask anyone, and also wasn't about to lose his crayons.

Besides, now he had one designed for a child's hand, thick and long and black. He hadn't tasted it yet. He was saving it for a special occasion.

--

By the time all was said and done at the Quidditch World Cup, Harry rather desperately wished he'd brought the crayons. He'd not done, because they were going to be all crammed together in a tent, and it seemed unlikely he'd have any privacy for that sort of thing, but with all the running about an bizarre lights in the sky (and to boot, watching Ron's oldest brothers casting spells in their trousers and boots), he really wanted something to suck on, to relieve his anxiety.

He waited until Ron was asleep, then stuck two fingers in his mouth and ran his tongue around on them. They didn't taste like his beloved crayons, but it was enough, and it was satisfyingly even thicker on his tongue than the black crayon.

--

Harry stared at his terribly worn-down periwinkle and smooth-sucked lemon yellow, wondering which would better suit.

He wasn't quite sure what to do, and generally, the crayons were his best bet to deal with, well, things. He'd not had this particular problem before, though. He'd expected, he'd thought, he'd, well. When Cho, see, it had been wet, as he'd said, but it had been something else to suck on, and he'd not thought to find it so very unsatisfying. He'd had to think about his crayons not to jump back in revulsion.

He was pretty sure that was bad.

He popped the yellow one in his mouth and smiled as he closed the curtains around his bed. This was much better.

--

Harry sat on his bed, looking at the crayons in his hand. He picked up an old broken quill, unable to hold ink but still sharp enough, and gashed long, deep cuts in the yellow one, then soothed and smoothed the cuts with his thumb.

He put the crayon in his mouth thoughtfully, and turned the bright orange one over in his fingers.

Then he set it aside and spit out the yellow to make sure his door, during this, his last night at the Dursleys, was closed to stay and proofed against sound. He'd waited long enough. He retrieved his wand and engorged the yellow crayon, then got out the black crayon, the one that was reserved for special occasions, and slid it between his lips, and kicked off his trousers.

He knew what he wanted, even if all he had was crayons and they'd both fled. He'd known for a while. He still hadn't told anyone.

It was probably just as well. Ron would freak out, anyway.