There were some truths that Itachi Uchiha knew were unchangeable. His name, for one, and his responsibilities not only as clan heir but as the clan's foremost shinobi. He knew that he was considered a genius – a savant, if Itachi was feeling unkind, with all the knowledge that made a formable shinobi and none of the emotional intelligence to make him a decent person – but given his trade, the second seemed far less important.

He knew that he was the youngest chūnin in Konoha's history (peacetime history, at least), and he knew that he was being groomed for ANBU. He knew a hundred and eight ways to stop a man's heartbeat in less than a handful of seconds and he knew what it was to watch the life-light bleed from someone's eyes. He knew that he was an elder brother and that he loved Sasuke in a manner that – until his birth – Itachi had not known he was capable of. He also knew that to live in Konoha was to know of Harry Potter, of his life and the cruel fate he'd been dealt, and that to step out of his home or open his window meant to be a voyeur of it, however unwillingly.

This particular burden was unique to his village and one that drew crowds of gapping tourists, that would pay absorbent prices to watch the strange world in the sky as shop and inn-keepers alike grew fat and complacent on their willing coin. They were gathered around even know, even with the sky silent, eager and wanting, like some sort of tasteless human embodiment of a piranha, despite the deary weather. Itachi ignored their disappointed murmurings as he made his way home, Sasuke a dead weight in his arms, sound asleep despite the rain that fell heavily around them, and even the rumble of thunder was not enough to wake him. His faith in his brother was complete, ultimate in the way it could only be with younger siblings, as if he knew as sure as he knew how to breathe that Itachi would protect him.

Itachi was both awed and strangely wounded by this trust, unsure how it such a thing - such a delicate, precious thing - could be placed in his hands despite the fact that he was simply a tool, a killing machine.

Itachi paused in his walk, tilting his umbrella as he glanced up at the sky as it shifted. There was no other way to describe it, the way the skies above Konoha would shimmer shortly before the familiar plains of Harry Potter's would face greet them. Today was no different and the grey, cloudy sky proved a stunning background as Harry came into focus, sniffling slightly as he wiped his nose with his sleeve, green eyes livid with a deep seeded envy and wantonness so strong it was nearly lustful, as he watched his fat, spoiled cousin open brightly wrapped present after present after present. The mysterious boy who lived in the sky was only slightly more well-known than the abhorrence of a family he lived with, and shinobi and civilian alike could be heard muttering their disapproval throughout various moments of the day.

'The Dursley's' had become the most disliked family in Fire country, for all that their presence was an unnamed anomaly that no amount chakra technique could dissipate. Harry had grown large, growing along with – but disproportionate to the years that the images had played in their sky. They were irregular, and undependable, erratic and unpredictable; sometimes the village would go days with nothing, then weeks longer with the never ending scenery from young Harry's life. It went on like this for nearly three years, but Harry was clearly five or six years older than when they'd begun this journey with him despite this.

He was closer to Itachi's age now, nine or ten, but he was rail thin and sallow, his skin burnt dark by hours of tedious genin-like yard work and his form layered with wiry muscle. Despite this, the boy was clearly malnourished and Itachi wondered at the sheer lack of care the strange world showed around the young boy. It seemed as if no one noticed the world of neglect that Harry lived in and those that did were shamefully quiet about it.

There was a cruelness to Harry's world that Itachi, respected and revered scion, doting and loving elder brother, could simply not understand. How could Harry's own clan treat him with such coldness? How could the other adults in his life – the neighbors of his orderly village, the teachers at his school, simply stand by and allow it?

There was a shuffle next to him, the barest of feet moving on cobblestone, and Itachi glanced down, lips tugging down at the sight that greeted him. It seemed that the image in the sky had brought more than one watcher to the streets, but this one – this one was different. Famous, in his own way, perhaps just as famous as the boy in the sky that Konoha was renowned for, though for an entirely different reason.

The small form – so much smaller than Sasuke's, despite how close they must be in age – was poorly dressed for the weather, with no coat or even shoes to protect him from the howling wind and rain, and for a long moment the Uchiha heir let himself just look. Uzumaki Naruto was just as thin and sallow as the figure in the sky, just as tan and layered with the same muscle that came from running and hiding and with just as little fat as Harry Potter had. The small form was drenched, the oversized shirt hanging wetly on him, his equally too large shorts drooping down his legs with the water-weight. The small form was watching the sky with a such an understanding, that Itachi felt his breath catch.

He thought of Sasuke's birthday, just a few weeks passed, and of the piles of gifts – most, undoubtedly, more to win the favor of his finicky father than anything for Sasuke – and of the sheer wonder on his little brother's face as he'd taken the sight in, clad in his finest clothes and fat cheeks red with glee and rightful joy.

Uzumaki's small face bore expression so alien from that memory, one that Itachi was determined would never grace his beloved brother's face. It was scrunched up in a mix of righteous anger and a deep, bone-deep and worn look of understanding, a look that spoke of a shared pain, a shared brotherhood, that was more appropriate on the looks of Itachi's shinobi brethren then on one so young. Tiny fists curled against his side, and as Itachi watched, a small victorious smile stole past his lips and he redirected his attention to the sky, just in time to watch Harry dart out from his hiding place, nicking an oversized plate of cake before disappearing into the small cupboard that served as his room.

Itachi wondered then, just how much the Jinchurki must identify with their young ward in the sky. After all, Harry Potter's life was in many ways very similar to their own village pariah. Itachi cocked his head, mulling over the similarities on his own for a moment, before carefully stepping forward.

The little boy flinched, impossibly blue eyes widening as he took in the armed shinobi standing next to him for the first time. Itachi fought the urge to frown heavier at the slight terror he found there and, after a moment of quiet staring, simply extended the umbrella's reach to cover the drenched child.

After all, Itachi had never considered himself cruel.