A small black haired, intelligent, speckled boy sat at the table in the white washed wall covered with 'useful' things that every child should know. He sat at the back of the classroom away from all the normal children. He sat surrounded by forced solitude in his own world; while life escaped him and his only friends were his thoughts and dreams. With silence being his friend, it allowed him to grow up too fast, to understand too much and alas for him to understand and for him to morn for his lost innocence.

The other 6-year old children were in their microcosm of dystopia; otherwise known as a lesson. They were loud, shrieking and learning the important lessons of communication and socialising; a high achievement for some as it would be the only thing they would accomplish in life- besides getting benefits and having children. Their lessons came at the price of one line, one piece of advice.

The teacher, a middle aged man who had long given up trying to teach and instead planning out his child free future, dreamt of getting enough money to be able to eat and pay off his loans instead of being in this job. His greying hair reflected the sun light streaming in through the classroom from behind the silent on at the back. His eye carried on twitching as he looked upon his 'class'.

The desks were arranged in groups of four with a gap of one desk in the middle to allow those, who were in the know, the ability to walk through and leave the class. Instead, a large boy rolled around on the floor, feeding on the attention of those around him. When one looked upon him, you were remained of a pig in a wig, with a small tuft of blond hair which looked that it had been scraped like too little butter on too much bread.

It was uncanny, his ability to portray and animal that he resembled. Perhaps he was destined for a great career as an actor?

The black haired boy looked upon this scene through his scratched glasses and taped frames in disbelief. But he knew better than to question or speak or draw any attention to himself at all. After all, he was ordered to as if a ghost. But he'd better not use that word around uncle Vernon as it was a freakish word- as was hygiene and healthy eating.

The teacher's eye was starting to bulge out, a sure sign of the coming eruption of his temper. He looked upon the scene:

"Big D, your impression is getting better every day," a rat faced boy shouted across the room as he looked on in adoration. The large beach ball faced boy turned his head and a large, unpleasant grin shone for all the world to recoil from.

"I know," he replied. "My Dad was so pleased about my natural talent in the arts, that be bought me a new TV – 28"- and said that I was too good for this class." His adoring fans agreed with this and the noise in the class room rose to new heights. The displays around the class room, one with the children's heros on it, crashed to the floor as with the facsimile of education occurring here. The teacher's desk and book case, filled with books and topics that the children were expected to know, swayed as if a branch in the wind and the windows rattled.

The eye was now a blood shoot red.

"RIGHT." His patience has finally worn out. "I don't expect many of you to be able to understand that the world is NOT ego centric and that your lives are worthless. But for the past HOUR I have been TRYING to teach you simple words in other languages in order for you to understand, to the best of your ability- though I do NOT hope for much of that- that there are different cultures." He gasped for breath, waiting to continue the rest of his talk and also to survey his audienc…..victims. His victims were not quite, in a state of shock and getting frightened by the bad man who was shouting at them for no reason- they were all paying attention and being good students, as their parents would attest to. All expect for a small child in the back, quietly enjoying the heavy use of sarcasm.

"Here's a NEWFLASH for you, a language is worth MUCH more than you will ever know and the ability or YOUR lack therefore of, will open doors to place that your TINY mind can only dream of." Here he stopped. The devastation that surrounded him was total and complete. As his rant wore on, the dreaded noise, the noise of crying children grew louder and by the end was complete. A room filled with the lovely sound of precious crying darlings, as their mothers would later swear to. A single voice cut through this.

"Mr DeMartino!" a voice shrieked. It was Ms Lee, the head teacher. "We need a talk, NOW. COME WITH ME," she asked politely.

No-one would realise it, but his one rant would forever change the life of the little black haired boy in the corner, for the better. Through his synapses and nerves in his brain, a connection was being made between language and a chance for a better future. A future which would allow him to escape from the life he lead. From the life of the help in his own home. It would continue to grow even as his relatives came to take him and Dudley away back to his gaol, to his nightmare. One child loved and the other forgotten; just as he likes it.

He sat in his sanctuary under the stairs, and he clutches a small worn note pad and pen and wrote:

'I sit here while coming to the conclusion that my chances for freedom are once again realised. My key is with language and other cultures, with understanding others and seeking views from others. I wonder what the future has in store for me. Is it better than where I have come from?'

He put the note and pen back in his hiding place and lay on the cot under the stairwell. Looking at the spiders dangling down, like a child's mobile, soothing him to sleep. He dreamt of a fiery-read haired looking angel rooking him in her arms, emerald green eyes filled with love and adoration, singing a sound, which no mortal should match. The last thing he hears before falling fully into Morpheus arms was:

"Good night my dear child. Sweat dreams, Harry."