Dear Mr Pennyworth,

He stopped and rubbed a shaking hand over his aching face. Vernon had slammed him into a wall a mere handful of hours earlier, and the room was still spinning.

I was cleaning my Aunt's attic and came across your name and address in a pile of correspondence between you and her.

He'd had to look up the word, "correspondence," in order to spell it, but he had known the word. Ms Engelbrecht had used it enough to make it feel like an every day sort of word to him. He firmly ignored the fact that he was only six, and unlikely to know such vocabulary.

Then again, it's not like he talked to anyone other than her, so who would notice?

I am taking the chance that you still live at this address.

This was the third such letter he had written. His options weren't looking very good. One letter had been returned (thank goodness that he had been charged with getting the mail that day). The other had seemingly gone into oblivion.

And that you are still alive.

He didn't think it was his imagination that everyone related to Petunia seemed to be dead.

I think you are my late grandmum's brother, but I may be wrong. If I understand the relationship between you and me, that would make you my great-uncle.

Thinking of any sort was extremely difficult. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten at the table. He had been filching from the trash for over three weeks, and his thought patterns had been distinctly jagged since his caloric intake had dropped. Ms Engelbrecht had noticed, of course, and had tried to supplement his meager options with extra food, but he had a feeling that it wouldn't be enough in the long run.

Hence, the reason for this "hare-brained scheme," as she had put it. He never would have taken the chance without her urging him on.

I am taking a chance on you and this letter, but I think that my options are quickly vanishing. I feel that my family is going to kill me before I am old enough to live on my own.

It is with a great deal of reluctance that I find myself begging for you to come and rescue me. I am alone, hungry and hurting. My relatives are unaware of my intelligence, as I have taken measures to keep from being noticed by them. To them, I am a mute freak. They tell me frequently that I am unworthy of breath, unworthy of food, unworthy of love.

I hope you will believe me. I hope that your address is still true. I hope that you are still alive.

Sincerely,

Harry J Potter, age 6 (and 3 weeks)