Tom Mar

Harry had traced the black ink a thousand times.

There were only so many things to do when you were trapped, alone, stuffed under the stairs like unwanted cleaning supplies. Everyone always knew that the only cleaning supplies that were actually wanted were slotted under the bathroom sink or in one of the kitchen cupboards. Never under the stairs, the only thing he took from there was the vacuum cleaner, everything else was left untouched and unwanted.

What Harry would give to be treated like Jif.

Tom Mar

Tom. Harry had always liked the name. Sometimes he said it over and over to himself, filling the vacancies of sound in his dusty cupboard. "Tom", it sounded like plum, or pom, or song, or long, or come. It was dainty and lovely and made his heart sing.

Tom. Thomas. Tommy. Tom-cat. Tom.

What would they say to each other, he wondered. What would they do? Would Tom sweep him into his arms and kiss him like those icky romance shoes on the TV? Would he coo and call to Harry, run soft fingers down his face, look deep into his eyes and say he had been waiting so long?

Tom Mar. Harry Mar.

Harry thought he'd like the last name Mar much better than Potter. No one seemed to like Potter. His uncle would always call out 'Potter, do the dishes' or 'Potter, get in your cupboard'. Maybe if he wasn't Potter he wouldn't have to do the dishes.

Maybe Tom would even steal him away and they would live together in the forest, eating sweets and petting each others hair all day. Harry never got sweets, and no one ever touched him, unless it was to smack him of cuff him around the head. Maybe Harry wouldn't have to be such a freak and live in a cupboard if Tom came and whisked him away.

When Harry had first heard about soul mates from his aunt he had felt like something had died a little inside of him. She had said that soul mates were people destined to love you forever, but because Harry was so unlovable his soul mate wouldn't even want him.

Harry had moped and wept, cried, he hadn't even been able to look at his chest where the words echoed over and over. He'd always felt that the words made him special, and Dudley's words had always been a thing of pride for the family. Harry had thought that maybe his might be something to be proud of too.

At school the teacher had told them all about soul mates. How in the first meeting the name would grow warm, how when they were in trouble you would hurt in your heart, how it was a destined match and nothing could come between it. Harry couldn't remember all she said, only the bits that interested him. A long time ago there used to be prejudices against same-sex soul mates and soul mates of different ages, but that time had passed, since it was now known that soul mates were a perfect match and would love you forever. It didn't matter who they were, they would.

After that Harry liked to believe that his aunt was lying. Hadn't his teacher said that soulmates would love you no matter what? It was law. Basically. And Harry knew that you weren't able to break the law without a belting.

Harry knew only five laws, but they were unmistakably correct. He was a freak, that was a given. He was meant to do his fair share of the cleaning, which was almost all of it. He wasn't allowed to get better grades than Dudley, which was quite a difficult thing to do with Dudley's intelligence. He wasn't to speak or think about the 'm' word, probably best not speak much in general. And he wasn't allowed to talk about what went on inside the Dursley residence.

Harry was pretty certain that these laws were of the utmost importance. Mainly since whenever he broke them, even by accident, the consequences were not pretty in the slightest.

Tom Mar

He was turning seven that day, and he couldn't help but wonder if Tom had more than 'Mar' to his name. It was possible, but Harry had gotten used to writing Harry Mar in his handwriting class in preparation for the name change, it might be strange to have an extra letter to write. He had heard some of the giggly girls in his class whispering about changing their names for their soul mates, so Harry thought he'd probably do the same.

Someone like Tom Mar wouldn't want a freaky last name like Potter.

His chest heated up and Harry ran a hand across the swirly writing.

Tom Marv

Marv. Hmm...

Harry giggled, swav, swerve, path, mart, mar.

"Tom Marv" He mouthed to himself.

Hopefully his soul mate would think of him too and like his name.

...Maybe just Harry, since Potter was clearly a bad omen.

…

Harry scratched his chest absently, lowering his eyes to the ground and waiting until 'submissive Harry time' was over. After various training exercises, that mostly involved Harry grasping at straws in how to behave appropriately and being hit a lot, Harry had squeezed himself into a shape shifter, changing his personality per circumstance.

Right now he was at home, standing outside his cupboard in the classic soldier pose, except with his head turned down to the ground and feet angled in a bracing position. At home he was a servant, and he worked to sleep under the stairs (dust as his payment). Harry basically embraced his role as house whipping boy, just letting the time fly over him in a numb sort of haze.

Tom Marvolo

It was a fancy name, and sometimes Harry liked to daydream that he was Cinderella and his Tom was the prince. He'd stopped dreaming that his parents would come and save him long ago, now he only dreamt of his soul mate.

But, even now that hope was draining away.

"-And what do you do? Huh, Potter?-"

Oh how Harry despised his last name. Potter was an insult, a curse on his family's lips, a reminder of his drunken -how dare they leave me by dying- parents. Even his first name too sometimes brought an ill taste to his mouth, but without 'Harry' he wouldn't have any anchor of who he was, so he allowed it. Better 'Harry' than nothing.

"-You come back here, and think that you can get away with slacking. Do you think I'm blind, boy?-"

'Boy' wasn't much better either, and was tied in last place with 'Potter'.

...Sometimes Harry wished he was a girl just so he wouldn't have to be spat 'boy' all the time. It sounded like toy, ploy, and even cry if he twisted it enough. It was not a happy word, and he barely refrained from flinching. Keep it together, Harry, keep it together.

Harry didn't think his uncle was blind, but he certainly thought he had enough dumbness to fulfil the whole adage of 'blind, deaf and dumb' without the other two ailments.

"-Do you think I didn't see you watching the TV while you vacuumed? That TV is for Dudley and Dudley only, not ungrateful little freaks like you. Ten lashes for your cheek, boy, ten lashes for stealing from Dudley, and ten lashes for wasting my time."

Harry simply kept his head bowed and channelled all his anger away. He didn't know where all his anger went, other than that it built up until he popped and ended up doing something harmful, whether to himself or others wasn't decided until the day it exploded. It was no use growing angry, it only got him more strokes with the belt and more chores. It was better to just let things pass, easiest, safest. What would his pride get him?

Nothing, that's what, nothing.

No matter how many times he told himself it didn't stop his teeth from clenching. Harry closed his eyes briefly, trying to still his breathing, and tuned back in to his uncle's rant.

He knew this wasn't about Harry's 'crimes', this was about how his uncle's work wasn't doing well and how he wanted to blame Harry.

"How many is that all together, boy?"

30.

"40, don't you think?"

Harry said nothing, not even willing to point out that his uncle had just added ten extra lashes. He knew how this went. His uncle wanted him to point it out, and then he would say 'arguing with me? Huh? Another twenty for talking back.' And then Harry would be left with sixty whacks of the belt, with the buckle end, and new scars to add to his collection.

No, he would simply let it be at 40, and he would not buy into it.

"As I thought, 40."

Harry waited, wondering when he would be asked to turn to the wall.

There was a beat of silence, with his uncle's smugness permeating the air (oh he's such a big man, beating his ten year old nephew), and Harry's nerves starting to kick in.

Don't shake. Don't start shaking. Don't give him the satisfaction.

Harry's body betrayed him (again, he thought with anger), and his hands started to quiver like the frightened heart of a mouse. He winced involuntarily, screaming internally at himself for showing fear, even if he had a blank mask on. His uncle caught the movement with his black beady eyes, like a mole rat Harry's mind sneered, and smiled a once-terrifying smile (Harry was too old to be scared by it now), as if he had won some sort of prize by making Harry's body react to fear.

Harry was vividly reminded of a villain from a book he had stolen from the library the other day, large, tall, ugly and fat, with eyes dark and shallow, and a face shaped like a walrus' behind. At first he had started to steal books because Dudley had blamed him for many library-related wrong doings, and Harry had been banned meaning the only way to acquire literature was to steal. But then it had escalated, and he had continued his life of theft because he wanted something of his own, something to belong to himself that wasn't a cupboard and tatty second hand clothes. If he couldn't say what he wanted or do what he wanted, then he would certainly steal the books he wanted to read. They couldn't stop him reading, they wouldn't, he wouldn't let them.

As his uncle's grin became manic, and he started to flick open his belt, Harry thought in a detached sort of way that it was strange how every villain he'd ever read about had been ugly or fat. It was one of the reasons he counted himself lucky for not getting enough to eat (oh, boy, what positives it does entail), he didn't want to be fat or evil. Harry could never want that.

...even if he stole sometimes.

It was justified, he reminded himself.

"You think you can wear that face with me?-"

Yeah. Harry can definitely change his face.

"-I saw your hand twitch, I know you're itching to laugh. Well, I won't have it boy. Twenty more lashes for that."

60.

Harry was left with 60 anyway.

Damn his traitorous body!

…

That night, as he tended to his wounds in the only way he knew how, by ignoring them and pretending that dirt wasn't going to kill him eventually, he traced his soul mark. His nightly tradition.

Tom Marvolo

It was such a beautiful and exotic name. It just rolled off the tongue, like some foreign name which makes the girly girls bat their eye lashes and flip their hair to the side. He'd looked up the meaning in the books at school, and the teacher had sneered that apparently 'Marvolo' wasn't a real name, and that 'Tom' meant 'the male of various animals, especially the domestic cat.' and was a slur for 'a female prostitute'.

Harry didn't know what a prostitute was, but he sure as hell didn't like the tone of voice his teacher used to describe Harry's eternal love!

"Hello, I'm Marvolo, and I will love you for eternity."

Harry mimicked in a deep voice, rubbing the name more fiercely than before. It hurt, of course it did, since it was bruised red (likely to be blue by the next day) from where his uncle had tossed him into the cupboard. But Harry didn't care, it was his soul mark. His. And he could do with it whatever he damn well pleased.

"Hi there, your eyes are so green I thought for a moment I might have wet myself. The name's Marvolo, Tom Marvolo, and I thought I'd just come over and say hi. Soul mates, you say? Well, I guess you'd best come live with me in my castle over the hill, its very big and I have a whole room just for you... its called my bed and I have nothing against hugging forever. Yeah, sure. Hugging is my favourite hobby. Hmm... Lets get married, shall we?"

Harry's eyes might have gone a bit glazed as he thought of his soul mate pulling him into his arms, smelling his hair, and nuzzling into his neck. Tom would want to touch him. He would. Because he was Harry's soul mate, and... it didn't matter if Harry was a freak. He would.

Harry stroked the mark more gently this time, tracing the large loopy letters right under his nipple, and smiling softly to himself.

In his cupboard he could be himself, not the submissive slave he needed to be for his family, or the idiot he needed to be for school. Harry could be Harry, not hiding anything, and not caring if his back throbbed from the new slashes down his spine. He could read his stolen books, be the hero in the stories, and fantasise about his soul mate taking him away from his job as a servant and into a fast paced love affair.

Harry imagined their first meeting over and over, as he pulled his own arms around himself for comfort in the cold of the cupboard. He would normally use his blanket but it was infested with lice, since head lice had gone around school and apparently Dudley thought it would have been a funny joke to tip a box full of bed lice onto Harry's blanket. How he got them Harry can only guess. When his aunt found out she had burnt it and spat that he should have taken better care of his things.

Harry's eyes watered slightly under the strain of tears. No! No! He was not going to cry. Harry never cried. Never. And it didn't matter that the blanket had been from his mother, it didn't, because he was never going to see it again.

He warbled in a slightly shaky voice,

"Harry... Potter? Potter, you say. Well, everyone knows that 'Potter' is a terrible curse of a last name and the equivalent of 'freak'. How 'bout you change your name to Marvolo, a nice exotic French name, and we can go walk off into the sunset?"

Harry hugged himself tighter.

Soul mates were destined, he reminded himself. Tom would come for him. He would. It was his destiny.

…

The swing creaked underneath him as he pushed himself forward and back by the very tips of his toes. Wind blew his hair about and Harry frowned to himself in annoyance. Something didn't feel right, there was something off about the park today which he just couldn't place. He involuntarily rubbed against his chest, over where his soul mark would be, and closed the book which had been resting in his lap.

Treasure Island. He'd stolen it from the school library just that morning, and was about a quarter of the way through.

"Help! Help me!"

Harry froze, his muscles tensing and fists clenching in his lap. He should ignore it, it wasn't the first time he'd heard someone being beat up by Dudley's gang, or some other rough kids from his school. No one ever intervened, it was just how it was. And Harry was reminded vividly of the many times he had been chased down in public places and people just looked away or sneered at him as he was attacked, as if it was his fault. But, that was just how it was, always.

His hands unclenched. They didn't help him so there was no reason to put his life in jeopardy and help them.

"Please! Someone! Help me!"

Harry closed his eyes, looping his arms around the chains of the swing and breathing deeply. No good would come of him interfering. It was no good to go around saving people as if his life was meaningless, Harry may be a freak but Tom would eventually love him, he needed to be alive for that to happen.

What if this is Tom? A voice called in his head, and Harry scowled angrily as he stood. He was only doing this in case this is how he meets his soul mate, this has nothing to do with his conscience.

A voice in the back of his mind said softly of how right it would be to help someone, to save someone like no one saved him. Harry scrunched his nose up in annoyance. Stupid morals! They were going to get him killed eventually, but he couldn't help but think of how helpless he had been the first few times Piers held him down and the other boys took swings. This voice screaming for help sounded... young, too young, and Harry couldn't just stand by and let his fear control him.

Before he knew what he was doing Harry was racing over to the sound, wincing as he heard the slap of fists on skin. He knew it was somewhere in the park, since he had heard the screams quite loudly, so he raced over to the general direction they had come from.

"Pl-please stop!"

Ah, pleading with the captors, it just didn't seem to make much sense with a group as stupid as Dudley's gang, Harry thought to himself as he rounded past the see-saw and over near the shark and bee plastic spring riders. His rage spiked as he saw a young child simply swinging back and forth on the shark as she watched, nonplussed, as the group of boys beat the other into the ground. Damn, how little kids could think this was okay eluded him, even after years of contemplation.

Harry could only see flashes of brown hair and small gangly arms being held by Piers; he was the guy who generally held people's arms behind their backs as Dudley hit them. It was teamwork, and it had been going on ever since the boys became friends and realised they could bully people together. It seemed to Harry that people of similar interest truly did band together.

His muscles froze and he was stood stationary, watching in morbid fascination as Dudley's gang continued to hit the young child. Harry wasn't sure if it was fear or excitement which rang through him, and as he started to loosen his muscles to prepare himself to run forward he didn't care. He just needed to save the kid, just this once, and then he would go back to only caring about himself and Tom.

Harry liked to think that if he did this Tom would be proud of him, and would realise that there was more to Harry than the rumours.

He mentally scoffed, as if Tom could ever believe rumours.

"Hey! Stop that!"

Harry called out, wincing internally in fright as the gang stopped and turned to him with incredulous faces. Harry felt phantom pains along his body as he was reminded of how only last week the group had chased him down into an alley off Birch Street, and left him with two black eyes and a bruised stomach.

How the teachers didn't question what went on in Harry's life sometimes astounded even himself, they simply brushed it off as if he were some sort of street fighter on weekends. One would assume that adults held the capacity for more common sense, yet that assumption would surprisingly bear no fruit in reality.

"Oh, look who it is... Potter. What? You want to get pummelled too?"

Dudley sneered, wiping his hands on his school shirt and straightening up. The group laughed as a whole, thinking the whole thing was so hilarious. One of them even added,

"Yeah Potter, you get jealous of this freak's bruises that you wanted more?"

They grinned, a few chuckling in the back, but Dudley did not look impressed. Harry could tell that his cousin was either going to do something really painful (for Harry) or really stupid (probably painful for Harry as well), in revenge against the perceived slight. He was the leader of the group, unofficially elected because he was the most cruel and fat and stubborn, and didn't appreciate some of his 'friends' stealing the 'joke' from him.

Dudley cracked his knuckles, showing the faint red burn from punching, and said cruelly,

"Yeah freak, don't you get enough hits from dad at home? Or should I say its not enough?"

The group laughed again, but Harry saw Piers shift uncomfortably. Harry was reminded of the fact that his step-dad got taken away for domestic violence only a couple months ago, and Harry guessed that he wasn't exactly happy with the same sort of thing happening, even to 'Potter', having experienced it first hand.

Harry didn't reply, happy to let them taunt him, since it meant they were no longer beating up the small boy, and they hadn't started beating him up yet. It was good to keep them distracted.

Dudley threw in a few more cruel quips which made Harry's heart ache painfully in his chest, but Harry could tell that most of the boys had started to grow bored from just standing around and insulting him. They were boys of action, and would rather beat Harry up than listen to Dudley roast him.

One stepped forward, Mark Jenkins, who was a lean boy with sandy blonde hair and a nuclear family. His parents were both blonde, and the rumour around the town was that they were cousins, since they looked so similar. He was a vicious sort of boy, had fun throwing rocks at Harry ever since a young age, and wasn't commonly known as one who took the first step (or punch in this case). He was also the kid who had rivalled Dudley's joke earlier, and probably wanted to do something in a pseudo challenge for leadership.

As he moved forward, Harry could clearly see the small boy who had been let out of Piers' grip, lying on the ground and sobbing silently. Harry had to commend the boy for being so quiet, young children usually had a hard time dealing with pain, and Harry was glad he didn't have to do any more distractions to save the kid. Bruises and lacerations were forcefully scattered all across his face and down onto his torso, seen through his ripped shirt. His hair was not brown like Harry had first thought, but a raven colour, quite similar to Harry's own if only a bit lighter. His eyes were shut and his face was morphed into an expression of pain, his arms clutching himself fiercely with white knuckles. Harry didn't think he was any older than seven, and wondered what he could have done to spark the group's ire. Perhaps he was just unlucky and tripped in front of them, they didn't usually go after kids that young, usually preferring to just chase Harry since he never told anyone.

Crack.

Harry hadn't been paying attention, and so didn't see the fist hitting his face until it was too late. He fell to the ground, face throbbing from the impact, and made a whiny wheezy sort of sound as the air was pushed out of his lungs from the shock. His back hit the tarmac first, making him wince from the feeling of his half-healed whip-marks scraping against it and adding fire to his wounds. He'd be lucky if they weren't bleeding by the time he got back home.

He'd be lucky if the rest of him wasn't bleeding too.

Why did I do this? He thought as Dudley stepped forward, grinning with all his teeth, as he descended upon him, straddling his legs for better grip. Harry closed his eyes, his eyebrows curling in fear of what was going to happen, and relaxed his muscles so he wouldn't get hurt as much.

He almost laughed as the first punch fell into his gut, thinking he had basically been trained for this kind of thing by his uncle.

That's the last time I read Treasure Island in the park, Harry swore to himself silently as the other's started to crowd around him, their presences exuding excitement (he couldn't understand how they still got excited from hurting him when they had done it so often before). Those books always make him act like a hero, and now he had to pay the price.

Heroes never win. Surely Tom would understand that when he catches Harry ignoring someone else's plight. Life was a war, and there was no place for helping the weak.

Harry already knew this, there was no reason to help.

…

Harry sat by the pond, clutching a pair of his aunt's scissors in his grip. He hoped she didn't find out that he had nicked them from her sewing kit that morning, but thought it wasn't likely that she'd notice them missing anyway. Aunt Petunia never truly did any of the sewing, instead spending her days lounging about the house watching TV or going out to her bingo club. She'd been in a book club a few years ago, but got kicked out because she sneered too much about the material, or as she explained "the girls were jealous of me". Her answer for everything.

Harry did all of the sewing in the house, he had made the curtains (twice, since the first time his aunt had thought they were too 'expressive', which made no sense since the curtains were a beige colour like she asked for), had done numerous jobs with Aunt Petunia's dresses and Uncle Vernon's jeans. He shuddered slightly as he remembered the first few times he had sewn without first researching it, and would never again would be underestimate the importance of libraries; the punishments for his incompetence would not be forgotten any time soon.

That day, with the sun shining brightly on his sunburnt neck, Harry was attempting to cut his hair. The last time he had let it grow out his aunt had cut it awfully, leaving a large bald spot and huge curl covering Harry's hideous scar. But, that wasn't what Harry was afraid of. No, that night after she had done her heinous job, he had worried and turned over and over all night, barely sleeping at all. Harry, as young as he had been, had been worried about the school's reactions, since he had already been ostracised terribly at school and could only imagine what 'pranks' Dudley would come up with in retaliation to his hairstyle. Strangely the next morning when he had awoken, Harry's hair had returned to the cut of three months prior, short but well done. Aunt Petunia had shrieked and called him a 'devil's child', a 'demon from hell', and the classic and, frankly, overused 'freak'. When his uncle had returned home it had been fifty lashes for 'freakishness' (Harry still wasn't sure if that was really a word), ten lashes for making his aunt worry and ten lashes for wasting his uncle's time. A record breaking seventy lashes across his behind.

At the time Harry had only been seven, more naïve to the importance of certain things and sickeningly reliant on his family, the pain leaving him almost incapacitated and wholly in their hands. The punishment had left him unable to walk the following day 'moaning like his pot-headed parents at the smallest of things', and had required his aunt to replace his blood soaked sheets. After that Harry was careful to always cut his own hair. He could tell that his relatives were very suspicious every time he returned with an average cut at a reasonable length, but they said nothing, trying to bring his freakish displays out of their minds.

…

The water was cold but worth it as Harry scooped change from The Square Camberley Wishing Fountain. He was in Northern Surrey and the walk to the mall had taken almost two and a half hours, a difficult walk, especially as he was limping from the beating Dudley's gang had given him three days before, but it was worth it. It was a walk he did every weekend, each time waiting until the mall was at its peak business hours, to swoop in and collect pennies from the beautiful water sculptures and basin below. Pennies didn't seem like much, but occasionally a person would throw in a one or two pound coin, and that was where Harry really started raking in the cash.

He collected it all in his school backpack, one of Dudley's old ones from last year, with the skill of an experienced thief, slight of hand ingrained into his fingertips like a musician's callouses. Harry had only been caught twice, and had managed to run away both times. The trick was speed and timing.

The mall population moved in waves, the security moving over past the fountain every forty minutes, the amount of shoppers rising and falling until there was only one or two walking by, and the dark corner always empty, in which Harry could hide while he waited for the money to dry. Harry waited, pouncing like a panther when there was only one or two oblivious patrons walking past, and glomped large handfuls of pennies into his bag.

It had been very suspicious the first time he had bought something with fifty wet pennies, it didn't help that Harry had been buying food nearby the fountain either. But, the shopkeeper had simply muttered something about the homeless and let him go.

Harry stopped his stealing after almost an hour on the job and ten pounds in coin to spare. He sleuthed over to the other side of the mall, ignoring the looks he got for his wet hair (how it got wet others could only begin to imagine) and rag like clothes. Soon he came across his favourite shop: the fish and chips shop.

The food was warm, cheap, not very nutritional, and the workers rarely asked any questions about his dubious currency. Harry had been buying lunches on the weekends for years, ever since he realised that when his ribs stuck out that much it wasn't healthy and that the Dursleys certainly weren't going to start feeding him more. No, they were more likely to beat him for impertinence than stop neglecting him.

Long ago he had considered stealing from his aunt or uncle's wallet, perhaps cashing in with some Dudley's pocket money, but the consequence seemed to greatly outweigh the reward. It was much safer to steal from the wishing fountain, and visiting the mall every weekend managed to get Harry away from his prison.

Harry walked over, into the store, glad he had waited until he was dry, and stood behind the counter. He was short enough that his eyes only just reached over the high waisted cashier's bench, and he had to knock his hand on the black marble to grab the worker's attention. A red haired lady, with curls cut just above her ears in a bob, and far too much make up (but, honestly, Harry didn't have much of a right to judge someone's appearance) peered over to look at him. She didn't look very impressed at all, not that Harry cut an impressive figure with his dirty clothes and wet backpack, and had a slight sneer titling her lips as if she had eaten a bad egg.

She was new, and this might become difficult.

Harry coughed, making her straighten her back and idly tap her fingers. He ordered,

"One large fish and chips, with an orange Fanta, please."

Harry's mouth watered traitorously as he smelt the enticing aromas of fried food, and as his mind conjured images of highly lusted after fizzy drink and protein to warm his belly, he swallowed lustily.

She blinked, and said with cruel lips and dubious eyes,

"Are you sure you can afford that, sir?"

Harry's eyes narrowed in annoyance, who taught this girl how to serve? He was a servant as his main occupation, not a cashier lady, but even he knew not to take that tone with someone. It was just begging for a beating.

Instead of saying this out loud Harry simply smiled a simpering smile and plopped his dripping bag onto the counter.

"I think I can manage."

He drawled with an insolence he only ever got to express when away from his smothering school and torturous family.

She huffed, as if she hadn't done anything wrong, and stepped back slightly from the dripping backpack, muttering under her breath about how she hated her job. Well, Harry thought, at least you get paid. Honestly, it was like she didn't understand that she was insulting all of those who worked much longer hours for much less, in unspeakable working conditions.

Harry stopped that train of thought when he realised he was considering his abusive home environment as his full time job. Even if it was correct, it wasn't necessarily a healthy way to think about it.

"That'll be six pounds fifty, five for the fish and chips, and a pound and a half for the Fanta."

Harry blinked before he raised himself up on his tippy toes and started to count out his pennies one by one, eventually pushing a momentous stack to the jaw-dropped lady who had already prepared his lunch in the time it took to count out the money. He said in a nauseatingly polite tone, taking the food, and strapping on his backpack,

"Would you like for me to recount it?"

She shook her head, gaping at the hundreds of coins on her counter, sliding them across one by one and mumbling under her breath. Harry grinned like a shark as he left with the food, rolling the two pound coin in his hand, and chuckling under his breath.

Okay, he wasn't a criminal, but he did just make a lady count up 650 pennies for his lunch. It was a suitable revenge, Harry thought, as he found a place to sit in the plaza.

…

Harry was like a shadow in the house, a place that seemed dead, not homely, and only cruel prison walls for him to be trapped within. He moved silently past the other occupants, never asking a question, never speaking, his own footsteps muffled by the fear of being seen. He was like a chair, or a washing machine; he served a purpose, but he was replaceable and he was not human.

Harry watched with blank eyes as his uncle returned home, hanging his large jacket on the coat rack, and rubbing against the stubble of his chin in thought. He pressed himself against the wall, back flat and face tilted to the ground as his uncle passed him, taking no notice of the small slave employed at his home. Harry watched in silence as his aunt pulled herself away from the dinner he had made, the dinner he had slaved over, the dinner that had added a new burn to his callouses, the dinner she was heating up, the dinner she pretended to have made, and accepted the loving kiss on her cheek.

Harry moved listlessly to the bathroom, wiping the sink, the dust that had barely gathered, and flushing the toilet that Dudley had left a mess inside, for him to clean. He moved, stomach still feeling full from his large lunch in the mall two days ago, and having had a stale piece of toast only that morning, back into the hallway with the gracefulness of a cat. Harry stood, outside his cupboard, wondering if tonight his uncle would make up some crimes for him to be punished for, wondering if work had been bad and Harry would pay the price for it. It felt so surreal, living in that house, playing the part he was trained to play, never even considering leaving.

Harry would be stuck there until he was old enough to be kicked onto the curb, until he was no longer of use for his family, and had to make his own life out of nothing. Harry would be trapped until Tom came and found him, and swept him away...

Or maybe until he came and saved Tom from whatever torture was stopping him from saving Harry.

His eyes lit up in understanding, a rare smile gracing his lip's like an angel's laugh. Maybe the reason that Tom had not saved him yet was because Tom needed saving too, and didn't have enough letters of Harry's name to know where to find his saviour. Harry had always thought that Tom would be an older man with a life already planned out, only waiting for his long lost love, his saviour, the one who could be strong and let Harry finally be weak. But, this was also his soul mate, and if need be Harry would gladly be the stronger of the two, continuing on with the inner strength he had been forced to carry his whole childhood.

Harry's birthday was two months away, and it was one month until the holidays. Eleven. He would wait until he was eleven, until the holidays, and at that point he would leave and try to find his soul mate. It was destiny that they should meet, so it shouldn't be that hard, right?

"Just you wait, my love." Harry muttered to himself under his breath as the family sat down for dinner as he watched through the archway of the kitchen. "I will find you soon."

If Tom didn't find him, then Harry would just have to find Tom. Or he would die trying.