Disclaimer: I own nothing.

CHAPTER 1: Oliver Who? Harry Twist!

"In the little world in which children have their existence, whosoever brings them up, there is nothing so finely perceived and so finely felt, as injustice."

* Charles Dickens *

It was the summer just before Harry's seven-year-old birthday; a very dry and hot time of the year with little to no rain at all, to which this particular day proved no different.

Harry Potter, a quiet and scrawny little boy, was minding his own business and enjoying the rare piece of quiet he was so lucky to find himself surrounded by, and had happily opted to watch one of his favourite shows on TV. A feat that was normally not done so easily, but today there was no Uncle Vernon hovering, berating him, smacking him around or locking him in the cupboard under the stairs, which he had the great honour to call his room; it was a place he would often get locked in for no good reasons at all. There was also no Aunt Petunia yelling at him, or making him do most of the work around the two-storey house on Privet Drive, nor was there a Dudley loitering around just waiting to bully him and make him take the blame for whatever inevitable outcome about to happen in response to Dudley's wayward, and more often than not, dumb schemes.

No, on this fine day Harry Potter found himself home alone with the entire house at his disposal, as they so conveniently appeared to have either forgotten, or just not bothered to lock him in the pathetic excuse for a room.

He felt a giddiness he couldn't quite explain, nor put his skinny little finger on, and for the first time in a very, very long time, he found that he was able to breathe.

He idly grabbed for the remote control laying on the spotless glass table, and made sure not to accidently place his fingers on it so they would leave any smudges of grease. He had learned from an early age, well earlier, he supposed, as he was still quite young, but he had learned the lesson nonetheless, that leaving marks on anything would only cause him to get even less food than he already got, or earn himself a spanking. He didn't mind the yelling all that much, sure it was tiring to listen to, but the spankings were what he hated the most; they were cruel and merciless, and if Vernon was in a particular bad mood, he would replace his hand with his belt.

He shook his head, as if to rid himself of the horrible memories running rampant in his innocent mind. He refused to think about it, he refused, especially on such a lovely day where he had the house all to himself for the first time in over a year.

He leaned back in the plush sofa, and zapped mindlessly through the countless of random channels his Uncle insisted on having, hell-bent on forgetting his last, and so far worst, beating.

He was a skinny boy; malnourished some would probably say if they knew what his body looked like under all of Dudley's hand-me-down clothes, and his body took the spankings harder than what was considered normal. After the last beating – it couldn't even constitute as a spanking – his body had ached all over. A fortnight of pain because Vernon hadn't gotten the promotion he wanted, not that Harry had expected him to anyway, but it was because of that and the fact that Harry had done something weird.

Something unnatural.

To this day Harry still didn't know how he managed to get onto the roof. What he did know though, was that he had been running from Dudley and one of his stupid friends, Piers Polkiss he believed his name was, as they had chased him through Petunia's immaculately kept garden. Then all hell had broken loose in a matter of minutes. Petunia had shrieked like a mad banshee for Vernon to come bring him down from the roof immediately, after she had come home from her weekly appointment at the salon. Harry had watched her come walking down the sidewalk, and promptly stopped up to watch in horror, looking at the unnatural scene unfolding before her.

He had only been sitting on the roof, by himself, but that wasn't something the Dursley's would deem to be normal, hence her reaction.

He turned off the TV, no longer in the mood to watch the early afternoon programmes, and when his stomach gave a particular loud growl, he felt his stomach give way for the almost constant hunger he felt, as he only ever seemed to receive enough food to keep him healthy, or healthy-ish. He traipsed towards the kitchen, officially abandoning his comfortable seat on the sofa and leaving his depressing thoughts behind for good.

Harry might only be six years of age, not yet a full decade old, but he was well acquainted with the kitchen area and the various applications pertaining to it. It wasn't that Petunia let him cook, at least not by himself, but he knew it was only because she didn't trust him enough to make him do it by himself. Still, he had more knowledge of the kitchen and the art of cooking than most grown-ups had, and that, he thought with a wry smile, was something they could never take away from him.

He mulled over his options, sparse as they were, and decided that he would enjoy the day to the fullest and make himself a nice sandwich. Preferably with ham and cheese, maybe even a glass of lemonade.

He was definitely in an indulging kind of mood today.

As he sat quietly by the kitchen counter, his bum neatly placed on one of the tall bar stools Petunia had convinced Vernon to buy last summer, his legs dangled in the air, as he couldn't quite reach the floor yet. He chewed carefully on his ham and cheese sandwich, savouring each bite to the fullest, and then his line of sight collided with a view he seldom saw.

Money.

And quite a bit at that.

Normally, all things related to money was kept as far away from him as possible, and they only did so because they didn't trust him further than they could throw him, and what use would he, a six-year-old boy, have of them anyway?

So it was safe to say that it took him by surprise, when he discovered two twenty-pound notes and three ten-pound notes carelessly thrown on the disturbingly clean kitchen counter.

He had never seen that much money in his entire life, and it threw him off for a second.

Munching on the last pieces of his delicious sandwich, and polishing off the glass of lemonade he so greedily had taken - he was only ever allowed to drink water and a smidgen of milk if he was lucky – he then cleaned up after himself, making sure everything was spotless, and afterwards found himself, unsurprisingly, standing in front of the brown kitchen counter, staring at the money with a wondrous gaze.

Then it occurred to him.

It hit him like a ton of bricks, and he felt almost stupid for not realising sooner. He could leave. He could actually leave the house and go somewhere, like London. Maybe if he was really lucky, someone would take pity on him and adopt him. If not, well, then he could always live on the streets with the homeless and do all kinds of odd jobs. Surely there was something he could do.

It was a perfect plan, an absolute stroke of genius in his opinion. But what did he know? He was, after all, only six-years-old.

Soon to be seven, his mind argued.

Having a newfound resolve about as firm as Dudley's grubby little fist, and it really was surprisingly firm for someone his age, he ran to the cupboard under the stairs and yanked the paper-thin door open. He grabbed his shabby little backpack by the straps, yet another discarded item of Dudley's, and nearly tore off the zipper when he tried to open it.

He frantically filled it with whatever clothes he owned and had stored in the cupboard, an old and very worn edition of Oliver Twist Dudley didn't want, and had angrily tossed at him in hope of it actually hitting him, but Harry had caught it with ease, of course, and lastly a Rubik's Cube that was missing colour in odd places.

Finally, he put on a red cap; that way he hopefully wouldn't get recognised, at least not straightaway, because he had come to realise that his unruly mop of black hair was easily spotted.

His gaze scanned the room one last time, searching for any items he might have missed, but found none. He didn't own an awful lot, which was probably for the best if he had to carry it around by himself from now on. He shook his head and took one last glance at the sad little room, as if to say his final goodbye, then tenderly closed the door, backpack in hand and ready for his great adventure.

Deciding to stock some food while he was at it, he headed towards the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water, a few biscuits from the jar by the window, and the money, which he carefully stored in the pocket of his trousers. He was done here, done with this house of horrors and bad people.

He was ready to take on the world, by himself, and somehow he got the feeling it should bother him. But it didn't. He had always relied on himself, so why should it be any different now? He would turn seven soon enough, then eight, and before he knew it he would be an adult. He just had to find a place to stay until then, and avoid getting sent back to Privet Drive of course.

He left the house in an unusual mood; confused was probably the feeling that came closest, but happy nonetheless. He had made sure the door was safely locked before he left, and that he hadn't left a mess behind.

That way it would be like he had never been there in the first place.

He walked down Privet Drive and took a turn to the left down Wisteria Walk, where he knew the bus stop was, and he was in luck, as he saw the bus not far from the bus stop. He ran the last twenty metres, the knapsack on his tiny back swaying from side to side, and he exhaled in relief when the bus stopped.

The bus driver did look a bit sceptically at Harry, but he took the money anyway and gave Harry his ticket. Harry smiled at the elderly man and eagerly took the ticket. He found a seat all the way down in the back, happy to have some time alone before they reached King's Cross in London. Rummaging through his backpack, he located the small plastic bag with biscuits. Breaking a chocolate biscuit in half, he silently munched on it, sure not to alert the bus driver of his actions, and he thoroughly enjoyed his newfound freedom.

Harry Potter was feeling happy for the first time in years, and now he was officially free as a bird too.

Who knew what adventures lay ahead of him? He mentally asked himself, munching on the other half of the biscuit.

Well, there was only one way to find out.

"A boy's story is the best that is ever told."

* Charles Dickens *

The drive took something close to an hour and a half, mainly because of all the stops the bus made on its way, and he was happy to note that no one seemed to approach him, or even notice he was there. It suited him just fine, though, as he honestly preferred his solitude for the time being. He did, however, wonder what he was going to do once he reached London, something he hadn't quite planned yet. But so far so good, he thought, he hadn't encountered any trouble yet, so he figured he would just go along with it and rely on his gut.

After wandering around on the station for half an hour, greedily taking everything in, Harry ventured down to the Underground. He didn't know where he was going, but he had fun, looking at people sitting near him, or standing up, as the seats were sparse.

He enjoyed every second of it.

Climbing a broken escalator, Harry wondered where to go next, as a street lined up with bookshops, music stores, cinemas and hamburger restaurants came into sight. Childish wonder flooded him, and he had to shake himself out of his stupor, or rather, he only managed to do so when someone rudely bumped into him, barely even looking down at him when he heard the muttered excuse.

He moved on, strolling leisurely down the street until he came to a tiny grubby-looking pub, he stopped, not really sure why, as he couldn't imagine what could possibly be so special about a dingy pub, but some unknown force compelled him to stop.

The Leaky Cauldron.

Well, he could always take a quick look and leave again.

It was odd though; no one else seemed to notice the place, which only served to increase Harry's level of interest in the pub. People simply hurried by and didn't so much as glance at it, their eyes deliberately going to the stores beside the pub, but never at the pub itself, and Harry got the distinct feeling that he was the only one who could actually see it.

He entered, feeling more than a little apprehensive, but pushed the heavy door open anyway; he was never one to back down.

The place was dark and shabby, and much like what Harry had expected, but what was unexpected was the heavy attendance, it was overwhelming. There were lots of families bustling around, some boorishly normal, others looked like they belonged in a fairy tale, or possibly medieval times. It was an odd combination, but Harry wasn't one to judge. He shook it off and entered the pub fully.

Again nobody really seemed to notice him, except for a few speculative glances coming from a shady looking man, brooding in a dark corner. He looked extremely pale, and the man's dark eyes followed him around, like Harry was supposed to be easy prey and he, the man, a dangerous predator just waiting for an opening.

He shrugged it off and followed a nice-looking family out back and into a small, walled courtyard. Harry frowned, as he took in the sight of nothing but trashcans and a few weeds, but the family seemed intent on staying.

Harry was about to turn around and go back to the pub, when an opening appeared in the brick wall. The hole expanded until it was big enough for everyone to go through, and Harry nearly yelped out loud, but stopped himself at the last minute, not wanting to attract unnecessary attention to himself.

He eagerly followed the unknown family through the huge archway, who were all chatting excitedly, and he watched the black haired girl shriek with girlish glee, when she saw what awaited her.

Just when he looked back over his shoulder, it was just in time to see the archway shrink back to its former appearance of solid wall. Amazing. It was simply magical.

But magic didn't exist. Did it? His Aunt and Uncle had always vehemently denied the existence of anything remotely magical, but then again, they had been known to lie from time to time.

And then everything suddenly made sense to Harry, as he watched in fascination at the extraordinary street laid out before him. He hadn't even realised his feet were moving, but the change of scenery was certainly something he noticed. He passed Eeylops Owl Emporium, Quality Quidditch Supplies, Madam Malkin's Robes For All Occasions, Flourish and Blotts, Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor and lots and lots of insignificant little shops, until he came to a stop in front of a place called Knockturn Alley, if the tatty sign was anything to go by.

It looked dark and dangerous. Ominous. It was not a place for children or nice people, he supposed.

He stood rooted to the ground, ignorant of all the people walking by and they just as ignorant of him. He mulled it over. Magic was real, as in the witches and wizards with wands and flying brooms kind of real.

Was he magical too? Was that why the Dursley's had hated him so, and had sworn off anything slightly out of the ordinary? He didn't even know who to ask. Who was trustworthy and who wasn't?

He took a step forward.

He had always liked fairy tales and the sort, but wasn't allowed anywhere near it.

He took another step.

Was this another one of his highly absurd dreams? It couldn't be, it just couldn't. But this was almost to good to be true.

Then came another step, and another and another and another, until his legs were moving completely on their own accord.

Harry looked up just in time to stop himself from colliding with an unfamiliar old woman. She looked mad, the crazy kind of mad, like she had been mad for years, and Harry carefully took a step back. So far very few had noticed him strolling around on his own, but she did. Oh, she most certainly did.

Her eyes darted around crazily, all around the place, he thought, and when the screech of an unhappy cat diverted her attention, Harry took the chance to move around her and march further down the narrow street. He didn't look back; he didn't dare.

He vowed to be attentive from then on, but before Harry knew what happened, he tripped over a loose cobblestone and was sent flying against the ground. His knees scraped along the stony surface and his cap fell off, landing a few feet ahead.

It hurt, badly, but he didn't utter a sound. He never really did. Crying wouldn't get him anywhere, nor would whining like a pathetic child accomplish anything.

Harry looked up to see the deathly pale man, who had observed him back at the pub no more than fifteen minutes ago, hovering above him. It should have startled him, it really should, but Harry wasn't easily surprised.

What did confuse him though, was how in the world the man had managed to get here before Harry? It unnerved him, but reasoned that the man had to have moved past him, when Harry had walked around looking at the all the amazing magical shops. That seemed logical enough, didn't it?

Harry could see the unknown man's gaze travel to his injured, knobbly knees. His knees bled a bit, not much, but enough for Harry to wince at the sight.

The man, on the other hand, looked pained for a brief moment and his posture straightened remarkably, but the aggravated expression was gone before Harry had the chance to determine why it was there in the first place.

"Put the cap back on." The man hissed at him, and Harry looked up, frowning, and with a plethora of questions apparent in his eyes. He did, however, do what the man ordered him to, picking up his red cap; hurriedly he dusted it off and put it back on. Harry noticed he had fallen right in front of a shop called The Coffin Shop, a big weatherworn sign hanging above the entrance to indicate his whereabouts.

"That doesn't look so good." Said the man, nodding his head in the direction of Harry's knees.

Harry looked down and said, "I have had worse."

"Still, you ought to get that cleaned up." The man said contemplatively, and Harry supposed he was right about that.

"You can come with me, just down that alley over there" he jabbed a finger in the direction of a narrow-looking alley. "There's a nice lady who can take a look at it. It will only take a second." The man pushed.

"I really shouldn't…" Harry trailed off, uncertain.

"Nonsense!" Exclaimed the man and impatiently raised Harry to his feet.

Despite his initial uncertainty, Harry found himself trailing after the pale man. He was dressed rather nicely, Harry thought absently, wearing a pinstriped suit that looked more expensive than anything Harry had ever owned – combined. He had very dark hair, almost as dark as Harry's, and he had dark shadows under his eyes. Back at the pub, when Harry had first spotted him, he had thought the shadows under the man's eyes to be a by-product of the dim lightening, but now it seemed that wasn't the case.

The man led Harry down the narrow alleyway, he could see a half-open door at the end of it, and Harry was beginning to wonder if following the mysterious man had been such a good idea after all. The sneaking suspicion he harboured for the stranger, that he was possibly otherworldly, only seemed to manifest and sink its piercing claws into Harry's conscience, when Harry spotted two sharp, bright white canines peaking out from the man's extremely pale and colour-drained lips.

Surely he wasn't a…a vampire? Was he? No, that was just silly. Vampires were purely fictional, of course, or so Aunt Petunia had stubbornly stated, when Dudley had been scared out of his wits after watching an old rerun of Nosferatu very, very late one night in November, despite his parent's half-hearted protests.

Dudley always got what he wanted.

"Excuse me? Sir? I think I better go home instead, my family will be worried if I stay out for too long." It was a blatant lie; he knew they wouldn't care whether he was dead or alive, but the alarm bells in Harry's mind were ringing, loudly, and he regretted going with the shady man in the first place. When the man didn't stop, Harry bravely reached out to make a grab for the man's expensive coat, his hands fisting in the soft material and he could see it stretching somewhat when the man took another step forward.

"Sir?" Harry repeated, and the man finally turned around.

"Oh my dear boy, you aren't going anywhere I'm afraid." The man bared his teeth in a sinister smile, sharp canines standing out like a sore thumb, and it became startling clear to Harry that the man was, indeed, a vampire.

Harry let go of the man's pinstriped jacket faster than he thought himself able to, and his eyes went wide with uncontrollable fear.

He bolted, or tried to, it appeared that the way from which they came was blocked, a stonewall had magically appeared to cut off any kind of escape – or, perhaps, appeared to prevent any outsiders from entering the narrow alleyway and intervening in whichever devious schemes were in store for Harry.

Harry spied a few metal tins, empty boxes and several broken bottles littered around and against the wall, near what had once been the entrance to the dark alley, and he made a grab for one of the broken bottles, intent on getting a weapon to defend himself, but the man's low voice rang through the alley and made him halt his actions instantly.

"Oh, I wouldn't try that if I were you, Harry Potter." His low and growly voice sent chills down Harry's spine, and he was sure it went all the way down to his toes.

"How…how do you know my name?" Harry asked, terrified. He was slightly panting from his attempted escape, and his breath came out in short little huffs. He eyed the man – no, the vampire – frightened by the possible outcomes, and more than a little freaked out.

"Wouldn't you like to know, little one?" He smiled, again baring those horribly sharp teeth, and Harry could feel himself being on the verge of having a panic attack. He had gathered screaming wouldn't do him any good, not around here it seemed, and even if someone heard him, he doubted anyone would come to his aid.

"With all due respect, I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to know, sir." His voice came out surprisingly steady, and Harry could have slapped himself, but he was tired of being treated like a child, even if he was one. Still, that didn't explain why he said that, to a vampire, who had him cornered in a closed-off alley. What was he thinking? Did he honestly wish to have his small and insignificant body sucked dry, completely devoid of blood?

The vampire's eyebrow quirked in a stiff manner and he let out a small chuckle, which frightened Harry all the more, the low rumbling startling him out of his rather bloody imagination.

"Brave, Mr Potter, very brave. But I'm afraid I don't have time for formalities." His face hardened and his eyes turned cold, no longer did the sly smile grace his features and much to Harry's horror, he watched the vampire's fangs grow half an inch, as if preparing to bite.

"Goodbye Mr Potter, it truly was an honour meeting you."

TBC…

AN: I am quite curious to see whether this is any good, as it is my first Harry-centric fic (I usually do Hermione-centric). I will update whenever I have some time to spare, which will hopefully be soon.

A fair warning though, I currently have two jobs so I have no way of planning when to publish new chapters, but I will try to do it whenever possible. As for this lovely little piece of fiction… I suppose I have most of it planned out already, so no worries there.

NEXT CHAPTER: Vamps, Seers and Smelly Toads.

Hope to hear from you!

Love

Winnie