AUTHOR NOTE; This is the re-write of the story of the same name, and plot. The same warnings apply. Alternate Universe. This does begin before the first book, and though some canon facts will eventually come into play, this is *not* a mary-jane-inserted-into-the-books cliche. The effect of the Weasley's having lost a child has changed the world as we know it. Draco Malfoy thinking independently has changed the world. and Harry Potter most certainly has changed.

Understand that this story will deal with issues of child abuse, in many different flavors. There are, in fact, going to be points that may trigger those of us that are ... more sensitive to this type of stimuli. Also understand that it is quite unusual for children so young to realize they are being abused. For the most part, a child does not have the experiences necessary to understand that they way they were raised was anything but normal - so they act as if it is normal. Generally speaking however, a fantasy of realization and escape is often done in hindsight as a wish, a dream, and a coping mechanism. The world of "what-ifs", so to speak. Abuses will be confronted, and handled. Healing will happen in this story, though in order to heal, what must be healed must first be established in the minds of the victims as a thing that needs healing. Anyone with any experience with victims know full well that this is most often the most difficult point to achieve.

Throughout the books written, there have been many a time in which the Wizarding World's government has been shown to be inept and purely ridiculous. Lets think about this people - a school principle basically controlling the government? Come on! A few adults in this will be throughly bashed, and a few will not be. Though I'd kinda like to input a Mary-Jane in this story to stand as the children's advocates, a think all victimized children deserve, that doesn't make for realism in this case. The one OC here has a purpose more as a case study in contrasts, as well as to complete the dynamic I wanted. All else shall be handled with characters locatable in the Harry Potter Lexicon, a website liberally used to check and double check canon facts throughout the writing of this version of the story. (lots of mistakes in the previous version could have easily been avoided if i'd known about that website back then!)

Above all, remember (and comprehend the horror) that these children are very very young in years, but far older in experiences than they should have ever been.

For the new readers, enjoy! For those of you who were kind enough to stay with me, (I don't expect many, it's been 5 years) and have the patience to not just give up, I truly appreciate it, and I hope you'll be satisfied with the results of what I hope to be a far deeper, and much more realistic story for your enjoyment.

Please note: The first few chapters will swap back and forth between two time periods, a decade or so apart. The dates are specific in order to prevent confusion - though I don't doubt context is enough to let you know when and where.

Oh, and before I forget: DISCLAIMER: (Applies to this chapter, and all future chapters)

The Harry Potter Universe is owned by the great J.K Rowling, and the books and movies are the property of their respective Publishers and Producing companies. No form of profit, either in tender or trade, will now, or ever be made from this story. Autumn is mine. The plot is mine. And the therapeutic value in this story is mine.

Story Warnings: non-graphic references and implied history of child abuse of physical, sexual, and emotional nature. Including child prostitution and vague references of child pornography. NO GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS - for the most part, it is either in the vaguest of terms, or even only implied. I, for one, have a very serious problem with "underage, but that's okay" fics. Just an FYI: NO.

Lost Little Children

Summary: Before Harry Potter received his letter to Hogwarts, before he could discover the truth, he left. Couldn't stand those people that called themselves his family anymore. So he left. Because even life alone, homeless, would be better than them. He certainly didn't expect to find what he did, and no one could have expected the path they were set on.

And So, Our Story Begins...

Little Whinging, Surrey

February 3, 1988; Night

A dark haired boy of slight stature slipped from shadow to shadow, moving across the yards to the end of Privet Drive. As the boy moved briefly into the light of a street lamp, his baggy, ragged, too large clothing contrasted sharply with the finely manicured lawns, neatly maintained hedges, and well taken care of homes lining the street. As he turned to glare at Number 4 one last time, his deep emerald colored eyes flashed in the light of the moon. His gaze held all the hatred, bitterness, anger, and despair living in that house had gained him.

He could just imagine the three people who called themselves his family, if family meant beating him nearly to death, and working him worse than a slave, waking in the morning expecting their breakfast ready and waiting. He could clearly see the man practically roll his blubbery body down the hall, yanking the door to the cupboard under the stairs open, his piggish face still red from his use of the boy last night, screams of a boy's worthlessness erupting from the man's tiny puckered mouth before he even realized that the room was empty.

The undersized and malnourished seven year old pushed his shaggy black hair from his forehead, where a lightning shaped scar showed in the faint light. A scar that supposedly came from the car crash that killed his parents and landed him in the so called care of his Aunt and Uncle. The boy turned and began to jog, intent on getting to the train station in Langley before sunrise. His intent was to jump the train into Paddington station, taking him straight to London in the early morning. With just a little luck, he could find a corner or alley to hide in before the city woke.

As the boy moved quickly through Surrey, his thoughts once again turned to the parents he had never known. How different would his life be, had they not died? Certainly better than being the punching bag for a bulbous uncle and equally rotund cousin, than being the ill cared for and abused slave, a body for the uncles use because the aunt was a frigid bitch. Surely, his parents would have loved him as his Aunt and Uncle loved his cousin. He didn't know why, but the boy felt, down to his very core, that no car crash could have killed James and Lily Potter. He didn't understand the feeling, because how would it be possible? Though he didn't understand it, the little boy running away from the only home he remembered knew his scar had far more … sinister origins.

Somewhere in Wiltshire

Feburary 3, 1988: Night

At the same time, in another direction from the dirty, infested alleyways of London Proper, a shockingly blond head was confidently walking off his family estate, a small bag slung over his shoulder. This boy's silver eyes shone brightly in the night as he held his head high and unafraid as he moved into the patch of forest that separated his home, or rather the house of his father and mother, from the city. The seven year old blond smirked despite the dark bruise that ran from his cheek, down his throat, and disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt. The boy ignored his limp, given to him by worried parents. Worried that their heir would be harmed and perhaps permanently marked, harmed by the creatures that inhabited the very woods where he now walked. For the past some odd number of years, those creatures had been the ones to save him from the fate that Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy were so certain the "filthy creatures" would inflict.

No, it had been Lucius to beat the boy into oblivion, Narcissa that had ignored her husband's actions and the wounds of her only child. It had been the boy, since the young age of 4 when he had dared to ask "but why are mudbloods so beneath us," who had dragged his bloody, bruised, and broken body from the back veranda into his beloved forest. Leaving behind those creatures, the ones who were his friends and family, was actually his only regret about leaving home. As much as he would miss them, he had made his choice because he could not follow the path his so called father wished him to.

The "Dark Lord" was rising, only waiting for the boy-who-lived, one Harry Potter, to arrive at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in only a few short years. The blond boy didn't want to be a Deatheater like his father. He didn't want to kneel before some bodiless, powerless baster who had been defeated by a one year old. He certainly didn't want some mark on his arm that would mar his perfect flesh, and from what he could tell from Lucius, one that would hurt all the time. He absolutely didn't want his life in any hands but his own.

Second Alley to the Left, Soho, London

Febuary 4, 1988

Just as the dawn broke over London, back in an alley that lead to a dead-end corner, prowled a frail looking young girl. She had dark red hair and hazel eyes, and she was dressed in a worn black blouse too large, and dirty black jeans, and her feet wrapped in layers of filthy cloth to ward off the cold of the February weather.. The corner she guarded was the one she had lived in all of her life. Or, at least, every bit of it she could remember. It was the corner Heather, the only mother she's ever known, had raised her.

Heather had told her more than once, of when Heather had found her. It was that day, actually, that Heather decided was her first birthday, and the day they would celebrate each year. November 2, 1981. Heather had heard her screaming her little one year old heart out, wrapped in a knitted blanket, stuffed in a box to guard against the cold night, in the very alley the girl now lived. Heather had only been 14 years old, and had been on the streets, after running from foster care, for two years. She had taken in the toddler, cared for her, raised her, and taught her as if the little girl were her own. The little girl had loved her Heather dearly.

It had only been eight months since Heather had been taken from her. During the last summer, one evening after Heather had managed to find them a bare supper that consisted of three half eaten sandwiches and a handful chips, they had been ambushed. Ambushed by a gang of boys that constantly tried to infringe on what little bit of territory she and Heather claimed. Though Heather had taught her to fight in the way of the streets, she still tended to push the then six year old little girl behind her when trouble appeared. As such, the little girl could do not much other than watch as several teen-aged boys beat her Heather to death.

The little girl had been so afraid, tears traveling down her face in torrents as she watched the only mother she had breath her last breath. She had been so, so angry as she stared at the body, and had barely noticed when the boys began to head towards her. She still didn't know what happened next. All she remembered was waking up not much later, and all the boys had been knocked out, looking like they had been thrown against the brick wall behind them.

Taught to take any opportunity when it happened, she didn't hesitate to strip her Heather of the things she knew Heather would have wanted her to have, and then ran three streets over back to the corner where they had made their home. There, she hid and cried for three days. When she finally emerged, knowing she needed to eat, she began to hear the word on the street. Apparently, the police had found the boys near her Heather's body, and had arrested them for her murder. Heather, she knew, would be taken care of by the city, as was everyone found dead on the streets and not identified.

Then, the little red-headed girl had to celebrate her seventh birthday alone.

A sound at the mouth of her alley drew the girl's attention away from her thoughts. She balled her fists, determined to give the invader a what-for. Only newbies didn't know to leave little Autumn alone.

The sight that greeted Autumn was not what she had been expecting. Two boys, around her age, glaring curiously at each other. One had shaggy black hair, and was dressed in old cloths to large for him, and the other had shinny blond hair, and was dressed in nearly-new well-fitted cloths, and had a bag slung over his shoulder.

When later asked, Autumn would not be able to explain her next actions as anything other than a gut feeling, and Autumn always followed her gut. So, knowing full well that the daytime traffic would soon start, she grabbed the back of both boys' shirts, and dragged them into the alley. They were both too shocked, having been about to introduce themselves to each other, to put up a fight.

"Rule number one boys, stay out of the streets during the work day." Autumn's voice was hardened by the street, but it was easy to hear the potential in her voice, the potential to be a magnificent singer and speaker. "Now, tell me who you are." She raised a finger when they both opened their mouths. "No last names. It means you have a family, means you have somewhere you belong. Out here, that can get you killed." Both boys stood before her, their mouths hanging open in shock. "I'm Autumn. What about you, blondie?"

"Draco, it means 'dragon of bad faith.'" Autumn could hear the cultured, high-class tone of his voice. She snickered.

"Alright Dragon. What about you, shorty?" She turned to the dark haired boy, who smirked and looked down at her, amused by her calling him short when she was the shortest of the three of them.

"Nothing so impressive." He smirked at Draco. Both Draco and Autumn grinned back at him. "Harry." Unnoticed by the other two, the name rang an alarm in the back of Draco's mind. Despite the impossibility of the notion, Draco found himself searching for the famous scar. He barely managed to stop the shocked expression from crossing his face. Draco debated with himself on whether or not to say something. Obviously the boy-who-lived didn't know who and what he was, there were certainly plenty of wizarding families willing to take him in.

Second Alley on the Left, Soho, London

April 1989, just before dawn

In the darkness, three small figures - too small to be adults - slipped through the shadows, returning to the alleys where they lived after the nights work. The dark haired boy in the lead cautiously peaked around corners before moving forward, caution in his every step. The redheadded girl, the smallest of the three children, moved behind him, as alert and cautious as the first child. She kept close to the wall, keeping an eye on the first boy's back, and on the back of their third companion. A boy with white blond hair kept close to the other two, an eye kept on the rear of their formation, trusting the girl to lead him backwards as they moved toward their destination.

Soon enough, the three made it to a haphazardly held up cardboard lean-too over a pair of shipping pallets layered with newspaper and rags to form a sort of bed. Once the children were sure they were alone in the alley, the boys immediately went to the girl and had her lay down, their faces shining in concern. A closer look revealed sweat on the girls brow, and one arm protectively covering her abdomen.

The boys shared a glance over her head as she settled down beneath the rags they used as a blanket. To an observer, it appeared as if the boys needed no words to communicate. But the children had discovered a mere three months after they'd met that somehow they could talk to each other, all three of them, in just their heads. They could do this freely as long as they were within sight of each other, though they had discovered that if there was a true need, they seemed to be able to call out to each other from any distance.

As they had discovered one night when the dark haired boy had slipped off on his own, and gotten into some trouble he couldn't handle. In the red-headed girl and blond boy's head, his scream for help had sounded as loud as if he had shouted the words next to their ears, and the feeling led them to the dark haired boy's side in little time. What he had not been able to handle alone had been easy for the three of them together. They were always ready for an assault from the other kids on the streets. Most often they were attacked for "stealing business" from one or another of them, despite the fact that the attackers had only grown to old for the customer in question. Nothing they weren't used too.

On this particular night in question, the boys were speaking to each other as the girl settled down between them, listening to their conversation as she curled up, trying to make the pain in her abdomen settle down. Also nothing they weren't used too.

"I don't like this one, Drake. He was too rough. I don't think we'll take his business again." The dark haired boy sent the thought out to his companions. Even in their minds, his voice sounded the same as if he spoke aloud. Gravely from disuse, and thick with the cockney accent of the streets and underground of London.

When the blond returned his thoughts, his voice was no less filled with gravel, though the words were slightly more refined, and the cockney accent not wholly taken hold over his previous aristocratic upbringing. "hmm. I quite agree Shadow. We told him to slow down a little. If he has so little control, let one of the others take his money." The girl peeked open one eye to glare at the boys lounging half sitting up on either side of her.

When she sent her thoughts to them, her voice was like silk in their minds. It held less of the gravel of theirs, and the same cockney accent - though hers was thick beyond either of the other two - it was a balm to the boys. "Hush yous. I'll be right soon 'nough. The day is commin' and we needs sleep. Gotta work t'morrah"

The boys voices blended into one though as they laid down next to their girl, wrapping her tight in the cocoon of their slight frames and the rags on top of them all. The boys' hands found hers where it lay atop the ache, helping her sooth the pain caused by the client who forgot he was buggering a small girl and used far too much force, even has he'd been watching the two small boys bugger each other. Thankfully, the boys knew it could have been worse. She'd be sore for the night, but this time there was no blood, so they weren't too worried. They just tucked themselves close to each other, and got as much sleep as they'd be able to before going back out the next night in an effort to get the cash to feed themselves, and a little bit aside for the day they'd be of age.

*"G'night Autumn."*

If an observer were to look into this dark alley, they'd find a spot that staid shaded through most of the day, and a pile of rags beneath a leaning cardboard box held up by old metal trash bins and broken bricks. If the observer were lucky, they might be able to make out a faint light pulse beneath the rags, emanating from where the children's hands lay entwined.

More than a year had passed since those three children had met early one morning, at the mouth of that very alley. A year for them to share their stories with each other, time for them to know each other and trust each other. Enough time for the latent magic in each of these children recognized and then tightly form the bond between them. More than enough time for them to learn that the only part about selling their bodies that Shadow found odd was that they could be paid for it. For Drake, it had been a harder lesson, as he had never experienced such things, but the children quickly found out that not only did they fetch a much higher price together as a group, it was also much easier for them to bare as long as they were together. Enough time for the children to make a plan for the day they would be of age, and figure out how to accomplish it.