A/N and CW: The first chapter features child neglect/abuse. None of it is graphic or violent in nature, but proceed with caution. Trauma and psychological child abuse/neglect ahead.

Harry Potter woke with a start. The sharp raps at the door startled him out of what had been a pleasant, recurring dream. This time, he was being rescued by a big, bearded man who rode a motorbike. Whenever the eight year old had pleasant dreams like this – that someone came looking for him, wanting him – he tried to hang onto the pleasant feelings as long as possible, as they were fleeting.

They were only dreams, anyway.

"Get up, boy!" Uncle Vernon's insistent holler made Harry groan. He reached for his glasses, placing the cheap frames on his nose and ears, followed by tugging at the string to light up his small space. A spider scurried off, and Harry sighed. The cupboard under the stairs always had at least one spider.

He reached for the first available shirt, a blue button down that was three times too large for him. He rolled up the sleeves, but it did little to fit him any better. He tied off the front of the shirt, but it didn't help, either. Harry long accepted that he would always look a little ridiculous. The first pair of trousers were also big, but with concentration, he'd been able to take one of Dudley's old belts and bore new holes in it. With the extra holes, the belt was tight enough to wrap around his waist twice, but it made it so that the trousers would stay on his waist without falling down.

He emerged from the cupboard, trying to smooth down the unruly hair on his head. That was a pointless effort, too, but he had to at least appear as if he was trying to look decent, as his Aunt Petunia would say.

"Mind the bacon and make sure it doesn't burn," Petunia said shrilly, already fussing over Dudley, who gave Harry a simper from where he sat. Dudley's fat bottom hung over both sides of the chair, but neither Petunia nor Vernon seemed to care.

Harry moved the bacon around on the pan, trying to keep from burning his fingers again. He knew he was hardly an average eight year old, but then again, he thought wryly, neither was Dudley. Most eight year old at their school didn't look like spoiled puffer fish, like Dudley, or like string beans in elephant skin, like Harry.

"Why can't I go?" Dudley complained, again. For once, Harry agreed with Dudley. An evening without all three Dursleys sounded delightful, even if he would be sent to spend time with the dreadfully dull Mrs. Figg and her plethora of cats.

"This event isn't for little boys," Aunt Petunia said. "Your daddy is getting an award from his workplace, Duddykins. He's getting a promotion and a raise, and we'll be going on holiday soon, just the three of us!"

"Three?" Harry said, feeling small. "On holiday?" Though he would never admit it, Harry felt a pang of jealousy that they would be going away to enjoy themselves, wherever they went.

"Yes, three," Aunt Petunia snapped. "Disney World is no place for freaks."

Dudley smirked gleefully. "They have rides and a castle, don't they, mummy? Isn't it the happiest place on earth?"

"That's right, son," Uncle Vernon said proudly. "Nothing but the best for us!"

Harry bit back the jealousy and the tears that were threatening to escape. He had heard of Disney World. Only the wealthiest children at their school had been able to go, and they would show pictures of their holidays in class.

"You'll be with our neighbor, Mrs. Figg," Aunt Petunia said coolly. "A week without you will do all of us good, won't it?"

Harry nodded weakly as he pushed the bacon on the pan. The Dursleys would spend time in a sunny, warm place with fun and he would spend time with Mrs. Figg and her cats. Perhaps, if he was very lucky, she might let him watch a program on her telly of his choosing.

Aunt Petunia fussed over Dudley again, before going back upstairs. Uncle Vernon was breathing heavily behind his newspaper while Dudley smirked at Harry.

"Who would even want to go on holiday with you?" Dudley sneered. "No one wants a freak around!"

Harry bit the inside of his cheek, fighting back the tears. It was then that the window above the kitchen sink shattered. Uncle Vernon placed his newspaper down, going from red to purple in the face in seconds.

"YOU! YOU INSUFFERABLE FREAK OF NATURE! YOU DID THIS TO US!" Vernon bellowed, little droplets of spittle spraying Harry and his glasses.

"GET TO YOUR CUPBOARD, NOW!"

Harry didn't need to be told twice. He didn't know how or why it happened. The glass justshattered. He wasn't standing anywhere near the window, but somehow, Uncle Vernon managed to blame it on Harry. These things were always blamed on Harry.

It was several hours before Harry was acknowledged again. He was starving by then, having missed the chance to eat breakfast in the morning. He felt faint and weak from the lack of food, although it wasn't an entirely new feeling. He often felt hungrier than he cared to admit to anyone.

A sharp rap at the door was followed by Aunt Petunia swinging it open and dragging Harry out by the ear.

"You will be working all summer to work off the expense of repairing that window," Uncle Vernon said, still purple in the face, as Aunt Petunia moved aside. "The lawn, the garden, the scrubbing – everything until every last bit is paid off. Do you hear, boy?"

"Yes, Uncle Vernon," Harry said. He would be working all summer regardless, Harry thought glumly, so it wasn't a true punishment.

"You will also behave tonight for your Aunt Marge. Eat dinner now before she gets here. You'll be spending the evening in the cupboard to keep out of her way," he hissed. Harry's heart sank. An evening in the cupboard wasn't out of the ordinary, but Aunt Marge wasn't the type to let him stay inside the cupboard and mind his own business. No, Marge would find a way to torture him.

Harry looked down at his feet, as Aunt Petunia whacked his shoulder to sit at the table. An open can of soup greeted him, alongside two slices of bread. Harry didn't bother asking Petunia to heat the soup up for him. Instead, he dug in with a spoon in one hand, trying not to get any more dishes dirty. In minutes the contents of the soup and slices of bread had disappeared. Harry had been ravenous, and the soup hadn't been enough. It was something, and so Harry hid his hunger.

A loud pounding at the door marked Aunt Marge's arrival. Harry winced. Dudley was already at the front of the house, waiting for Aunt Marge's affections. For a few slobbery kisses, Dudley would earn a ten pound note. Harry would earn nothing but her disdain. He had come to expect disdain or indifference from everyone.

"You're still here," Marge said flatly, as soon as she appeared in the kitchen.

Harry wasn't sure how to respond to this, and ventured, "Yes?"

"Don't say 'yes' in that ungrateful tone," Marge barked. "Good of my brother and his wife to take you in. If you'd landed on my doorstep it would've been straight to the orphanage with you!"

Harry's breath caught in his throat. As if he needed another reminder of how very unwanted he was.

Vernon and Petunia busied themselves with their last-minute preparations, reminding their precious Duddykins how loved he was and how they'd miss him that evening. Harry looked on with disgust and that familiar pang of jealousy at the scene. How he would've loved to have someone – anyone – remotely interested in him.

"Stop staring," Marge barked, startling Harry. "It's impolite to stare, but who could guess anything else from a brat like you?"

Harry looked downcast as Vernon and Petunia said their final goodbyes to Dudley. They gave one last glare at Harry, and shut the door behind them.

"My neffy-poo!" Marge cooed, bringing Dudley into her large arms. "I have a special present for you!" Dudley was practically salivating as Marge reached into her enormous handbag and produced a wrapped box. "An early ninth birthday present for the most worthy boy in town."

Dudley snatched the present from Marge's hands and unwrapped it gleefully to find a Nintendo Entertainment System within. Harry's eyes watered. The new gaming system was new to Britain, and few children had access to one. Even Dudley's eyes had grown wide when he saw that it had come with a Mario game, and Marge gave Dudley large, wet kisses to his fat head upon seeing him so happy. Harry bit back any hope that he could play the new game. Such a luxury would never be permitted.

Marge saw Harry from the corner of her eye and sneered. "You, boy, fix me a drink while Dudders sets up his new toy."

Dudley smirked as he began unpacking the contents of the box and setting cables up to the telly. It took well over a half hour for Dudley to connect the system. In that time, Harry had prepared drinks for both Marge and Dudley, and tried to avoid getting nipped at by Marge's bulldog.

"Can I be excused, please?" Harry finally said to Marge, now longing for his cupboard. Whenever Dudley got something new and fabulous, he had the irritating trait to show it off to Harry and dangle it before his eyes, as if to taunt him into wanting more. Harry had learned long ago not to rise to meet the taunting; it only hurt worse when he was punished for wanting more.

"Make him stay," Dudley simpered. "Dad always makes him stay to show him what he could get if he was a good boy like me." Marge turned around as Dudley flashed Harry a nasty grin.

"Stay, boy," Marge said, in the same tone as she used for her bulldog. "Stand there and don't get out of my sight. Can't have any of that funny business here."

Harry did as he was told and stood in the spot against the wall while Dudley started playing the game. Dudley was terrible at it and Harry was sure he could do better. His hand twitched towards the telly, wanting to try for himself. Marge noticed.

"Only good boys get to play."

Harry would never be good enough for the Dursleys. He would never get to play.

The night continued with Marge settling into the stuffed armchair, reading a tawdry novel, while Dudley made noises at the telly and the game. Harry stood still, hoping desperately for a chance to play. Maybe, just maybe, Harry thought, if he was good and still enough he might get a chance.

Hours passed and Harry's feet began to hurt from standing still. Marge was snoring loudly in her chair, the book propped on her chest, and Dudley was engrossed in the Mario game. Harry took the chance and padded quietly back to the cupboard, shutting himself in for the night.

It was nights like tonight that made Harry wish more than anything else that his parents hadn't died in a car crash all those years ago. He wished someone – anyone – would come take him from the Dursleys. No one ever did.

….

When Harry awoke, there was commotion outside the cupboard. Most mornings at number four, Privet Drive, did not have much in the way of commotion. Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia would rap on the door, and Dudley might storm down the stairs to bring dust onto Harry, but there were never any more voices. At that moment, there was wailing and the sounds of several people talking at once, confusing Harry. Perhaps someone was coming to get him after all! Perhaps the wailing came from the Dursleys, for realizing they finally loved Harry, and would miss him!

He slowly opened the cupboard door, finding two uniformed men staring at him in disbelief. Harry felt uneasy under their stare, but they were wearing police uniforms. Aunt Petunia had often told him that the more he misbehaved, the more he was likely to get in trouble with the law, and they would lock him away where he would rot alone in prison. He stared, speechless, wondering if they were taking him away.

"There's another kid here?" one asked, looking down at Harry. "Who are you?"

"H-Harry, sir," he squeaked. "Harry Potter."

"Didn't realize there was another kid here," one officer frowned. "Let Kimble know." The other officer went out into the kitchen. Harry saw that Marge was crying, her face splotchy and tearstained. Dudley was nowhere in sight, but Harry could hear the Mario game still going.

A woman stepped out of the kitchen and looked at Harry, frowning. "There's another kid? She didn't mention anything. Is it a friend?"

"Said his name was Harry Potter," the first officer said. "Right?"

Harry nodded, terrified of what was happening. The woman bent down to look at Harry closely. "Are you a friend of the Dursleys, Harry?"

Harry shook his head. "They're my aunt and uncle, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. Dudley's my cousin."

A look of comprehension dawned over their faces and the woman nodded to the two officers, who went out into the kitchen to be with the splotchy, crying Marge.

"Hi, Harry. I'm Mrs. Kimble. Why don't you sit down?"

Harry looked around, finding nowhere to sit but his cot in the cupboard. Kimble's eyes widened slightly as he opened the door and sat down.

"There's no easy way to say this, Harry, but I'm afraid your aunt and uncle have passed away."

Harry stared at Mrs. Kimble in shock. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon – dead? The woman took Harry's silence as a signal to continue.

"They were on their way from an event last night and they got into a car crash. They didn't make it. I'm sorry, Harry."

Harry furrowed his brows together. A second set of parental figures – well, not quite parents, if he were being honest, considering Petunia and Vernon – had succumbed to car crashes. Maybe cars weren't as safe as they were made out to be, Harry thought grimly.

"Are you okay, Harry? It's okay to cry."

Harry stared at Mrs. Kimble in shock. He knew he should've felt something upon hearing his aunt and uncle had just died, but he found himself not caring at all. He felt nothing at all.

"It might just be shock," Mrs. Kimble said kindly. "Would you like to join your cousin? He's playing a game."

Harry shook his head. Dudley was insufferable when he was elated; Harry shuddered to think of what a grieving Dudley might be like.

"Okay. We're getting things sorted out, but we'll be back soon." Harry nodded and sat back on his cot, wondering what would happen next. As far as he knew, he had no other family besides Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. All his grandparents had died before he was born. His father had been an only child, hadn't he? Harry realized he knew little of his extended family.

Exhausted and apprehensive, Harry fell back into the cot. Hopefully someone better would come for him. They just had to.

….

Within a week, Harry's life had somehow gotten worse. He had stood next to Dudley at Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon's funeral, serving as a human punching bag for the grieving Dudley. No one batted an eye. Dudley was an orphan, after all. Aunt Marge had no issue reminding all of the extended Dursley relatives that her poor neffy-poo Dudders was an orphan and needed extra special care and attention.

No one remembered Harry was an orphan too.

The officers and Mrs. Kimble had decided that because Harry had no other available relations, Harry should remain with his only living relative, Dudley Dursley.

Little did Harry know that Dudley would be taken in by none other than Aunt Marge. Thus it was that a day after the funeral, the case worker called Mrs. Kimble took Harry and Dudley from their previous home in Little Whinging up to Bedfordshire. Dudley's things had already been taken from Privet Drive by Aunt Marge in a large truck, as he had many possessions. Harry's things fit neatly into his rucksack, which he kept with him.

Harry was mildly interested in the countryside landscape as they drove up from Surrey to Bedfordshire. Aunt Marge bred bulldogs. Harry wasn't excited to live with Aunt Marge, but he hoped that having more space in the country would make it bearable. He had never been up to Marge's home, but felt a hint of excitement as the streets gave way to greener spaces. It didn't look so bad from the car.

"Ready, boys?" Mrs. Kimble said. She was turning into a lane with a wooden sign that read "Margie's Majesties."

Dudley sniffled. Harry almost felt sympathy for him, but between the extended Dursley clan and well-wishers from their school, Dudley had received a near-endless pile of gifts in sympathy. Harry had been forgotten.

Marge was waiting on the front steps of her cottage, her current bulldog wheezing next to her. Marge was teary but smiling as the car came into her view. Harry was feeling increasingly apprehensive.

The car came to a stop, and Mrs. Kimble stepped out to greet Aunt Marge. Dudley ambled out of the car, waddling right into Aunt Marge's waiting arms. Harry appeared behind Dudley, coming into view just moments later.

"What is he doing here?" Marge barked, looking disdainfully at Harry. "He's not my nephew. We share no blood."

Mrs. Kimble bit her lip, glancing nervously back at Harry. "We thought it best if Harry stayed with his only living relative, Dudley. You don't mind terribly taking him in?"

Aunt Marge looked as if she minded very much having Harry anywhere near her. Unexpectedly, Marge broke into a wicked grin.

"I'll take the boy. We can make room," Marge said, sneering. She glanced over at the doghouse, which led to a pit forming in Harry's stomach.

Mrs. Kimble sighed in relief. "Good. Dudley, Harry, so sorry for your losses. If you need anything, you can let me know, okay?"

Harry nodded, and Dudley went right into the cottage, hollering about his new Nintendo and where it'd been set up. Marge stood tall and proud, watching Mrs. Kimble get back into her car and drive away, leaving a path of dust from her wheels as she drove out to the main road again.

"You, boy, you sleep there," Marge said, pointing to the doghouse. Harry winced. The doghouse was no bigger than the cupboard, and it didn't have anything to sleep on but straw.

"I can't sleep inside?" Harry asked, biting back the tears that were forming. He thought the cupboard was bad, but sleeping outdoors like an actual dog was a bit much.

"Bad boys sleep outside," Marge sneered. "Good boys get inside privileges. Isn't that right, Ripper?" She petted the wheezing bulldog, who licked his nose and growled up at Harry.

Harry stared in disbelief, but Marge wasn't backing down. She clucked at Ripper, who followed Marge into the cottage. Harry was now alone, his rucksack in hand, the sun beating down on him. There was little else he could do. He thought of running away, but where would he go? He had tried running away once from the Dursleys, but their neighbor had found him and Harry had been locked in the cupboard for an entire weekend. He didn't dare think what Marge would do if he tried running away.

Luckily, Marge had a small grove of trees near the doghouse, and Harry found a shady tree to sit under. He held his rucksack in his arms, and opened it to take out the only heirloom he'd been given. Somehow, Aunt Petunia had kept the blanket he'd arrived in after his parents had died in 1981. The blanket had been removed from Aunt Petunia's closet and given to Harry. It was soft and comforting. If Harry inhaled deeply enough, he could almost remember something. Almost.

After a few minutes of clutching the blanket to his thin chest, Harry stuffed it back into his rucksack. He was hungry and hot, but there was nothing he could do.

He sometimes thought dying would be better than the existence he'd been given. He even felt like returning to the Dursleys. He sometimes went hungry there, but during the school year, he would have enough to eat and somewhere to be on weekdays where he could get some distance from his relatives.

A few tears fell down Harry's cheeks. He had never felt so alone.

….

It took two days for Marge to speak to Harry again. To his immense relief, she'd brought out a pitcher of water and two loaves of bread and left it in front of the doghouse. He was dirty and lonely, but at least he was no longer thirsty or hungry. He relieved himself out in the small grove of trees, feeling more like an animal than human.

On the second day, another hot, sunny summer afternoon, Marge barked at Harry to come inside. His heart leapt in his chest. Perhaps his punishment was over, and he would earn a place inside the cottage.

"Wash up," Marge ordered. "Clean yourself. We're going out."

Harry brightened to hear they were going somewhere. He eagerly went inside the frilly bathroom, covered in pictures of bulldogs, and gladly cleaned his face and body. His clothes were dirty, but it felt good to have a clean face for the first time in days.

Marge was waiting outside with a fresh pair of clean clothes. They were still Dudley's old clothes, but they were clean. Harry felt immensely grateful, and immediately put on the clean clothes. He felt human again, freshly washed and clothed.

"Where are we going?" Harry asked tentatively. "To the shops?"

"You'll see," Marge cackled. "Get your things and get into the car."

"All my things? My rucksack?"

"Everything." Marge smirked, and Harry felt his stomach twist again. He wasn't sure if it was hunger or fear, but he frankly didn't care. He went to the doghouse and gathered the few things he had. He had been sleeping under his old baby blanket the last two nights. It wasn't clean anymore, but it provided a small measure of comfort. There was nothing else in the doghouse that belonged to him, and so he took his dirtied rucksack with him to Marge's car. Dudley was waiting for them, smirking.

Dudley took the front seat with Marge while Harry sat in the back. She was in a surprisingly good mood, as was Dudley. Harry didn't think that was a good sign.

They drove for almost an hour through more unrelated terrain. The silence in the car was broken by the occasional chuckle from Marge. She had the same maniacal gleam in her eye that Uncle Vernon did when Harry was suffering.

They finally stopped in front of a weatherworn building with a sign that read "St. Christopher's Children's Services," whatever that meant.

"Dudders, you're a good boy. Stay in the car while I take care of the brat," Marge said, still gleeful. She turned around and glared at Harry. "Get out, boy."

Harry took his rucksack and got out of the car. Marge shoved him forward towards the entrance, and the two went into the building.

"Hello, you must be Ms. Dursley," a tall, thin woman greeted. "This is Harry?"

"It is. We just can't take it anymore! He's a menace to himself and to us! I wouldn't be doing this if I had no other option!" Aunt Marge cried thick, crocodile tears at the thin woman, who looked on with sympathy. Harry was utterly bewildered.

The thin woman patted Marge awkwardly and murmured a few words in her ear. Marge nodded, and placed a few papers in the woman's hand. Without a second glance, Marge stepped back out of the building and went into her car. Dudley was beaming, and Harry saw Marge laughing as they drove away, leaving Harry alone.

"Hello, Harry. I'm Ms. Morrow. Come with me."

Harry stared in disbelief – had Marge really just left him here? Ms. Morrow stared expectantly at Harry, and he felt he had no choice but to follow another door. The decoration was sparse, fluorescent lights flickering slightly above them in the corridor. Ms. Morrow led Harry into a small office, where he was directed to sit on a threadbare couch.

"Now, I understand you know why you're here?" Ms. Morrow began, businesslike.

Harry shook his head. Ms. Morrow's forehead creased. "You don't know why you're here, Harry?"

"No. Aunt Marge said we were going out and we're here now." He sat in confusion as Ms. Morrow muttered something about "developmentally delayed" and "special needs."

"I'll explain for you, sweetie," Ms. Morrow said slowly, smiling widely as she did so. Harry felt confused, and the woman before him simpered. "I understand you had some problems at home. Sometimes things happen to you that hurt yourself or others, don't they?"

Harry scratched his head in confusion. Sometimes things did happen. Just recently he'd broken a window – that's what Uncle Vernon said, even if he had been nowhere near the window. He supposed that could have hurt someone? Ms. Morrow kept her fake smile on her face, and Harry nodded, thinking it better to agree.

"I thought so, Harry. Sometimes when children behave like this, they need special help. That's where we come in. We're here to help you."

Harry said nothing, and pushed up his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He supposed he could use some help. He was hungry.

The next hour was spent with Ms. Morrow rattling off information at Harry. He was going to live in a children's home – not an orphanage, Ms. Morrow was emphatic on that point – and he would have foster parents to care for him and make sure he got the help he needed. He would have a foster brother and sister, and they would learn together. He would also see a special doctor or two who could help him be better.

Harry didn't know what else to say or do, so he nodded along. Nothing made sense, but ever since Petunia and Dursley had died, his world had been turned upside down.

Once Ms. Morrow had finished speaking, she led Harry back out to the reception area, where a stout woman was waiting for him.

"You must be Harry. I'm Mrs. Beadle, but you can call me Miss Eleanor. I'll be your foster mum."

"Hi, Miss Eleanor," Harry said, feeling unsure of himself. "I'm going with you now?"

Miss Eleanor nodded, and after exchanging a few words with Ms. Morrow, Harry was now being led to a different car. Just ten minutes later, Miss Eleanor had stopped in front of a small home.

"Bart, Nina, and Michael are all waiting for us. Bart is my husband and will be your foster dad. You can call him Mr. Bart. Nina and Michael are your foster sister and brother, although they are biological siblings. They're a little older than you, but you'll fit right in, I'm sure."

Harry was apprehensive again, but as he was being allowed inside the house right away, he had to admit it was better than Aunt Marge's.

Miss Eleanor led him inside the home, where a tall, gangly man was standing with two older children.

"Hello, Harry. I'm Mr. Bart," the man greeted, holding out his hand. Harry took it and shook it lightly. "This is Nina. She's eleven. This is her brother, Michael. He's fourteen."

"I'm Harry. I'm going to be nine soon," Harry said, still unsure. Michael and Nina both towered over him. Michael reminded Harry of one of the bigger boys in the neighborhood who often picked on younger kids.

Michael and Nina eyed Harry warily, and after a few cursory remarks, Mr. Bart led Harry up to a small bedroom. It held a two single beds, two nightstands, and two dressers. One bed was neatly made, while the other was haphazardly put together. Harry pressed his nose against the window in the room, delighted that he had a proper bedroom with a window, even if it looked like he was sharing with Michael.

"This is better than the doghouse and the cupboard combined," Harry said, smiling softly at Mr. Bart. "Much better."

Mr. Bart frowned. He had papers in his hand and flipped through them, a flicker of understanding crossing his expression.

"Yes, of course this is better," Mr. Bart said kindly. "Come down for lunch whenever you're ready."

Harry's eyes widened. He was being offered food, too. A bedroom with a window, and food. They hardly knew him! With a glimmer of hope, Harry dropped his rucksack on the floor, breathing a sigh of relief. Maybe Marge had finally done him an act of service by letting him go.

Harry's stay with Bart, Eleanor, Michael, and Nina, however, was short-lived. His ninth birthday had come and gone without much fanfare. Miss Eleanor had made him a small cake, the first Harry had ever seen in his memory. It wasn't a good cake, but it was a cake all the same. That had been only a few weeks after his arrival.

Right around his ninth birthday, Michael and Nina, the other two foster children, began testing Harry. He wasn't sure why they were in foster care, but he noticed that no sharp objects existed in the home. When Miss Eleanor or Mr. Bart cooked, the knives were kept safely stowed, under lock and key.

At first, Harry endured probing questions from the sibling pair. He was told that if he was with them, he too was unwanted by most people.

Harry didn't like being called unwanted.

Nina and Michael were deceptively charming. They brought Harry little gifts sometimes in exchange for his silence. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to be silent about at first. When things disappeared from the home, or things went wrong, Harry understood that his silence meant he was blamed for whatever Nina and Michael had stolen or done.

It culminated on Halloween, when Harry was somehow caught stealing Nina's sweets. She had told him to get it, but Michael had convinced Bart and Eleanor that Harry was stealing.

The number of injustices against Harry had grown to be too much to bear. Although he tried to be grateful that he had his own bed to sleep in and enough food to eat (when Michael wasn't guilting Harry into giving him half his portions), it seemed as if Nina and Michael were both conspiring against Harry. They were cleverer, more ruthless, and more resourceful than Dudley had ever been. Harry almost longed for Dudley to share his space with under Mr. Bart and Miss Eleanor's care.

When Harry had been accused of stealing Nina's Halloween sweets, something in him snapped, and the entirety of Nina's returned sweets – which included Harry's own – was set aflame. They had all yelped in fear, and Harry was blamed for trying to hurt Nina or even set the home on fire.

The next day, Harry had a new placement with a different family.

….

Harry's second placement lasted from the beginning of November until February. He was placed in a home with three other children, all of whom took delight in their new, young foster brother. The foster siblings were all younger than Harry, to his surprise, and he enjoyed spending time with them. Their foster parents weren't as thrilled with Harry and made it their mission to learn everything that was wrong with him.

Harry spent hours in front of doctors, various specialists, who diagnosed him with varied types of conditions. Whenever something went wrong at the foster home, Harry was blamed. All the incidents had perfectly reasonable explanations, thought Harry. The broken vase was due to the four year old's clumsiness. The toppled Christmas tree? The cat and an enthusiastic six year old. The broken garden window? The other six year old playing with a football.

Harry was labelled aggressive, disturbed, psychotic, oppositional, challenged…he could hardly keep up with the labels they gave him. He could hardly keep up with the sudden influx of pills he was ordered to take every morning. No matter what the dosage or combination, Harry hardly felt as if they made a difference. Other than the miserable experience of swallowing a fistful of pills each morning, he felt unchanged.

After a broken windshield in February, which Harry could have sworn had been caused by a hailstorm, he was given a third placement, although this one wasn't like the others.

….

Harry's third placement was in Kent. It was in a larger children's home, this one led by a woman called Mrs. Mason. He was one of five children there. Like the other homes, he shared a small bedroom and had enough food to eat, but the bedroom at Mrs. Mason's had padded walls. Unusual, but Harry accepted it. He would share it with a boy called Jay.

It was still better than the doghouse or the cupboard.

None of the foster parents believed him when he mentioned his previous living arrangements. The adults involved in arranging his care would look through his increasingly large stack of paperwork, frown, and look back at him. No matter how insistent he was that he lived in a cupboard for seven years and spent a few nights in an actual doghouse in Bedfordshire, no adult believed him. They were called "delusions" or "hallucinations."

Harry stopped talking about his previous arrangements two months into his third placement. The other children liked to remind him that they were all unwanted if they were in Mrs. Mason's care. It wasn't a normal foster home, they told him. Hopeless cases were sent to live with Mrs. Mason. If they failed, they were placed in juvenile centers. Harry was apparently hopeless, but not worthy of a juvenile center – yet.

He mused on this hopelessness on a sunny May afternoon, sitting alone in the garden. He had long abandoned the idea of spending time with the other children. He had learned months before that interacting with other children led him into trouble. If he stayed alone, he could avoid any problems.

That is, until a garden snake came to see him.

He was minding his own business, drawing in the dirt with his finger, when the little snake slithered up, hissing about being unable to find anything to eat. Harry's ears perked up, finding it unusual. Perhaps it was another one of those "hallucinations" the doctors told him he had.

The snake stopped in front of Harry, its tongue slipping out momentarily. "I cannot eat you," the little snake said.

"I am too big for you," Harry replied. "There are mice in the field. I see them sometimes. Maybe you can go there."

"Human speaks. How strange."

"You can understand me?" asked Harry, completely mystified. "How?"

"You speak snake."

"I didn't know I could do that. It's probably not real." Harry sighed, putting his chin in his hands.

"I am not real? What is real?" the snake hissed. "I am hungry. I am real."

"I know the feeling. I'm not hungry now but I have been hungry before."

"Human eat mice?"

"No," Harry said. "When I was very hungry I could've eaten a mouse."

"What are you doing?" a voice behind Harry surprised him, and the garden snake slithered away, saying something about finding mice in the field.

"I was just…" Harry's voice trailed off as he pointed in the direction of the snake.

"You were talking to a snake," the boy said flatly. Harry saw the boy, a burly ten year old called Jay, crossing his arms over his chest. Jay had a temper to rival Uncle Vernon's, and Harry tried to steer clear from him.

Harry shrugged. "The snake talked to me first."

"Snakes don't talk to people, you dumbarse."

"This one talked to me. It was looking for something to eat," Harry insisted. "I told it to find mice in the field."

"No wonder you're here. You're a right lunatic, you are."

"Isn't that why we're all here?" Harry said, miserably. "You said so yourself. We're hopeless. No one wants us."

"No one wants you," Jay said coldly. "You're a scrawny freak and you're mental. No one wants a loony."

Harry sniffled. He'd been called a freak for many years, and he could hardly deny the truth of Jay's statements. The Dursleys hadn't wanted him. Marge didn't want him. Two foster placements hadn't wanted him either.

"Why would anyone want you?" Harry challenged. "You're angry. No one wants an angry kid."

"My problem can be treated. Yours can't. You're psycho. I'm not on all those pills."

Harry wasn't sure what to say, and so he returned to drawing circles in the dirt.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Jay said smugly. "Now I'll tell Mrs. Mason you think you can talk to snakes. That'll get you more pills, you loon." Jay laughed and ran off in the direction of the house.

Harry sighed. He used to dream of someone coming to rescue him from the Dursleys. He didn't dream of anything anymore.

End A/N: A note on relationships/ages. All relationships will be canon-compliant. Tonks will be aged up two years for the purposes of this fic, making her in the same school year as Bill Weasley (b. 1970).

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