When Harry was three, his blanket disappeared. Not in the way most things disappear; because it was left in the back yard, in the car, or at a relatives house while visiting. No, it became something more...as well as less, because it was Harry's and therefore, unimportant. Harry didn't discover this until bedtime however.

He crawled into his cupboard tired from a long day of following his cousin around and picking up his toys. Half broken blocks that he was graciously allowed by his aunt to keep. The sharp edges dug into palms, but they were better than the bone, which had been his only toy for such a long time. Harry chewed on the toy as he absently dug for his blanket with the other.

It wasn't here! He dropped his block in favour of searching for his beloved blanket. He couldn't feel it where it was supposed to be. He whimpered as he felt around in the darkened space. There weren't too many places it could be. Not on the grubby floor or on the shelves that he could reach. He opened his door hoping to find it tucked away on one of the taller shelves.

The light did little to illuminate the cramped place. Shadows continued to hide whatever contents the shelves might contain.

"What are you doing, Boy?"

Harry looked cautiously over his shoulder with fear. He'd been told to go to bed and yet, there he stood with his door open. "Lookin' for my blanket."

"That old thing?" Petunia sneered. "I tore it up for dusting this morning. Back to bed!" With a shove, his aunt pushed him onto his bare mattress and bolted the door shut. Night closed over him with a bang. He could hear his aunt cooing to Dudley as he was fed his nightly 'snack before bed'.

Harry began to cry. Quiet, muffled little hiccups that were heard only by the spiders and the bugs. Dust and grime coated his hands leaving a bitter taste in his mouth as he tried to stifle his noise. If anyone heard him, it would only earn him a smack and then the next day spent in hunger. He fell asleep with his hand tightly hugging the block to his chest. Was nothing ever just his?

The door to his cupboard was open when he woke. As Harry got up off his pallet, he brushed off his clothes, and tucked his block in his pocket. He didn't want it to disappear as he was out of his room for the day.

His aunt was humming in the lounge and Harry followed the sound. He knew she'd have some task for him to do. A flash of blue caught his eye as it moved back and forth across the mantel. His blanket! Harry was reaching for the cloth before he even knew it. It flew into his hand. Harry cradled it close, treasuring it despite the grime on it.

"Get to work, Boy." Harry looked up confused. "Well! You wanted to dust! Dust!"

Aunt Petunia grabbed his hand and pressed it hard onto the side table, working the rag over the surface. "And don't you break anything." With that, she left Harry alone in the lounge with what was left of his blanket, tears streaming down his face. He pulled the cloth close to his face. It smelled yucky. Harry wrinkled his nose. He tried to pull it tight around his neck. It felt 'wrong'. Just like everything else.

"Throw that thing into the bin and get washed up for breakfast." Petunia snapped.

Harry stomped over to the bin under his aunt's watchful eye. He opened the lid and tossed 'that thing' inside.

"Now get upstairs and get washed up. And quit making all that noise!"

"Yes, Aunt 'Tuna."

Harry dragged his feet as he climbed the stairs. Inside the toilet, he pulled his blanket from his pocket and stuck it under the faucet to wash out the bad smells. He scrubbed it for as long he felt he could get away with it and then squeezed it out.

Scowling, he tucked the rag into his pocket. It was 'his'. No one else could have it.