Harry was young, and small. As such, he could still stretch full length in his cupboard - palms flat against the wall behind his head and toes touching the far end - without any discomfort. However, it worried him occasionally, when he sat up too quickly or knocked something off the shelf with an elbow, that he obviously wouldn't fit his cupboard for ever.

He was awake one night, pondering this fact, when a light flickered through the vent.

Harry turned his head, cheek against his arm, and his glasses slid at an odd angle so that his eyelashes brushed one lens. The light was uneven, and the shadows of the vent jerked on the cupboard wall. Maybe Uncle Vernon was checking on him with a torch? But he couldn't hear footsteps. Aunt Petunia walked more quietly. But no, he'd been awake, and he'd have heard her on the stairs.

Carefully, he eased himself up on his elbows and listened. Small sounds were coming from the lounge room, like fingers tapping on the wall, one at a time. The light came closer again, brighter, and a tingling came with it.

Harry blinked, and adjusted his glasses again. A face was peering through the vent, wide blue eyes and gold skin - another boy. Harry didn't yelp, but flinched.

"Did you get stuck in there?" the stranger's voice was mildly confused.

"Um. No."

The door handle rattled briefly.

"But it's locked."

Harry made a faint affirmative. The boy outside his door paused, and then laughed.

"That's silly."

The air tingled again. Harry shivered, and heard the boy say to somebody else,

"Of course you should open it, Tink. He's no fun in there."

The handle rattled again.

"There you are!" the boy's face vanished from the vent. Harry got up on his knees and tried the door. It was open, but Uncle Vernon had the only key...

He stepped into the open, his tshirt hem dropping to midthigh. The other boy stood with his hands on hips, grinning expectantly. He wasn't wearing anything but leaves, with a knife and a set of pipes slung at his side.

"Well?"

"Thankyou," seemed like the right thing to say.

"Silly of you to get locked in the cupboard. Tink can get out of cupboards on her own."

Harry folded his arms. The other boy was a few years older than him, and taller. Harry was sure who he was - he'd heard Piers telling the story to Dudley once, when they'd been much smaller. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had managed to blame Harry for Dudley's insistence on leaving his bedroom window open at night, in case Peter Pan wanted to visit.

"What's your name?" Harry double checked.

"What's yours?"

"Harry Potter."

Peter affirmed Harry's theory, and seemed that much more comfortable that Harry's name was short too. He bounced off the floor and lazily drifted to perch on the stair rail.

"Why have you come?" Harry asked. His bare toes curled in the carpet pile.

"Babies don't fall out of their prams so often, now. Prams have buckles." At this, he wrinkled his nose. Harry laughed, very softly. "The only ones who get away are girls, who wriggle out." Peter pulled out his knife and dropped off the rail, slipping quickly inside Harry's cupboard. His next words were muffled. "You ever tried attacking pirates with only a bunch of girls?"

Harry put his head back inside, watching Peter flip through a few junk-mail catalogues, examine a bent plastic soldier, and pause one hand over an acorn.

"I've never seen pirates," he confessed, as Peter took up the acorn by the stem. "I don't imagine Uncle Vernon would live in an area infested with pirates."

"Girls yell rather shrill," Peter observed distantly.

Harry frowned at the acorn. He wasn't sure why it was so fascinating.

"You can have that, if you like."

Peter turned, sharp, his eyes wide in the dark. "Why?"

"You let me out of my cupboard."

There was a tingle loud in his ear, and Harry jerked as the gold light came back. What had Piers called the fairy?

"Tinkerbelle?"

"She's my fairy." Peter stood, smiling again. "And she says she misses the Lost Boys too. Lucky for her I decided to recruit myself some more."

The fairy jingled, exasperated, and darted to tug at Peter's hair. Without explanation, the boy nodded and ducked out of the cupboard, barely skimming the floor as he flew back for the lounge room window.

"Where are you going?" Harry whispered, padding after him.

"It's getting close to light."

"You're leaving?"

One foot on the sill, Peter looked back, seeming lost. Harry had once seen the same expression on a man in the street, watching a woman walk away from him while another stood impatiently waiting at his side. Peter suddenly held out Harry's acorn in an open palm, the other hand rested on the hilt of his knife.

"Don't you want this back?"

"You have it," Harry insisted. He'd never had anything to give, before. Or anyone to accept a gift.

Peter nodded, and quickly drew his knife. With a snick, he cut a wide green leaf from the others, and laid it in Harry's keeping.

"Girls are horrible to fight with," he grinned. "They sound like fairies yelling battlecries."

Tinkerbelle promptly threw dust in Peter's face, and he sneezed.

"So you'll come back?"

"Of course."

"This," Harry floundered, suddenly hopelessly shy and feeling far too young. "This isn't a good house for stories."

Tinkerbelle was in the front garden, whizzing furious figure eights between the white pickets of the fence. Peter stepped out of the window and up, sheathing his knife.

"That isn't why I came."

Harry ran to the sill and stuck his head between the curtains.

"I need someone to plan the battles," Peter laughed, and did a quick cartwheel before zooming off. The little gold light of Tinkerbelle zigzagged along with him, and Harry followed the sparkle until it was gone.

Slowly he pulled his head back inside, and shut the window. As he walked back to his cupboard, he twirled the stem of the skeleton leaf between his fingers, gently.