There wasn't much that could be done for the boy; his eyes large and beseeching, but the burning desire was there.
Harry doubted that there could be anything harder to do, then to finish what this boy had unwittingly started. Or, perhaps, what his mother had started. The boy wasn't at fault, not yet anyway, not in the ways that mattered yet; no blood had yet to be drawn that Harry knew of at least.
Harry was shivering, the draft from the hall pulling in cold, rainy autumn winds. The orphanage was large in a morbid sense, and just as dark. Tom sat in a chair too big for his small stature. He was staring at the desk, the wall, and the women passing by.
Some of the younger ladies and older girls sliding up and down the hall, passing the door to peak a view of the young man sat with the child.
Harry could feel their eyes on his skin, could feel Tom's calculating gaze on his face, like a hand on his arm; a snitch at his ear.
The door creaked shut as the old women came back in, papers ready for the signing, and filing, and giving, and claiming; and everything that Harry could, didn't, want to think about.
It was with a slightly aching wrist that Harry gathered the child's hand in his own and walked them from the building. Umbrella bowed deep and pitch black over their heads. They walked down the road, away from busy streets to a park; swings pushed back and forth by wind and rain. Harry stopped, turning to face the small boy, maybe five, or six, it was so difficult to tell really; he had never been too good at gauging age.
The boys eyes trained on him, he pulled him closer still, bringing the boy up into his arms; felt the struggle that the child started up as soon as Harry's arms wrapped around his tiny body. With a quick turn, and a gasp, they stumbled into the Forest Dean, the boy open mouthed, eyes wide and searching.
Maybe, Harry thought, maybe it wasn't to late.