In retrospect, Harry supposed that he shouldn't have doubted Uncle Vernon's word. When had the man lied to him before? He always followed through on a punishment, no matter how harsh it was. Aunt Petunia always let it happen, too. Sometimes a smug look would cross her pinched, horsey features and Harry always had to bite his lip until it bled to avoid yelling at her. It wouldn't have done any good.

Jay disagreed, but Jay was headstrong and foolhardy. And he wanted to get Harry in trouble. Sometimes Harry could hear him laughing inside when Uncle Vernon was yelling at him, or grabbing his arm so tightly, bruises were imprinted into his skin, purple shadows like feathers. Then he'd usually blank out, and when he'd return, his body would ache, and he'd have new bruises and welts to add to his pitiful collection.

So when Uncle Vernon told Harry that he would leave him at the supermarket if he didn't hurry up, Harry knew he should have listened. He tried his best, he really did, but he just felt so tired. He couldn't seem to move properly anymore, especially with the throbbing in his temples that intensified at every step. Was it any wonder his family decided to leave him there, squealing off in a cloud of blue smoke? Of course not.

Granted, even Tom had thought that they would come back for him. It was an effective scare tactic, but surely that was all it was meant to be? But by the time another hour had passed (and passersby were starting to give them quite concerned looks), Tom had to admit that this time, it seemed the Dursleys had decided to abandon them.

"What are we going to do?" Harry whispered to himself. The wind had kicked up, making him shiver. He was only dressed in Dudley's old jeans and a very worn sweatshirt. He hadn't expected to be out long. Then again, he usually didn't come along on supermarket trips. Had Uncle Vernon been planning to leave him here all along? The sick feeling in his stomach told him it was more than plausible.

First things first, though. They had to get away from the supermarket. The Dursleys' home was fifteen miles away, so that was out, but if they didn't leave the vicinity of the store soon, someone was sure to ring the police out of concern for the "lost little boy." Uncle Vernon had drilled it into his head. Never go to the authorities.

Jay may have been a right bullying git, but he knew how to act to deflect suspicion. He strolled down the road with his hands in his pockets, looking for all the world like a boy on his way straight home. A woman driving past glanced briefly at him, but he smiled crookedly at her, and she went on.

Nothing to it, Jay smirked to himself. Despite the bravado, however, he was bitterly aware of how unlikely they were to end up anywhere good. The body was eight years old. They had nothing to their name but a very old wrist-watch, a handful of change they'd scrounged from gutters, and a piece of gum some lady in the parking lot had given them. And they had absolutely nowhere to go.

A shelter, maybe? Blue suggested tentatively. If it had been anyone else, Jay would have immediately put down the suggestion as stupid. Since it was his twin, though, all he said was a gentle, 'I don't think that's a good idea.' Blue had been yelled at far too much already. Usually by Vernon, although Petunia occasionally got into the act, as well.

Why not? Tom had to butt in. Jay rolled his eyes, crossing the next street at an easy jog, despite how winded it made them. Their back kept twinging too, in a very sharp, painful way that concerned them all.

Really? You wanna go to a shelter? They'll call the cops, and we'll end up right back where we started, that's why! Jay said fiercely. You really wanna go back to them? Get beat to shit some more? Get fu-

Shut up, Jay, Tom said icily. There were a few moments of chilly silence in their head. Jay bit his lip. He hadn't meant to go quite that far. He knew what a sore subject anything the Dursleys had done was. But it was so frustrating.

He looked around. He'd kept walking, mindless, while carrying on their internal turmoil, and now he hadn't the faintest where they were.

The only sign on the bedraggled street, hanging crookedly from a broken post, read Spinner's End.