After a few moments, they all heard a door upstairs click shut. It seemed Snape was true to his word.

Did he just leave a strange kid in his house all alone? Jay asked, dumbfounded by what seemed to him to be blatant stupidity.

Yes, Tom answered. But think about it. What exactly are we going to do? We can't go back outside. That man's out there. We can't steal things. He's a wizard. I know. I...remember. So he'd find out. Logically, there's no reason for us to do anything but what he suggested.

Wait, a wizard? What the fuck's a wizard?! Jay demanded. He looked angry inside, eyebrows scrunched tightly, but Tom knew it was only another facade for fear.

A person who can do magic, Tom explained patiently. Harry's one. Essentially, we are one. Although I don't know if everyone is capable of tapping into it. The Dursleys knew, it's why Vernon always called us a freak. We're not, though. People who can do magic are pretty damn special. There aren't a lot of them in the world.

Oh. Jay paused, digesting this information, then nodding. Well, in that case, if you're done standing in the hall like a gawp, can we go and get something to eat? I'm starving.

The light flickered in the kitchen when Tom flipped it on. The bulb was starting to die. No matter, they could find a sandwich (or two) and then go to bed. The body was absolutely exhausted, and so were most of the people living in it.

"Be careful now," Tom whispered to himself as he made a thick ham and cheese sandwich, pouring a glass of milk to go with it. Harry was a child, he needed his milk. Besides, Snape only had milk or water at the moment. Or firewhiskey, but that was clearly out of the picture, no matter how Jay scowled. It was likely one of those things Snape would deem valuable (or inappropriate for children). Tom had no desire to bring an angry Snape down on their necks.

Tom sat down on the floor, feeling the chill of the cracked tiles seep through their clothes, as he ate the sandwich he'd made. He hoped the spare room would be warmer. They needed to conserve warmth, and spending the rest of the night shivering didn't sound like a pleasant prospect.

Duh, Jay remarked. In that case, can we set fire to the bloody bed and use it to keep warm?

Tom didn't bother to favour this with a response as he got up, carefully brushed off the crumbs into the bin next to the counter, and set his glass inside the sink. He felt like he should wash it, but the exhaustion was crashing over him in dizzy-feeling waves, making him sway on the spot. Definitely time for bed.

The spare room was bigger than he'd expected and clearly kept clean and tidied. Contrary to his dismal expectations, the bed was heaped with green and silver blankets. It made Tom feel rather at home, remembering Slytherin House. Toeing off his overly worn shoes, he crawled into bed and was asleep in moments.

Their dreams were chaotic. Tom supposed he had expected it, but at the moment, he was naught but a bystander in a dream that was barely more than a re-enactment of a memory.

Harry was six years old. Six and he really, really wanted the shiny red car in the store display window. His bottom lip trembled without his control as he looked at it, hands pressed against the thick window glass. Dudley had already gotten six presents. All he had to do was point a chubby finger and whine, and Aunt Tunia or Uncle Vernon were right there, getting it for him with loving reassurances. Harry got none of that. He didn't expect it, really, but oh, how he wanted that red car! It was small and shiny and painted apple-red. The kind of car Dudley would never be interested in and thus, never break, never be lost in the depths of either of Dudley's crowded bedrooms.

But a hand curled around his painfully thin elbow and jerked him away, nearly yanking him off his feet, and he trotted after Uncle Vernon with a barely stifled sigh. The car would not be his. The car would sit in the window, in the childishly painted display, until some other child came along and picked it out, pointing at its smooth contours for a parent to notice and admire. The car was for other children, not freaks like him.

"Come along!" Uncle Vernon growled, and directed a swift cuff at the back of his head. He nodded and winced and carried on, and by dinnertime, he'd forgotten entirely about the candy-apple-red car in the store window.

Seven, seven, Harry was seven, or was it eight, or was it six, he couldn't remember anymore because it felt like his head was tearing apart at the seams, like his head was breaking, and it hurt so much, he nearly cried. He couldn't cry, though, crying was for babies, Uncle Vernon would give him something to cry about if he cried. Six, six, Harry was six, sex, do you know what sex is, Harry, do you know what this is, and then pain, so much pain, blinding him, making him nearly bite his lip through, and somehow, someone else was there, a pretty, pouty girl, Kitten, I like that sir, don't stop sir, oh yes, Uncle, yes, yes! and Harry subsided gratefully into the darkness, choked whimpers spilling from his lips, his head, his everything burning with sick, unquenched pain. And then Kitten was there, and no one talked about it. You couldn't talk about it. She was just there, and that was that, and when she slid out in the musty darkness of the basement or the cupboard, no one asked any questions.

At this last snippet of dream-memory, Harry jerked up awake, his hands flailing at the darkness around them, as if to ward off blows from a now imagined source. Nothing. His breathing sounded like the chuffed straining of a locomotive, and his heart felt like it would beat out of his shirt at any moment.

Six, sex, Harry like THIS, a phantom voice whispered in his head, and Harry pressed his hands tightly against his ears. No. That was enough. That was more than enough. He wasn't going to remember, no matter how much his mind wanted him to. He didn't want to, damn it, and nothing could make him.

After a few minutes, it subsided, as did the roaring in his ears. Harry leaned over and turned on the bedside lamp. It flickered to life, a meager warm light against the shadows that clustered round his bed. It wasn't a lot of light, but it was enough. He settled back under the thick mound of covers and closed his eyes, but it felt like hours before they fell asleep again.