Tim woke up, not where he expected to be. It was dark, but he knew by the feel of the blankets covering him that he was not at the Potter's. Someone had been drinking some sort of booze. Tim could smell it, stale and familiar, so it wasn't the hospital.

Keeping very still, as he always did when this sort of thing happened, he lay trying to make his mind catch up to his body. Where was he?

The last thing he remembered had been one of the healers giving him a thick potion and his parents (all right, they weren't his parents, but he liked to pretend), telling him that they'd be there when he woke up.

He heard a light click on. Not a wizard lamp, but an electric light, with a switch. For one mad moment, Tim wondered if he could have dreamed the whole Wizarding World. Perhaps his mum wasn't really dead and she was going to come in and tell him to go to sleep. It wouldn't be the first time his mum had taken him to one of her friend's places and stuck him asleep in the bedroom.

Or even better, perhaps Nana was going to come in and tell him the same thing, but more gently. Perhaps he'd fallen asleep at one of her friend's while they played whist?

No, if it were Nana, he wouldn't be smelling booze. At most, it would be wine or sherry.

The light came in through the half open door of the bedroom he was in, yellow and sickly. He heard the noise of the television. The bed he lay on was wide enough for two, with a few thin blankets. At the bottom of the bed was an old wardrobe. Threadbare brown curtains hung from the windows. The room smelled musty, as if the carpets had gotten wet and not dried out properly.

He could see the loo was through the other door.

He suddenly needed to use it very badly. Stealthily, he slipped off the bed to make use of the toilet.

Whoever was in the next room must have heard him when he flushed, "Boy?" a familiar voice called from the other room.

Tim's blood turned to ice water.

"That you creeping around in there, boy?" The man demanded.

"Y-yes." Tim whispered, deciding it was safest to jump back into bed.

The man opened the door, "Well, 'bout time you woke up." he said heartily, his smile wide, false, and oily. The man dressed like a muggle, but Tim knew, now, that the stick he carried was a wand, and meant he was a wizard.

He was taller than Mr. Potter and Tim knew that his mum had thought the man's blue eyes and dark hair handsome. His dirty jeans and shirt were what he normally wore he came to visit Tim and his mum. Tim used to wonder why the man didn't have more clothes, but Tim now wondered if the rest of his clothes were wizard robes that would stick out too much.

"Took them a while to find me after your mum's accident." he continued cheerfully, "I was away. But they said they told you all about wizards because you had magic. It must have just showed up, then. I thought sure you were a squib."

Tim nodded cautiously, the man seemed happy with the prospect that Tim had magic.

"Well, good. They said it would be best if I picked you up straight from the hospital. Your foster family didn't want a scene, you see." The man went on.

Tim's breath caught in his chest. So, the Potters had gotten tired of him, after all. They had sent a message to his father to come get him. Tim would have preferred an orphanage. Or a squat. Or the street. But no one had ever asked what he'd wanted. Ever.

Tim could feel his breathing speeding up in that alarming way that left him giddy and nauseous. Auntie Ginny wouldn't be coming to rub his back and tell him to slow down. Mr. Potter wouldn't come and wrap him in his arms and sing to him as if he were still little. He should have known better. They had gotten him to trust them, just a little and...

He is lying.

The voice, low, dark and silky, cut through his panic. Slowed Tim's thoughts and his heartbeat. It was a voice Tim had heard many times before. It was this voice that told him when and where to hide. This was the voice that told him to walk (not run) past a vicious dog and what to do when his mum had gotten sick with the booze or the smack. It was the voice that told him to hide his magic from this man and it was the voice that had helped Tim get his wild, uncooperative magic to turn his mother's boyfriend into a cockroach when the man got grabby.

Tim had heard the voice for as long as he could remember. He'd once told Mr Clark about it, who'd told Tim it was only the voice of his own good sense.

Tim's Nana had told him it was his guardian angel, "When you're just little, you can hear it clear. And then it comes clear again, when you're old like me." she'd said, "But it's always there, if you listen hard enough. And it won't ever steer you wrong." she'd said.

Tim liked to picture the angel that went with the voice. He thought that angels were always in white, but he could never picture this voice that way. His angel was tall and thin and dark, dressed in robes of black. He almost always crossed his arms and frowned fiercely. When he told Nana this, she'd laughed and told him she supposed that angels could look like anything they wanted to, "Maybe your angel needs to be fierce." she'd said after a moment of thought.

He is lying , the voice repeated, And he has stolen you

Tim thought of Auntie Ginny. How she was like Nana; easy to predict and gentle. How she already knew what his favorite foods were and she was teaching him to knit. How she showed him how witches and wizards really did ride on brooms, like in stories. How she made sure he understood what the healers were going to do before they did it. How she'd held his hand through his mum's funeral. How she didn't seem to mind if he woke her up at night with his bad dreams.

Tim thought of Lily. How she still liked him even when he shouted at her. How she ate her lunch with him at school, without ever complaining that he was a tagalong. How she made him laugh even when he didn't think he ever could again.

Tim though of Al and James who were so big, but who wanted to teach him to play Quidditch. Al was teaching him wizard chess and James had talked him into taking a ride by himself on Lily's broom.

Tim thought of Mr. Potter, who was a little scary at first (although the voice had told him there was, really, nothing to fear). Mr. Potter was different from most of the men Tim had ever known and he was some sort of cop. Tim had tiptoed around, waiting for an explosion that never came.

Mr. Potter liked chase around on a broomstick with the kids in the orchard, when he got the chance, and had taken Tim on rides on his broomstick. When he drank booze, it seemed like he could stop at one and it never made him mean. He seldom got more than annoyed, so far as Tim could see. He never raised hand or wand to Tim, Auntie Ginny, Lily or even Al and James who were as big as their father. He never teased Tim for being afraid of things and he had never lied to Tim, as far as Tim knew.

Yes, the voice was right. This man, this...what had Mum called the man that made him use his wand on her?...this sperm donor had stolen Tim from the family that wanted him.

Do not give him reason to harm you.

That made sense. He would find out where he was first, then make a plan. Tim plastered on a smile. The smarmy one, that had fooled so many teachers, cops and social workers, "Oh, Father!" he gushed (his mother had taught him to call the man this. She said he was "old fashioned"), "I'm so glad you came for me."

"So, you're glad to see me, then? Not happy with those posh buggers?" Tim thought the man looked a little suspicious as he said this.

Tim hastened to put him at ease, "Oh no, Father. It's not like they were really my family." Tim took a breath, "And it's not like they were all that good to me either." he said, allowing his face to fall.

That made the smile reach the man's eyes and the hand on his wand relax fractionally, "Oh, yeah?"

Tim nodded soberly, "I had to help the house elf, in the kitchen." this was true, Tim had spent several happy hours learning to make scones with Kreacher. "And they made me sleep in a cupboard. U-under the stairs." Tim hesitated over that detail. He'd read it in that book Mr. Potter had left lying around. Most of it hadn't been very interesting, but the bits about "The Boy" had caught Tim's attention, "Mr. Potter's ever so strict."

The man didn't notice Tim's hesitation. He was pleased that Tim was talking badly about the Potters, Tim could tell, "Well, that's over now. We'll stay here for a few days, just till you get your strength, then we'll move on." the man stopped for a moment, "What were you in hospital for, anyway? They-ah-forgot to tell me."

"Tonsils." said Tim, quickly. He didn't want to talk about the potion to the man who'd made him need it. He knew that several of his classmates in muggle school had had to go to hospital for tonsils (whatever they were).

The man nodded, seemingly satisfied, "Go on, back to sleep, then."

Tim hesitated. It was dark, he must have been here for hours. He hadn't eaten since the night before St. Mungo's "Um. I'm hungry." he said softly. He couldn't help but wonder why the man wanted him around, since he didn't seem interested in looking after him.

He sees you as his property. As he saw your mother.

The man rolled his eyes, as if he hadn't considered that, "I dunno what we got...Go look in the box." Tim remembered that the man often seemed to call things by odd names, as if he didn't know what they were really called. It made sense, now that Tim knew what he really was.

Tim got off the bed, walked into the other room, taking in the flat. It was just two rooms with a little tiny kitchenette. The fridge held sour milk, and not much else. He looked in the cupboard, there was a box of cereal.

"Not much here." Tim told the man quietly, he took a glass off the draining board, dragged a chair over to the sink and filled the glass up with water from the tap. He was very thirsty.

"You know how to do the thing with the phone your Mum did?" asked the man.

Thing with the phone?

"You mean order a pizza?" asked Tim, as he drained his glass.

The man nodded, "I got some muggle money. This enough?" he held out a fifty pound note.

Tim nodded. A pizza was about ten pounds. Maybe he could pocket the change. It seemed like money would help him get home once he escaped from here. Maybe he could pay some poor jonesing junkie to take him to take him somewhere.

"Go on then." said the man.

Tim stared at the phone, wishing the Potters had one. It was an old fashioned phone, with a cord connecting it to its' cradle. Tim wondered where they were. The phone and electric was on, so it wasn't a squat. The man seemed ill at ease here though, and there was nothing to indicate the man actually lived here. Perhaps it was one of those flats people rented by the week? Tim and his mum had stayed in one of those a couple of times.

"Where should I tell them to bring it?" asked Tim.

The man rattled off an address.

Tim found a phone book on a shelf under the table the phone was on. It was a London phone book. Tim considered dialing 999. He'd done that once when one of his mum's friends had gotten too sick. They'd taken him back to Nana's that night because they were taking his mum to jail. Tim didn't put much trust in the cops after that (he didn't mind going back to Nana's, but they didn't need to put his mum in jail. She'd gone up for a couple months that time). But he could get them to call Mr. Barton. He could tell them that Mr. Barton was his case worker.

Another thing to consider; the man was a wizard. He'd probably kill all the cops and then Tim would never get another chance to escape him. The man wasn't like Tim's mum's boyfriends. Tim couldn't just hide until he went off on a nod.

We need to call for help, the voice whispered in Tim's head, Wizard help

Tim thought about that as he searched through the phone book for the phone number of the pizza place. He ordered a pizza and a bottle of lemonade. Two of the few things he missed from the muggle world. He ordered the largest one they had, reckoning he'd want breakfast.

Tim remembered one morning at the school with Lily. It had been a chaotic morning and Tim had forgotten his lunch. He was most upset with himself and he didn't like to ask Miss Clearwater to call the Potters for it. "Just call Kreacher." Lily had said, when he'd explained it, "He'll hear you wherever you are."

It had worked, that day. Kreacher had popped in, bringing the forgotten lunch and being gone before Tim had to tell anyone at school, other than Lily, that he'd forgotten it.

Softly, he used the sound of putting down the phone to cover his whisper, "Kreacher? I need some help."