That night, they dreamed. Badly.

Harry is four years old when his uncle hits him for the first time. Before this, Harry's punishment has been relegated to Aunt Petunia, who scolds him with harsh words that scour his ears and who throws him in his cupboard. He's lived in the cupboard since he was two, and is quite used to it by now, although he wishes it didn't smell so badly of cleaning products. Sometimes, Aunt Petunia also takes his food away and tells him only good little boys get food. Dudley is the size of a baby walrus, so Harry supposes that Dudley must be extra good to make up for his badness.

But when Harry accidentally knocks over one of Dudley's toys and breaks a tiny bit off the corner, it seems he has gone too far. He looks up, fright drying his throat, as Uncle Vernon lumbers out of his fat, squashy armchair, his face gone nearly purple in rage. Harry cowers, his back pressing uncomfortably against the corner of the wall, but it only seems to enflame Uncle Vernon more.

"Worthless freak," Vernon rumbles, and somehow, this tone is even more scary than his usual, half-drunken yell. His hand flies up, and suddenly, there is a bright flash of pain in Harry's face, and then another, as the hand makes a return trip. Tears spill down his face, catching in his eyelashes and soaking his collar, but he knows better than to make a sound.

Hush little baby, don't you cry, Mama's gonna sing you a lullaby...The fragile, sweet strains echo brokenly in his head, and for a moment, he can imagine his mum is right there with him instead, lifting him up into her arms and smoothing his sweaty hair back, kissing the tears away.

Instead, his uncle shoves him, knocking him against the wall and leaving a rapidly darkening indentation down his spine. This bruise will be noticed by a neighbour the next day when Harry is out to help carry in the shopping, and Aunt Petunia has to do some fast talking, making up something about Harry having poor balance. The fact that someone noticed, that they were questioned as if they were bad parents! leads to another slap across the face. Harry always remains silent.

Harry is five years old when his uncle uses his belt on him. He has let a plate slip from nerveless fingers when Dudley kicked him. But of course, that does not matter to the bristly-mustached monster who styled himself Harry's uncle. His belt is looped around a meaty fist and flailing against Harry, wherever he can catch him, so quickly, Harry has time scarcely enough to blink. It hurts, it feels like Uncle Vernon is flaying his skin off in strips, but Harry still doesn't make a sound. His bottom lip caught between his teeth, he writhes and jerks in his uncle's grip until finally, the man's anger is satisfied and Harry is flung into his cupboard. He is not allowed to leave the house for three days.

More fragments of memory sliding past all of them like a fractured kaleidoscope. Somewhere deep inside the system, Freak stirred. Lost in the chaotic world of nightmares, Tom failed to notice as the boy unconsciously slipped past him to front. The body twisted and turned on the bed, tangling the sheets into a sweat-slimed mess.

Freak awoke, shivering like mad from the sweat drying on his skin. Tears already spurted from his eyes, dripping down red, raw cheeks. He had no idea where he was, he only knew that he should not be in a bed. Not a bed like this, in particular! It was so soft and warm. The blanket was a deep, emerald green, and Freak stroked it once with hesitant, slightly grubby fingers before realising what a bold move that was.

Peeping out from the bed curtains, he saw he was in a large dormitory-style room, with several other beds and presumably occupants. Everyone else seemed to be asleep. Still shivering in fear, looking around cautiously for Uncle, Freak grabbed a pillow and the lowest sheet, sliding under the bed to sleep. It seemed as good a place as any, and at least this way, he was out of the way. It wouldn't be easy for Uncle to find him and kick him awake like he usually did under the smirking pretense of "I didn't see you there."

Curling up tightly around his pillow, thumb tucked securely in his mouth, Freak tried to fall asleep again.

More nightmares. Always more nightmares.

When Harry is eight, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia think it will be funny to make him believe he's been abandoned at the supermarket. They leave him there in the parking lot for almost an hour before they come back. Uncle Vernon is laughing, one of those deep belly laughs that makes his whole body shake, and for a moment, Harry thinks he hates him. He stands there shivering, the sleeves of his sweatshirt pulled over his hands, and finally climbs into the car, curling his body against the door when it shuts, and trying to ignore Dudley's smirking, taunting face.

At ten, Harry finds himself trapped in a corner of the basement, ludicrously dressed in a satiny pink girl's outfit. It is too big for him and droops around his starving, unwashed body. Uncle Vernon approaches, but he holds no belt, has no clenched fist. His smile is vulpine and Harry feels like crying for a moment before Kitten takes over, sashaying toward Uncle Vernie with a smile quirking the corners of her mouth. Hi baby, I missed you, she whispers, and then Uncle Vernon's arms are around her, stroking down the pale line of her back, rucking up the satiny outfit in rustly bunches.

When the Hogwarts letter comes, Harry is sure he's finally gone mad. It couldn't be possible. Even though Hagrid has explained it to him ten times over, he cannot believe it. When the next day comes and he still has his things, his wand and books and even his speckled white owl (who has been inexplicably named Hedwig), he finally believes that it is real, and that magic is real, and that he is going to escape, he is going to be free, and the tears soak his shirt until Aunt Petunia raps hard on the door and tells him to get up and make breakfast before Vernon gives him a good thwack for being lazy, and he jumps up in a hurry, spilling his new school books all over the floor. It takes five minutes to pick up and Uncle Vernon delivers the aforementioned thwack to his shoulder, impressing a vivid blue-purple bruise into the skin (although he can't remember it), but the smile never leaves his face.

And so he might have kept smiling, until the alarm went off and suddenly, he was being pulled out into the dim light of the dormitory, blinking and thrashing. And Blaise was there, asking what on earth he was doing under the bed, and Harry had no answer. No answer at all.