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Chapter Text

Charlus was crying. Harry dropped the sponge in the sink, patted his hands on his apron, and rushed to the drawing room.

"Aww, Charlie," he said in a soft tone, cuddling him into his arms and gently rocking him to calm him down. His infant brother instantly quieted, finding himself in Harry's safe embrace. "I am here, okay? Are you hungry? Is that why you are crying, or...?"

He brought the baby close to his face to sniff his swaddled bottom.

"Don't worry, I will wash you and feed you," he said with a smile.

"What the bloody fuck were you doing?" his half-sister Leonie walked into the room, dressed in a beautiful gown, looking like a model from Witch Weekly. "He has been wailing for hours. For fuck's sake, you can't even do a single thing. I don't even know why Father allows you to live here; you are completely useless! Dirty squib."

Harry's face reddened, but instead of saying anything, he pressed his half-brother closer to his chest and left the room. There was no point in arguing with Leonie. Harry had learned his lesson. His stepmother would take her side and his father didn't like scolding his little princess.

Harry didn't have magic. It was one of the most devastating things that happened to him. His mother sacrificed herself to save him, and Harry turned out to be a useless, magicless squib who kept on making his father feel sorry. James Potter had defeated Voldemort saving his infant son. Lily Potter had died, sacrificing herself for Harry.

James took Lily's death hard, but he married again two years later to a pureblood witch Amelie Lestrange. He had a daughter with her shortly after, Harry's half-sister Leonie, who was named after her maternal grandmother. She was three years younger than Harry but unlike him had powerful magic and was James's pride. She was a 3rd year student at Hogwarts, top of her year.

Harry had always dreamed of Hogwarts, but he had never got the chance to attend as he didn't have any magic.

He went to a regular Muggle school and would graduate soon and was thinking of attending some kind of technical college, becoming a baker or something like that as he wasn't exactly gifted academically either. His stepmother reminded him constantly that he couldn't become a burden on his father and needed to sort out his life and support himself. He was a stain on James's reputation. His firstborn son was not only a half-blood but was a squib.

He bathed Charlus and dressed him in a fresh pair of clothes. His little brother liked him. Harry could feel it as he always smiled and giggled whenever Harry played with him.

"Well," he said, tickling Charlie on his belly. "Let's go get some food for you."

Harry washed and cooked carrots, then used a food processor to make a smooth puree. He didn't have any magic and had to use Muggle equipment to take care of everything. Charlus looked happy about the food as he ate it eagerly when Harry spoon-fed it to him.

"She has been a handful," he heard his stepmother's voice, coming from the drawing room. "I am scared to imagine the amount of wizards that are going to chase her once she grows up. She is already breaking hearts at her age."

"She looks like Euphemia when she was young," Harry heard his grandfather's voice.

"She does," his stepmother agreed with a chuckle.

"What about the squib?" Fleamont asked. "I get so upset every time I remember the big mistake James made marrying that girl and producing that boy."

"Merlin knows, she had bewitched my boy with love potions," Euphemia said. "He had to endure so much because of her and now her son is dragging his name through the mud."

"Well," Amelie chuckled awkwardly, "Harry is almost old enough to leave. He will leave once he is 18. You know James. He wants to take care of his son until he is settled."

They walked into the kitchen where Harry was and Harry gulped, feeling almost ashamed that he had heard their conversation which he knew wasn't for his ears.

"Look at that," his grandmother squealed. "My sweet little Charlus. You have grown up so much."

She pushed Harry aside, using her wand and Harry almost fell to the ground. The woman hugged Charlus and kissed him on the top of his head.

"Flowers for you, Amelie," Fleamont said, handing a bouquet of flowers to Harry's stepmother.

"Harry, trim this and put them in a vase," she ordered.

Harry nodded. He hurried to put the carrot puree on the counter and grabbed the flowers and left the kitchens to take care of the flowers. Despite having no magic, Harry was determined to help with whatever he could. He gently cut the stems and placed the flowers into the vase full of water. The shears accidently wobbled in his hands and cut his finger. The blood started pouring. Harry held the wound and rushed into the kitchen.

"Mum, could you heal this?" he asked shyly. "I cut myself accidentally."

"Harry you need to learn to live without magic," the woman told him. "You are a grown-up almost and would need to take care of things yourself. Are you going to run to me and your father every time you scratch your hand?"

Harry nodded. He held the wound under the cold running tap water and placed a bandaid on it.

Chapter Text

Harry polished the last wine glass and placed it in the cabinet. His arms were hurting. He had been cooking and cleaning the whole day and then washing all the dishes, drying and polishing them. His stepmother asked him to make dinner for his grandparents which included him preparing consommé that took several hours. Harry wasn't even sure why they needed 15-course meal when it was just three of them eating.

He had to eat alone on the kitchen floor, back pressed against the cabinets, while Charlie was playing around him to watch his little brother. He was going to fail his math test tomorrow as he didn't have any time to study for it.

Harry was ready to go to his room and sleep even though it wasn't even night yet. He heard the floo activate in the drawing room. He rushed to see who it was, as there was always a sense of dread surrounding him when someone popped into their house, and he was alone with Charlie. People talked how Voldemort wasn't dead, and he would be back to kill Harry.

He firmly held his brother in his arms, shielding him from a possible attack and cautiously stepped inside the drawing room.

"Harry?" his father greeted him and then his face broke into a large grin when Charlus spotted him and started squirming in Harry's arms, demanding to be picked by his father. "Come here, little lad."

His father picked Charlus and peppered him with gentle kisses.

"You've missed me, haven't you?" he asked softly. "I missed you too."

Charlus looked so happy. Harry remembered being just as happy when he was Charlus's age to be in his father's safe arms. James Potter was the head of the magical law enforcement and was very busy. There were times when he wasn't home for a whole week, chasing after dark wizards, keeping the wizarding world safe. Harry often missed him growing up and felt very lonely on the days he didn't get to see his father.

"Where is your mum?" James asked as he walked towards the kitchens.

"She went to pick up Leonie's dress robes from Madam Malkin's," Harry told him. "Are you hungry?"

"I could eat," his father said, setting Harry's little brother on the chair. "Well, to be honest, I could devour anything."

Harry hurried to set up the table for his father and place all the dishes he had made earlier.

"Wow, that looks like a feast," James smiled. "Your mum must have been very busy today to cook all these dishes.. Am I forgetting some kind of important occasion?"

"Well, grandparents came to visit," Harry told him, pouring tea for himself.

"What is that?" James grabbed Harry's hand abruptly, scaring Harry.

Harry stared at him confused and realised that James was glaring at the bandaid wrapped around his hand.

"Oh, that's just a scratch," Harry said awkwardly. "I was trimming flowers and accidentally cut myself."

"Harry!" his father shook his head, scolding him. "You need to be careful. When these things happen, ask your sister to heal you. Where is she actually?"

James pulled out his wand and cast healing charms. The burning sensation Harry was feeling immediately disappeared. Harry felt guilty that he was burdening his father with his stupid mistakes.

"She is at Hogsmeade with friends," Harry told the elder Potter as the man started eating.

"This is delicious," James declared. "Your mum has truly outdone herself."

Harry felt a pang of pain in his chest but knew better than to tell his father that he made the meals. His stepmother would be upset at how ungrateful Harry was that he made a big deal out of cooking a simple meal and wanted special treatment because of it. It felt wrong to try to demand credit for doing things that people living at home should be doing anyway.

"Why hasn't she taken you with her?" James asked. "Hogsmeade is fun. You should always go with your sister."

"That's fine," Harry rushed to assure. "I needed to watch Charlie. It's fun to spend time with him. He is my best mate, aren't you Charlie?"

Charlie nodded enthusiastically. Harry smiled at his little brother.

"Well," James smiled at them. "Look at you two, my best boys. What do you say we go to a match of Quidditch this coming weekend? I will have a bit of a spare time and bought tickets for us?"

"Really?" Harry jumped up happily. "Are you sure, dad? I know that Leonie loves Quidditch more, and she plays it too."

James patted Harry's head. "It'll be a boy's night," he said with a grin.

Chapter Text

Harry pedaled furiously, firmly holding the handles of his bike as he rushed to get back home. The teacher wanted to discuss additional classwork so Harry was late. He wanted to get back home as soon as possible as his father was waiting for him for the quidditch match. He had been looking forward to the match the entire week and now that it was finally time to go, the teacher had to delay him with useless information.

Harry entered through the gates, dropped his bike in the yard and rushed into the house, breathless and exhausted, but at the same time brimming with restless excitement.

His stepmother was in the hall when he walked inside.

"You are back home," she smiled. "Perfect. I need you to go the shop and buy some fresh strawberries for Charlus."

Harry took a deep breath, trying to catch his breath. He would be late if he went to the shop, but if he biked really fast, he could make it in time.

"Okay," he told her.

She stared at him expectantly and then blinked, irritated.

"What are you waiting for?" she asked, motioning at the door as if she thought Harry was stupid and didn't know what way to move.

Harry shifted shyly and shrugged his shoulders a little.

"I was... well," she didn't give him any money to make the run to the shop. "I don't have any money."

"Your father gave you money last week," she raised an eyebrow.

"That was... er... that was for lunch," Harry was saving it to buy himself a new phone. His parents didn't need one, but he was practically a muggle and needed a phone. All his classmates had one.

"You had packed lunch the whole week, so I know you have the money," she sighed and crossed her arms disapprovingly. "All your needs are met and provided for. What are you trying to do with that money?"

"Okay, I will go and get it," Harry said quietly and turned around.

"Harry," James's voice stopped him in his tracks. "We'll be late. Where are you going?"

"Oh, I am sending him to get some strawberries for Charlus," his stepmother said with a smile. "What do you mean you will be late?"

"I am taking the boys to a quidditch match," James said with a smile. "I am afraid, Charlie will have to wait for his strawberries. We need to go now."

"James," Amelie sighed. "I have asked you to always tell me when you make plans like this. Harry, darling, can you give me a moment with your father?"

Harry nodded and left the room. He stayed by the door and could hear their voices.

"James, I told you last week that your mother invited us over," she said. "You agreed to go and now you are saying that you are going to a quidditch game? It'll be awfully rude to your parents."

"I don't remember you telling me that," James countered. "Don't worry, I will floo them and tell them we can't make it."

"No," Amelie almost shouted, "I will not be humiliated in front of your parents. You know how long it took them to accept me after your first wife's passing. You are intentionally creating a situation where I appear as someone with no manners and decorum."

James snorted.

"They definitely like you better than Lily, and she has been dead for years, do you have to bring her up for every argument?" James told her, voice full of venom.

"Because even after I gave you two children you keep on muttering about her?" she screamed. "And you still have her stuff. Why don't you throw away that old rubbish?"

"Lily's jewelry is for Harry. He has the right to have them and give them to his wife when he marries," James told her sternly. "Now stop this."

Amelie burst into tears.

"James," she begged. "You promised we would go see your parents. The children can go together to the quidditch match."

"I don't remember you ever telling me about this," James sighed. "I have been very busy recently. I suppose it might have slipped my mind. Fine, we can go to my parents. Harry and Leonie can go together with Charlie."

Harry's heart sank as he realised that he wasn't going anywhere. He gulped and moved away from the door.

Charlie noticed him walking into his bedroom and started squealing for him. Harry supposed Charlie liked Harry so much because he looked so much like his father. He was told he had his mother's eyes.

"Children," his stepmother called, looking so happy that it seemed almost surreal that she was screaming and crying a moment ago. "We are going to your grandparent's place. The three of you can go to the quidditch match, but make sure to watch Charlie."

"Thank you, Father," Leonie pulled the tickets from their father's hands.

When they left his half-sister glared at Harry and smirked. "You didn't think you would go, did you?" she mocked. "Sorry, I am taking this. I am going with my boyfriend."

Draco Malfoy, Leonie's disgusting boyfriend, came a couple of times to their house when Dad wasn't home. The two of them petrified Harry with magic and then played down the clown game, throwing water-filled balloons at him. Malfoy threatened to turn Harry into a toad a couple of times. Harry hated the git.

Chapter Text

"Scarface," Malfoy called. "Bring refreshments. Hurry up before I turn you into the snail that you are."

Harry was on his knees scrubbing the kitchen floors. He put down the soapy washcloth and got up to cut fresh fruits and some of the pudding he had made that afternoon. 

"Look at that, Leonie," Malfoy said, crossing his legs as Harry emerged through the doors and walked into the drawing room, carrying a tray of food and drinks. "Your house elf looks a little wonky. What do you say we fix him up a little?"

Leonie glared at him and brushed back her silky curls. 

"Elves are magical. This abomination doesn't have any magic," she said with a snort. "People say he likes looks like my dad, but they are just sparing his feelings. He looks exactly like his whore of a dead mother."

Harry dropped the tray on the table. The glass fell down, shattered into pieces and a sharp shard flew and stabbed his half-sister in the arm. She screamed and fell back, holding her bleeding arm. 

"What the bloody fuck, Potter?" Malfoy screamed holding his wand at Harry's throat. "Do you want me to kill you?"

Leonie pulled the shard out of her arm, threw it away and brought up her hand. Her beautiful face was twisted with anger. 

"Draconifors," she screamed. 

A piece of broken glass turned into a tiny dragon and flew directly at Harry. Harry was so amazed at seeing magic up close that he froze in place.

The dragon landed on top of Harry's head and blew a whiff of fire, setting Harry's head on fire. Harry panicked and fell down trying to reach for the juice, but Leonie stepped on his hand. The dragon flew toward Harry's bare arm and bit his arm. Harry screamed in pain. 

The smell of burnt hair spread at home. Malfoy dumped water from the flower vase on Harry's burning head, killing the fire.

Leonie stepped off of his hand. Harry reached to clutch his head in pain. His hair had burnt and a thin layer of his skin was burnt too. 

He was in pain. Tears were dripping down his face. His arm was bleeding. 

"Pathetic," Leonie spat. "If you tattle on me, I swear, I will pull your eyes out. You have your mummy's eyes, don't you? You wouldn't want me to burn your eyes?"

Harry sobbed.

"I can't hear you," she kicked him.

"I won't say anything to anyone," Harry cried, crawling away. 

"Good," Leonie whispered. "Because no one will believe you. You are such a disappointment. You burnt your hair on the stove—brought it too close to the fire, got it?"

Harry nodded.

His half-sister smiled, satisfied. Malfoy looked at him with disgust and a slight pity. 

Harry wished he had just died instead of his mother. If Harry died and his mother lived, she would be his father's wife and an evil person like Leonie would have never been born.

"Clean the mess you've made," she ordered. "And stop whining, you're giving me a headache."

Harry's body was aching. He hated Leonie and sometimes he thought of smothering her in her sleep and when he had those thoughts, he felt so disgusted by himself. If only he had magic to protect himself, this would have never happened. 

He cleaned everything with shaking hands and ran away from the drawing room. He couldn't wait until he was old enough to leave this house and never come back. He was feeling so alone and scared. There was nothing here for Harry. There was no one to rely on and no one to confide in.

Harry simply went back to the kitchen, disposed of the shards of the broken glass and the food that fell down on the floor, finished scrubbing the floors in the kitchen and then only went out to buy bandages and wound cleaning products from a muggle pharmacy. He put on a hat to protect his head, but with every move the fabric touched his wound, making him twist in agony. 

The air was cold outside, and it made Harry feel better. He looked at the posters attached to the traffic light signs, advertising flats for rent and considered for a moment to run away from home, get a job and rent a flat for himself. He wouldn't have to see his half-sister or his stepmother and even his grandparents. His father was always away at work, so he wasn't spending much time with the man anyways. He would miss Charlie, but he couldn't take the pain anymore. 

He wanted to avoid meeting any people so he took a shortcut through the thin path in the woods. Harry was told to avoid these woods as magical creatures sometimes wandered there and they could be very dangerous. 

He walked quickly, crying quietly, trying to calm his breathing, but then a heard a strange voice calling for help.

Chapter Text

Harry slowly shuffled closer to the sound, feeling apprehensive and confused.

"Who is there?" he called. "Are you injured?"

"You can hear me?" the voice sounded surprised and breathless. "Help me, please."

Harry's heart started beating faster. He gulped, but the fear and the pain he was feeling weren't enough to stop him from helping someone who sounded like was also in pain and needed help. He had heard of creatures hiding in the dark who often pretended to be little children or vulnerable, old people to lure away unsuspecting muggles and then they ate them. 

Just because he knew there was danger hiding in the dark, didn't mean he was going to turn his back to someone potentially in need. Evil beings took advantage of people's empathy and used it to hurt people, but Harry couldn't allow that to make him an evil being forsaking others.

"Wait," he called, walking towards the voice coming from behind the trees.

"Boy, what are you doing here?" someone demanded, making Harry turn around, startled. "Bloody muggles!"

Harry noticed he was wearing an Auror's uniform and had his wand pulled up. It must have been one of the Aurors that worked for his dad, patrolling the woods. He didn't know Harry as Harry rarely made an appearance with his father. It was always Leonie and Charlus in the pictures for Daily Prophet. Harry was always at his muggle school when these things happened.

"Someone over there needs help," he hurried to say. "They are calling for help."

"Where?" the Auror turned his wand up toward the direction of where Harry was looking at.

"That way," Harry pointed at the trees where he heard the calls for help were coming from. The Auror stared at him suspiciously, probably wondering if Harry himself was some kind of vile creature in disguise. Harry could tell him that he was James Potter's son, but he didn't want his father to know that he was wandering in the woods. The man had enough problems to deal with and babysitting his almost adult son would have been embarrassing for Harry.

The Auror walked up to the spot Harry had pointed and looked around confused.

"There is nothing here, boy," he said, clearly annoyed.

"I swear, I heard someone calling for help," Harry said earnestly, but doubting himself as clearly, the Auror didn't see anything. Maybe he was delirious with pain and heard things.

"Help me," the voice moaned again.

"There, didn't you hear that?" Harry demanded, trying to walk where the Auror was standing, but the man pulled him back.

"Go home, boy," he said. "Don't wander in these woods."

"But..." Harry tried to argue.

"No buts, leave," the man demanded waving his wand snappily.

Harry didn't want to leave. Someone was clearly in trouble. He swallowed the hardness in his throat and nodded. He would come back once the man was gone. Harry was often calling for help, and no one would come and help him. He wished someone heard his cries for help and rescued him.

He walked faster, feeling the Auror's gaze fixed on his back. He lifted his arm to hide the burns but realised there were none on his arm. He rubbed his skin in confusion and then pulled up his hat and when he brought his hands, he felt his unruly hair sticking from all sides. There were no burns. Harry's eyes widened. Did Auror notice his scars and burns and heal him?

He was so focused on helping the person in trouble, that he hadn't even realised when his wounds were healed and when his hair grew back.

Maybe Auror was right, and Harry imagined the sound because he was in pain. He was confused and startled, so he ran out of the woods. He was almost by the city so he decided to walk a little longer. He had a little bit of money so he decided to get some chocolate-covered biscuit bar from the store.

He rarely bought anything for himself. He could get a part-time job then he wouldn't need to be home the entire day on most days. He didn't even need to tell his dad or stepmother about it. He could lie and tell them it was for his muggle school. Neither of them went to a muggle school, so they wouldn't even know. He could save enough money and move out.

He bought the biscuit bar and looked at the hiring sign on the door.

"Where can I apply?" he asked.

The girl looked at him with dead eyes and handed him a form. Fill it out and bring it on Monday. The boss is here on Mondays," she told him.

"Thank you," Harry told her, grabbing the paper and giving it a cursory look.

He sat outside and slowly ate the biscuits. The sun was faint, but it was warming his back pleasantly.

Chapter Text

Leonie was watching him. Harry could feel her intense eyes following his every movement.

"What's up with the hat?" his father asked, adjusting Charlie in his lap.

Harry blinked startled, realising that he hadn't removed the hat.

"It was..." he started but was instantly interrupted by his half-sister.

"He had burnt his head using that muggle stove," she said, glaring at him. "I tried to heal him, Father, but Harry's burns were really above my level of healing magic. I told him he should come to you or Mother, but he didn't want either of you to know that he endangered himself with his reckless behaviour."

"Harry!" James scolded. "Remove the hat right now. How could you burn yourself and on top of that, try to hide it from me?"

"I am sorry, Dad," Harry mumbled, daring a glance at Leonie. Her eyes were narrowed at him. Harry reached for the hat and wasn't sure how his half-sister would take the lack of burns on his head. "But I'm fine. It was nothing serious."

"You are lately very clumsy," James sighed. "Is something going on with you, Harry? Come here, let me take a look."

Harry pulled the hat and heard his half-sister's gasp.

"It looks like my healing charms worked just fine," she said, anxiously shifting on her seat.

James cast a series of spells.

"Goodness, Harry," he said horrified. "What have you done that this kind of healing magic needed to be used to heal your head? Do you know how much magic your head is seeped in?"

The nice Auror had helped Harry, but Harry couldn't even give the man proper credit.

"Did you cast all of these healing charms, Leonie?" James asked. "This is an advanced level of magic. Most healers don't even possess this kind of natural healing magic. You must really care for your brother."

"I really do," she smiled. "After all, Harry is a squib and needs my help a lot. I can't just turn my back on him, can I now?"

She gave him another pointed look that promised retaliation if Harry opened his mouth and told anything to their dad.

"Good job, Leonie!" James said, ruffling her hair.

"What is happening?" Harry's stepmother asked cheerfully. "What did you do, Leonie?"

"Harry burnt his head accidentally, and Leonie had healed him," James told her. "She has a remarkably strong magic for her age that even trained healers don't possess. I think she would make an excellent healer."

"Oh, I see," Amelie smiled tersely, looking at Harry and then at her daughter. "That's very good to hear. Leonie, dear, could you come and help me with something?"

Leonie nodded and got up. Charlie started squirming in James's arms, trying to reach for Harry.

"Hey, little lad, do you no longer miss your dad?" James chuckled. "Well, Harry, it looks like this little man wants your company."

Harry reached out to pick up Charlus.

"It seems, he needs his nappies changed," Harry said, wrinkling his nose. "Let's get you cleaned up, Charlie."

Harry got up and walked towards the nursery when his father stopped him.

"If something was wrong, you would tell me, right Harry?" he asked.

Harry nodded, feeling guilty. He walked out of the drawing room as fast as he could, holding Charlie tightly against his chest.

"Don't lie to me, girl," he heard his stepmother's hushed voice. "I am not your father, I can see through your little, nasty lies. I told you several times don't maim the boy. One day your father will find out about this, and you won't be able to hide behind lies and tears."

"I am not lying," Leonie insisted. "What is it to you, anyway? It's not like you like that dirty squib."

Amelie slapped her daughter on the cheek, her eyes burning with rage.

"I have taught you better," she said with a shaking voice, anger dripping from her tone. "You are a pureblood witch not a hag from the Knockturn Alley, show some propriety that is suitable for your station. Pureblood witches of our standing do not lower ourselves to the usage of such unseemly slurs. One day you will be the wife of a head of a government, be that of Britain or France, and I will not have you embarrass me or your father."

"I don't want to be anyone's wife," Leonie complained. "What? Do you like your life as the wife of the Head of the Magical Law Enforcement?"

"I do," Amelie said. "And I worked hard for my marriage, and I won't have you ruin it by maiming the boy. James will blame me for your improper behaviour."

"He hurt me first," Leonie cried.

"I don't care," her mother told her. "Do not leave marks on the boy."

Harry rushed to leave before the two of them noticed Harry.

Chapter Text

The school was just over. Harry hadn't taken his bike because one of the tires had worn out, and he didn't get the chance to get a replacement. He could feel his cousin Dudley and his gang of boys following him. Harry and Dudley knew each other very briefly. Harry knew that Dudley was his mother's sister's son. He met Aunt Petunia once, but despite being a magicless squib, his aunt who hated magic, still hated him too.

Dudley disliked Harry for some reason and perceived him as an easy target which Harry was as he didn't have any friends at school. They bullied him relentlessly. He often found his books thrown like a ball and his things scattered in the classroom. They chased Harry and at times even beat him up. There was a lot of competition in Harry's life for hurting him, and Harry was sure they all were winning, and he was the only loser.

He noticed them as soon as he left the school gates. There were four of them. Harry could see their tall and bulky shadows moving as he walked further away from the school. Harry's first thought was to run because no matter what these gits couldn't keep up with him—he was skinnier, lightweight and more agile than any of them could dream to be.

He normally would walk through the town when he walked back home, often making a game out of watching the little cracks on the pavement where small plants dug their way out, but now he turned towards the woods as soon as he could. He would take his chances with man-eating monsters than his cousin and the git's friends.

As soon as his feet hit the soft soil of the woods, he ran. He could hear the boys behind him, panting and heaving, but soon their sounds disappeared. Harry came to a sudden halt and took a deep breath. He looked back to see if he could spot Dudley or any of the other guys, but there was no one.

"Why do these muggle kiddies have to wander about in my shift?" he heard the grumbling voice behind him and turned around to look at the Auror from yesterday. The man looked more grumpy and unhappy than yesterday, and he had his wand drawn as if he was ready to strike Harry. "What are you doing here, boy?"

"I am sorry," Harry leaned down to hug his sore knees and tried to catch his breath. "I was running away from... from some school friends. I am... I am sorry to wander over here again. I won't do it. But I also want to thank you for healing me yesterday."

The Auror didn't look convinced and then he narrowed his eyes and glared at Harry in confusion.

"Healed you?" he said incredulously. "What are you on about?"

"Oh, I know you are an Auror from your uniform," Harry said shyly, thinking the kind Auror didn't want to disclose magic to a muggle. "My father is an Auror too. I was injured yesterday. Had some burns on my head and arms, and I am thankful that you healed me."

"Your father is an Auror?" the man's hostile attitude softened a little. "You don't seem to have magic yourself. Squib, eh? Who is your father?"

"James Potter," Harry said with shame, regretting that he had to humiliate his father in this way.

"I didn't know Mr Potter has a squib son. You must be the kid from his first marriage. That ended tragic. Hmm, sad, you are magicless after all that," the man said with a frown. "Well, don't wander into the forest, kid. It's dangerous in here. And you don't have magic to protect yourself."

Harry nodded, biting his lip.

"Also, kid, I didn't heal you," the man told him. "Don't know what happened to you, but I didn't use any magic on you."

"Help me," a voice murmured.

Harry strode towards the sound.

"Did you hear that?" he asked the Auror. "Someone is calling for help."

"You said that yesterday too," the man glared at him. "There was no one there."

"Help, please," the voice begged.

"I can hear it clearly," Harry said, moving towards the sound. "It's coming from there."

The Auror shook his head, mumbled something about squib fever and followed Harry. Harry slowly moved through the thickly-leafed trees towards the moaning and grunting. His steps were quiet and careful. If this was a monster tricking Harry, he needed to be cautious about going there and not alerting them.

Harry turned and stared down at the strange scene in front of him, that almost made him vomit. Under an old tree, on the blackened grass, surrounded by dead rotting flowers, lay something that almost looked like a human. It was horrifically disfigured; his skin as if burnt and peeled off, at parts the skeleton was visible, and there were translucent-looking maggots feasting on his flesh around his open abdomen.

Harry gagged and he turned towards the Auror, face contorted in horror and disgust.

"What has happened to him?" he asked with a shaking voice.

"To whom?" the Auror sighed.

"It looks like a man and oh my god, I think he is still alive, despite his state. We need to call for help," Harry begged.

"What are you on about, kid?" the man demanded staring blankly where the man was lying. "There is no one there. You seem to be mad as a March hare. There is nothing there. Go home, or I will tell your dad what you are up to."

Harry shook his head. How could the man not see the thing lying there? Harry stared. It seemed to be breathing, but wasn't conscious anymore. He was tall and broad, but there was no face or features left on his peeled-off, lacerated face. His skin tissue was completely missing. It was just flesh and bones. It was horrific.

The thing suddenly opened his eyes and red stared back at Harry. His irises were either drenched in blood or the thing had red eyes.

Harry stumbled back in fear.

"You can see me?" the thing murmured hoarsely and looked as surprised as one with severe disfigurement and lack of facial features could look.

Chapter Text

Harry's hands trembled as he kneeled in front of the disfigured man. He tentatively outstretched his hand and brushed over the man's bloody lacerated face with his fingertips. The man moaned in pain, making Harry retreat his hand and wince apologetically. Harry stared at his fingertips and noticed the smudged stains of blood.

The man was real. He was in pain and was suffering a horrific fate, yet, the Auror standing behind Harry pretended not to see the man.

"You can see me and touch me," the man murmured again, his voice full of pain and discomfort. "Help me, please!"

Harry glanced back at the Auror and pretended to tie his shoelaces.

"I will come back and help you," Harry whispered. "When the Auror is gone. I will call the police and the ambulance and maybe even tell my dad."

The man opened his bloodred eyes and stared at Harry, horrified.

"You speak?" his bony fingers flicked as he tried to lift them up, but the meat on the bones peeled off, making him sob in pain. He shuddered, his bloody tissues contorted and Harry gagged in disgust as he noticed the swarm of insect eggs wedged inside the man's flesh. They were eating him and growing their larvae inside his tissues.

"I will help you, promise," Harry said, trying to get up and falling down as the sight made him weak and feeble. He had never witnessed something quite this disturbing before.

"Boy, what is wrong with you?" the Auror, standing behind him, barked. "Why are you hissing like a bloody animal? Get out. No wonder Potter doesn't want you out in the public."

Harry glared at the man but held himself back. He learned to keep his mouth shut.

"I am sorry," he apologised. "I was having trouble tying my shoelaces. I will go now."

The Auror cursed under his breath and shook his head. Taking advantage of the man's momentary distraction caused by his annoyance with Harry, Harry hurried to leave. Memorising the spot in the forest to come back and help the man when the Auror wasn't there, he wondered if the Auror could not really see the man or if he was pretending not to see him. Harry's experience with wizards and witches told him that they were not exactly good people. The only good wizard he knew was his father.

Harry needed to tell his dad about this and have him help the poor man before he died. Harry's heart dropped into his stomach. The man was barely alive, being eaten by maggots, Harry couldn't just sit around and wait for his dad. He needed to get to the nearest phone and call the ambulance and the police. The man in the forest needed urgent help. Harry started running.

He came out of the forest, gripped his knees to take a breath and continued towards the house. He would phone the ambulance from there and maybe even the muggle police. The man needed urgent help.

It took him about ten more minutes to sprint through the forest and then run the streets to get home. When he opened the door and walked in, the first thing he noticed was the unusual silence. Usually, he could hear the music box playing his little brother's favourite songs. His wildly drumming heart accelerated even more as he feared that someone broke in and hurt his brother.

Forgetting about the phone, he rushed to the drawing room and was greeted by his half-sister's surly face.

"Well, aren't you late?" she taunted. "Did your squiby legs give out?"

"Ninie," Malfoy addressed Harry's half-sister, pulling her closer. "Don't be harsh on him, his brain had spilled out from that scar on his face. Poor thing is slow."

"Where is Charlie?" Harry asked panicked. There was no telling with Leonie. She might hurt Charlus too if she thought that would hurt Harry.

"You disgusting weirdo," Leonie screamed. "I will tell Mum about your disgusting obsession with my brother. You are always looking odd at him. Must be those filthy mudblood genes in you. Let's see what Father thinks when I tell him how you are abusing my brother."

"What?" Harry stared at Leonie, horrified. "What has happened to Charlie? What have you done to him?"

"Because of you Mother scolded me," she said, seething. "You are ruining everything. Maybe, I should teach you a lesson so you will learn to stay as quiet as a mouse."

She lifted her wand and mumbled something, making Harry feel nauseous, and then he vomited on the floor.

"Disgusting," Leonie scoffed.

Harry felt like his insides were being blended with a spoon. He tried to move towards the bathroom but vomited again. He fell to the ground and felt like he would faint from an inability to breathe.

"Finite," Leonie said, somehow sounding cheerful.

The pain and nausea stopped, but Harry felt too weak to move, still lying in the pool of his own vomit. His face was pale and wet with sweat.

"I am going to tell Father that you have been abusing Charlie," she said, lowering her head to whisper into Harry's ear. "If I have to carve that spawn's face to prove it, I will. So if you don't want me to tell him that, leave and don't come back here ever again. You are a disappointment and nothing else to Father. He has his own family now. You are not family, and you do not belong here."

Harry shook, his body spasming in shock.

"Don't hurt Charlie," he begged.

"If you show your face back home, I will hurt him," she promised.

"Okay," Harry crawled up. "I will leave, please just don't hurt him. I will get my things and leave."

"Your things?" Leonie laughed. "You have nothing here. You are just a freeloader who leaches off my mum and dad. Clean your mess and leave."

Harry was still weak and breathless when he cleaned the floor, grabbed his schoolbag and left.

Where was he supposed to go? Was he supposed to sleep on the street? He rubbed his stomach, still feeling queasy and sick. Harry walked towards the forest and then his heartbeat accelerated when he realised he had forgotten about the man. He needed to help the man. Running with the last bit of strength left in him, Harry was soon in the forest. It was still light outside, but the threes were getting ticker and less sunlight was able to penetrate through the thick foliage.

Harry reached the spot where the disfigured man was lying. He watched carefully for the Auror, but the man wasn't there. Harry moved closer. His heart drummed inside his chest when he saw the disfigured man still lying on the ground.

"What has happened to you?" Harry asked gently, kneeling in front of the man.

The man didn't move. Harry lowered his head towards his chest in panic, thinking he was late, but the man's heart was still beating. How was he even alive in this state? Harry took out his jacket and wrapped it around the man's torso, realising that the disfigured stranger was naked.

Harry tried to move him up, but hesitated, realising that the man might have spine damage as he wasn't moving at all. Harry didn't get the chance to call for any help, and now he didn't have a choice. Lying alone in the forest while maggots ate him was worse than whatever damage Harry could cause. The man was big, but he was thin and so much of his skin and tissue were missing that Harry was able to lift it up and hold him over his back and shoulders.

His legs were long and were still dragging over the ground, making it hard for Harry to walk, but Harry gritted his teeth and silently pushed forward.

He just lost his home and family. He wasn't sure what his father would do if he didn't find Harry home. He would probably go to his muggle school, so Harry better lay low and not go to school either. It wasn't like he had great grades or any friends to miss them.

His back was hurting under the weight, but Harry kept trudging forward until he walked into a street. He was expecting the passing-by muggles to cry horrified or stop him. But they only gave him odd glances and kept on going about their day.

Harry was breathless.

"Can you call the ambulance?" he asked a girl who wrinkled her face at him.

"Are you not feeling okay?" she asked.

"No, not me, for him," Harry said completely puzzled that he had to clarify.

"For who?" the girl stared at him confused. "Are you alright?"

How could she not see the disfigured man Harry was carrying on his back?

Then Harry stared at his reflection in the shop window. He was crunched down like he was a hunchback as there was nothing on his back or shoulders. Harry stumbled back, startled and almost dropped the man. How come the man was invisible to everyone else and Harry himself couldn't see him in the reflection on the window?

"Look, grab a drink and eat something, maybe you will feel better," the girl handed Harry a couple of crumpled-up bills.

Harry stood there confused and lost, not knowing what to do. Why was he the only person who could see the man? Harry didn't have any magic or any special ability to see this person. Even the Auror in the forest didn't see him. The man himself looked surprised when Harry saw him. Harry's heartbeat grew faster. No one other than Harry could see the man, no wonder no one helped him. He couldn't take the man to a hospital. They would think Harry is insane. He was on his own in all senses.

If he wanted to help this man, he would need to do it himself.

Harry looked around until he spotted an advert leaflet attached to the light post.

"Spacious One-Bedroom Flat for Rent in South London. Rent: £400 per month (excluding bills and council tax)"

Harry pulled out the leaflet and looked at the telephone number. He could call them and see if they would take him. The rent was cheap, not that Harry knew much about muggle prices. In recent months, he had been looking for a place for himself. His stepmother was hinting at him moving out, and Harry was looking at muggle accommodations. He still had the money he had saved up in his backpack. And he had enough for a couple of months until he could get a job.

The problem was that Harry was just 16 and he was a month away from turning 17. Most places would not allow him to rent a flat for himself. He was not old enough to sign a contract.

The telephone booth was just a few steps away. Harry carried the man, put him on the bench and rushed to the booth to call the landlord. His eyes were focused on the unconscious man, as he wondered if anyone would sense him if they attempted to sit on top of him. How could he still be alive, despite his state?

"Hello," a cheery voice said as soon as the call signal ended with someone picking up the phone.

"Oh, hello, I am calling for the advert for a flat. Is this place still available?" Harry asked, stammering and sweating as he spoke. He was never good with doing any kind of inquiries of this sort. Phone calls made him nervous.

"Are you asking about the one that goes for 400?" the man asked, sounding almost suspiciously elated.

"Yes."

"It is, but there is a bit of a problem with it. It doesn't have a proper heating system," the man said. "That's why the price is so low."

"That's fine," Harry said. He needed a place and it was still warm. He would worry about it in winter.

"I need 2 months advance so you'd need to give me 800 up front, will that be a problem?" the man asked.

Harry didn't even see the place, and the man was already trying to get the rent.

"That can work," Harry said. "I have the money, but I don't have... well,... er I left my paperwork at my parents' place in Inverness. Will that be a problem for signing the lease?"

Harry almost felt like a criminal.

"Nah, that'll be fine, as long as you have the money," the man said cheerfully. "You don't have a highland accent."

Fuck! Harry said Inverness only because that was the furthest place from London, and he would have an excuse of not being asked to take a bus or train home to get his identification papers.

"My parents were from here," Harry hurried to say. "I am going to go to school here. So I was wondering if I were to rent the place how long would it take for me to be able to move in?"

"Is today good?" the man asked.

"That sounds amazing," Harry yelled.

"Well, you have the address," the man told him. "Bring the money and you can move in."

***

The flat was awful. It was tiny and dirty. The walls were cracked, the floors felt unstable, and the lights were flickering like in a haunted house. Harry had to take the bus and had to put his backpack on the man's lap so no one would try to take his seat.

Walking about the flat, Harry turned on a tap water and thankfully, the water warmed up after a few moments. But the sight of black mold clinging to bathroom walls awakened a strange fear in him.

"There are no pests," the man said proudly. "There were some rats, but we got rid of that problem last summer. The bedroom's pretty big. You've got a balcony facing the street. The locks are a bit wonky. But I will swing by and bring a new one."

"There is no stove or bed?" Harry asked.

"Yeah, flats don't come with those. You need to bring your own," the man said, counting the money Harry gave him and putting it in his pocket. "My nun had an old stove she wanted to toss. I can bring it for you."

"Oh, that would be great. Thank you."

"Oh and I don't mind you partying here and all, but I got to warn you, your next-door neighbour is a bit mad. He just came out of the prison. So don't piss him off with noise. Here are your keys."

He seemed in a hurry to leave. Harry felt out of it for several minutes after the man left him on his own. He found a man half-dead, who nobody but him could see. He was tortured by his half-sister who threatened to have Charlie hurt if he didn't leave. He technically was forced to drop out of school since his father would find him if he went there and now the school was pretty far away from Harry to even entertain the idea.

Harry had to attend early despite it being summer holidays because of his bad grades, but now, Harry couldn't go at all.

He just got a flat for himself. Things escalated quickly, and Harry felt uneasy about it. He didn't even have time to emotionally process anything. There was nothing here other than the sink in the bathroom and the kitchen. Harry had some more money to buy blankets and maybe a bed and mattress, but he would need to find a job.

He had placed this man on the floor and propped his backpack under his head. The sight of him so so bad that Harry felt almost insane for dragging someone in this condition with him to this shitty flat.

The man was helpless just like Harry. No one else could see his pain and hurt. Harry was the only one who could help him. He pulled some more money from his backpack and left the flat, locking the door.

He headed to the nearest store. Grabbing a cart, he started walking through the isles of the pharmacy. It felt strange to pick up first-aid items like he was some kind of murderer. He was going to need a lot of alcohol and other disinfectants, bandages and pain medication. Harry would want to buy antibiotics but those were not available over the counter. Maybe he could still get those antibiotic wound creams.

He picked up packages of disposable gloves and antiseptic solutions, though, he doubted that iodine and hydrogen peroxide solutions at this stage of wound infection would do any good. He couldn't decide between wound dressings, so he took rolls of sterile gauze and medical adhesive bandages and tapes. He picked up a couple of bottles of saline solution for wound irrigation. His cart looked quite suspicious to him, making Harry feel nervous.

He grabbed a couple of hydrogel dressings since the man looked burnt at places.

The store surprisingly sold wool throws. Harry took a couple of them to have the man lie on them instead of the hard floor.

Harry doubted the man would be able to eat anything solid in his state so he picked jars of baby food and then went to the checkout. The person working there didn't seem to care about Harry's purchase as much as Harry thought they would. He paid, picked up the items and rushed back to his new home.

The place was quiet when he came back. The man was unconscious, but still alive. Harry washed his hands, put on gloves and spread the throws on the floor. He gently moved the man on top of the throws and started washing his body with a washcloth, wincing every time he had to scrape away eggs of maggots. It was disgusting. There was dirt and rotten leaves stuck to his wounds. Harry washed the man's whole body with a soft washcloth, being very gentle in his touches, making sure not to press too harshly.

He then used the antiseptic solutions to clean the areas around the wound. It was hard not to get the solutions directly into the man's wound as he was wounded and burnt and slashed everywhere with part of his flesh missing at places completely.

He used the antibiotic cream over the man's wounds and then covered the wounds with dressings, securing them with adhesive tape. The man looked like a mummy wrapped up in gauze. Harry covered him with two layers of throws and placed the dirty washcloths and used bottles of solutions and creams into the bag and went to throw it away.

Chapter Text

It was comfortable. That was the first thing Voldemort noticed when the lethargic slumber slowly wore off, and he became aware of his surroundings. He opened his eyes with difficulty, wondering why he no longer felt the scorching, raw pain against his wounded skin. His vision was blurry but somehow he could see grey wooden planks above him and not the dark foliage of the trees hiding the sunlight and the sky from him. He blinked and groaned as the throbbing numbness spread over his body.

Heaving slowly, he tried to move. He was lying for days, for months, for eternity in that forest, where no one could see him wasting away, slowly dying as his flesh was being consumed by something more unholy than the dark magic that made him immortal. The wet, earthy ground somehow had hardened, and he could no longer feel the touch of the dried leaves, leaping and grazing against his tender, exposed flesh.

The blurriness in his eyes slowly subsided, and he stared up at strange-looking ceiling. His heart thumped in fear. Where was he? Could it be one of his servants had found him? He didn't dare to hope. He had lost all hope as no one could see him, and he could not even ask for help. He had hallucinated a boy speaking to him in Parseltongue. His eyes twitched down when he realised that he was wrapped up in white gauze. If his servants had found him, why had they not healed him? Why was he lying on the floor of this dingy-smelling place, alone in layers of cloth, covering his sore flesh?

He possessed immense magic and could perform wandless magic, but he had lost his strength after that sordid night in Godric's Hollow. He wasn't able to repair himself and even though he could perform other kinds of magic, he wasn't able to heal himself. Who of his loyal servants found him and rescued him? Lord Voldemort would reward them greatly once he regained his strength.

There was a short creak. A door opened and then it was locked. He heard footsteps.

Voldemort breathed harshly, suddenly realising that perhaps he was taken by someone who wished him ill will and it was not one of his servants. Hence why he was on the floor like a commodity and not a person and why his wounds were not healed.

A gentle voice sighed and dropped what appeared a series of bags on the floor.

"I suppose this electrical burner should do for now," he said.

He sounded young with delicate timber of voice. Voldemort groaned as he tried to move his head to take a look at the person.

"Oh, hey, you are awake!" the person said urgently and rushed up to him.

Voldemort stared. He was a young man with beautiful green eyes that somehow looked familiar. He was lean and skinny, had a soft face that stared at him with full of concern. It was the boy from the other day, the boy from earlier today who spoke Parseltongue and promised to come and help him.

"Don't move," he murmured. "You will hurt yourself. Do you need water? Do you need anything?"

"Give me water," he muttered in Parseltongue.

"Let me get it for you," he hissed back without so much as a surprise that there was another speaker and went away.

Surely not another Gaunt. He had killed them all. Unless someone had bedded his disgusting uncle or... No, this could not be the progeny of his. Bella knew better than to steal from him.

"Here," the boy kneeled by his side, lifted his head into his lap and gently lowered a water bottle to his lips. He had the perfect amount of incline as if he knew perfectly well how to help someone drink or eat something. It was bizarre. He gulped the water slowly, feeling like he was being fed some kind of vitality potion. His attention suddenly snapped to the decidedly very muggle water bottle.

"I wasn't sure you would survive," the boy said. "Do you have a name? Do you have a family you would like me to call?"

"You do not know who I am?" he asked the boy.

"No, sorry, um... well, you were in the forest in a pretty bad shape and I think... well, others can't see you."

"But you can," he said in a faint tone, feeling weak again. "What is your name?"

"Harry," the boy said. "Harry Potter."

Voldemort's heart almost stopped. The boy who lived and condemned him to eternal torture. He was all grown up. What was he trying to achieve? Was he trying to torture him now that Lord Voldemort was helpless and weak and vanquish him once and for all?

"Are you okay?" the boy asked him, making him flinch. "Do you remember your name?"

The boy didn't seem to know who he was, but perhaps he was lying. Voldemort couldn't detect any deception on his face. He allowed for the little strength he had left in him to pour out and scan the room for hidden Aurors or dangerous weapons, but they were alone. There was no one else here. In fact, there were no wizards around for that matter, just muggles.

"Tom Riddle," he said slowly.

Chapter Text

"Tom," the boy's face lit up, and he looked at him with a compassionate expression. "Do you think you could eat? I bought some soft food for you. I don't know how long you have been lying in that forest, and if you can eat in your current state, but if you can, I can warm it up for you. I got a burner; it should work."

Voldemort narrowed his red eyes at his enemy in bewilderment. He hadn't eaten in eternity. He nodded, still wary of the boy and worried that he was hatching a devious plan to torture and humiliate him in this weak, vulnerable state.

"Okay," the boy smiled at him kindly. "Just give me a moment. Let me set everything up."

He walked away, and Voldemort could no longer see him, but he could feel the boy's magic in the air, hurling against the walls of this muggle flat. Everything was drenched in his light, disgusting magic, almost suffocating him, clawing at his body, trying to spread inside him.

He closed his eyes and tried to relax. The pain was getting lighter and lighter. He could no longer feel the burning sensation on his body, but there was some kind of different tingling, thrumming feeling slowly taking root on the surface of his exposed flesh. If he could get enough strength to use magic and heal himself, he would tear this boy into pieces and leave him behind.

He had lived like this for ages since that night at Godric's Hollow, when his body was mangled like a beast had speared its teeth into his flesh and chewed on him and his magic. He had laid in that forest since then in pain and loneliness, trying to survive, and the little bits that his magic was able to heal were immediately eaten by the dark tiny creatures that laid their eggs in the crevices of his flesh.

"Tom?" the boy spoke again, crouching down by his side and cradling his head into his lap. Voldemort's eyes narrowed in suspicion and fear. "You are shaking. Are you cold?"

"No," he said, staring at him warily, waiting for an attack or a spell that would further elevate his suffering.

"I am sorry for the lack of a bed or blankets," Harry said, bringing a small bowl and holding it over Voldemort's face.

Surely, the boy didn't intend to smash the bowl on his face!

"I just moved into this flat and don't have much of anything yet," he said, trying to lift Voldemort's head up and propping the Dark Lord's back against his own chest to give him support. "I am planning to buy some things for us as soon as I find a job, yeah?"

The boy's chest was bony and weak and couldn't hold his much broader and larger form properly, but Voldemort felt comfortable pressed against his warmth for some reason.

"Here," the boy brought a spoonful of something and held it in front of Voldemort's mouth. "It's peach puree. Not sure if you like peaches, but it does smell good."

Voldemort stared at the gooey substance in the spoon and opened his mouth. He hadn't eaten in ages. The boy gently brought the spoon into his mouth and allowed him to pull the contents out with his lips and tongue. It didn't taste like much of anything, but he could feel the warmth in his mouth.

"I know it's not perfect," Harry said, bringing another spoonful of puree to his lips. "But for now, it's best if you eat these types of easy-to-consume and digest foods until you recover, okay?"

Just what was he planning to do to him? Everything pointed to the fact that he had no idea who Voldemort was and for some reason could see him when others couldn't, but it was strange that his greatest nemesis had found him in the forest and brought him to this filthy muggle place and was feeding him mashed food like he was a toothless toddler.

Where were his servants? Why hadn't they tried to seek him?

"Do you feel any pain? I can give you paracetamol," he said, trying to readjust the position of the Dark Lord's head on his chest.

"Why won't you heal me?" Voldemort asked, groaning.

"Oh," the boy sounded almost pitiful. "I am sorry. I don't have any magic. I tried getting the Auror from the other day to help you. But he couldn't see you."

No magic? The boy brimmed with so much magic it was suffocating Voldemort. What kind of game was he playing?

"Do you have any family you would like me to find?" the boy asked. "Maybe they can see you and can help you."

Voldemort stayed silent for a moment and then shook his head. He truly had no one. Even his servants had abandoned him.

"That's fine," Harry said, bringing the spoon with peach puree to his lips. "You'll recover in no time, I am sure."

There was no way he would recover from this. Those creatures ate him, and it would require a powerful healer, one who could see him to treat him. He was sure it would take months to remove all the creatures and then even more so to treat the damage they had caused.

He continued feeding him the food until the bowl was empty and then gently lowered Voldemort's head down.

"Try sleeping a little," the boy said. "You need rest for now. I am going to go out and look for a job. I will be back soon, and maybe while I am out, I can get you a pillow too."

He wrapped the throws around his bandaged body and got up. Voldemort groaned again. The pain was still there despite it being dulled. He was no longer in agony and could think without losing his consciousness. Was the boy trying to trick Voldemort and leave him all alone in this shoddy muggle flat?

"Don't go," he tried, holding the boy's hand.

The expression on the boy's face softened a little, but then he pursed his lips and held his bandaged hand.

"I won't be too long," he said. "I promise. I just need to find a job to be able to afford this flat and even be able to buy things."

Chapter Text

He wasn't sure how long he lay on the floor, surrounded by the warmth of the thin blankets covering him, but the dulled pain and lack of searing ache over his body kept him from losing consciousness and soon the boredom set in. He had stared at the ceiling for so long, he had memorised every imperfection and blemish. He was too weak to move on his own, but not as bad as before, to faint from the amount of pain his mangled body couldn't tolerate anymore.

He closed his eyes, trying to relax. With no acute pain torturing his mind, he soon fell asleep without realising. When he woke up, he felt strangely rested for the first time in years. The drowsiness slowly dissipated, and he sharpened his hearing, trying to catch any sounds.

The boy was back in the flat and was doing something in the room. He couldn't see him, but he groaned loudly and heard hurried footsteps coming closer.

"Tom?" he called softly, bending down and his face hovered over Voldemort.

He stared at the boy with interest. He seemed not to know who he was. If he did and was pretending, he was a very good actor.

"You are awake," he said, smiling. "I didn't want to wake you up, but I got you new blankets and pillows and bandages to change the ones you have on you now. Oh, and I also bought us yoga mats. They were cheaper than actual mattresses and beds, and for now, I don't have much money for furniture. Oh, and I have some good news—I have gotten a job. I am going to start tomorrow; they don't pay too much, but enough to cover the rent and the food."

Voldemort blinked, trying to make sense of the boy's incessant chatter.

"I'll be working at a small restaurant nearby, so I don't need to worry about bus fares and all," he continued.

Why wouldn't he use his magic? It was brimming and shimmering all around him, and he was just sitting there pretending he didn't have any.

"Water," he murmured, feeling the unpleasant feeling of dryness in his mouth.

Harry nodded and got up. He seemed to follow orders quite well. When he came back, he cradled the Dark Lord into his arms and slowly held a glass of cold water to his lips. It was very strange how good he was at this. Voldemort drank the water slowly and shook his head when he felt like he had had enough.

The boy lowered him back onto the floor and walked away, but a few moments later came back with a large bowl, stacks of washcloths, and rolls of bandages. He sat down on the floor next to him and awkwardly fiddled with the throw covering Voldemort.

"I will need to unwrap the bandages, clean your body and wrap you in new ones," he said softly.

It wasn't like Voldemort had any other choice. The boy for some reason wasn't using his magic, claiming he didn't have any, and if he wanted to wash him like a Muggle, there was nothing he could do. He was too weak to use his own magic now. It wouldn't make too much of a difference anyway.

He nodded slowly.

The boy pulled the covers away and gently undid the bandages. Some of the fabric was stuck to his wounds because the blood had curdled and become like a glue. He watched the boy's face twist in discomfort and unease as he unwrapped it peace by peace.

"Wow, your flesh has regrown here," he exclaimed fascinated. "That's good; I don't see any of your bones visible anymore. That means that you are healing."

Voldemort stared down confused and realised that the boy wasn't lying. His skin was red and covered in wounds, but there were no bones sticking out in the open.

"It might hurt but for you to recover I need to wash your body, clean the wounds, make sure there are no... er no eggs or worms and bandage you again," the boy said softly.

Voldemort nodded. It wasn't like he had any choice in the matter. For whatever reason, the boy was helping him and as a result, he wasn't suffering the scorching pain he had felt before. He heard the sound of fabric submerging into the water, and then the water droplets being wrung out back into the bowl. The boy pressed the warm, wet fabric against his skin, and he had to grit his teeth not to scream.

"I am sorry," Potter apologised despite Voldemort not saying a word. "I will try to do this as fast as possible."

He continued cleaning the Dark Lord's body often rewashing the cloth and sometimes throwing it into the rubbish bag and getting a brand new cloth. Voldemort could see the dark blood and yellow pus on the dirty cloths as the boy discarded them.

"I don't see anymore of those worms or their eggs," the boy murmured, sounding relieved. "Try to hold on just a little bit longer, and we'll be done."

He washed Voldemort's body diligently and then started rubbing some kind of cool, icy paste on his skin. Voldemort winced.

"It's an antibacterial cream," Potter supplied softly.

Voldemort sighed and let the boy smear his raw skin with the cool substance, and then when he was done, he started wrapping him in bandages, constantly apologising whenever he made the man whimper in pain.

***

Harry stacked the cheese on top of each other to clear space for butter. Harry's first week at his new job was hectic, but he thought it would be harder to work at a restaurant, cleaning tables and washing plates. It seemed he was quite used to manual labour after doing so much of it at home. He missed his dad and Charlie, but just the thought of what Leonie would do made him hesitant to go back home. Not having to worry about school somehow made him less stressed, and he felt the best he had ever felt in his life.

Harry's evenings were uneventful after he went back home. Tom was lying on the mats, surrounded by blankets and usually was asleep or curled to his side. He had gotten slightly better and wouldn't lose his consciousness anymore but he was still very weak. The only food he could stomach was the baby food that Harry always warmed up just enough and slowly fed him.

The man also had difficulty speaking due to his many injuries, so Harry didn't ask him many questions, not wishing to strain him. Caring for Tom once he was back from work made him feel less lonely.

"Potter," one of the waiters called, making him almost drop the large stick of butter he was forcing into the shelf. "Could you take my place while I go for a smoke break?"

Harry had never waited on tables, but the man looked so stressed that he nodded automatically. He quickly fixed his apron and walked out to to grab the order for the table that he coworker was waiting. He had another twenty minutes left before he could go home. He was exhausted. He walked out of the kitchen into the dining area and headed towards the table. There were a bunch of very loud and rowdy Muggles. Harry grimaced as he stopped by them and started placing the food on the table.

One of the men grabbed Harry's arse, making Harry freeze in surprise. He looked at the man in horror.

"You are not a girl," he grumbled as if Harry was the one who had insulted him and let go of Harry as if nothing had happened.

Muggles were crazy. Harry ran away as fast as he could. He felt weirded out by the creepy behaviour. He spent the rest of his work evening hiding in the storage room.

"The guys on the table over there are strange," he complained to the manager before leaving. The woman raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to elaborate. Harry awkwardly shifted on his feet. "Um... he grabbed my... well... behind and..."

"They are just drunk," the woman huffed. "It's not like you're a girl."

Harry felt rage brimming inside him, but he bit his lip and nodded.

"Can I get my pay so I can go home?" he asked, unable to handle his irritation.

"Here," the woman handed him the money. "Don't be late tomorrow."

He hadn't been late, but he still silently nodded. He wanted to be home with Tom and he couldn't afford arguing with the management in case they got rid of him. He would find a better job soon, maybe when he had enough money saved.

Chapter Text

Voldemort slowly stirred awake. His body ached, his bones feeling as if they had been dragged over pebbled ground. It was cold; he pulled the thin blanket around him, trying to turn into a more comfortable position, but the mat underneath provided no such comfort.

At first, he thought Potter was mocking him, trying to humiliate him with these conditions, but the boy returned to this filthy Muggle flat every day, looking starved and tired like a little house-elf; he cleaned the place, made him food, helped him eat, changed his bandages, and then slept on a similar mat of his own.

He looked perpetually tired, his eyes often bloodshot as if he had been crying. Potter's magic was like a bright sun, glowing all around him, trying to escape its confines, but he wouldn't use it. Voldemort's own magic hadn't recovered yet. He was still weak, but the pain he felt was easing more and more with each passing day.

The sound of a key turning in the lock alerted him, and he tried to sit up. Now he could make small movements, turn about, and even sit up—although not for long—before the pain became unbearable. His vocal cords were still damaged, and he still had difficulty speaking, but he could get a few words out whenever he needed to drink water or needed help getting to the toilet.

It was strange how Potter, of all people, was there caring for him. He clearly didn't know who Voldemort was, but it was curious that he was the only one able to see him. Of all the servants and followers Voldemort had gathered and amassed, no one came looking for him, and no one found him when he had been suffering for years; this boy, who was the reason for his suffering, was the only one. It was strange.

"Tom?" he heard the boy's voice. "You're awake."

He dropped the paper bags he was holding on the floor and rushed to him.

"Are you okay?" he asked, sounding both excited and worried. "You were able to sit on your own. I am so happy. Let me get you my pillow too."

He grabbed the pillow off the other mat and pushed it between Voldemort's back and the wall he was leaning against. Voldemort made a hum of agreement, and the boy smiled at him.

"Do you need water?" he asked, wrapping the blanket around Voldemort's torso to keep him warm.

Voldemort nodded. The boy got up and returned a few seconds later with a glass of cold water. He crouched down, tilted the glass, and helped him slowly drink it. When he was done, Voldemort simply leaned back into the pillows fluffed against the wall.

"I got my pay today," he said, his voice excited. "Now that I have set aside the money for the rent and everything, I think we have some left for a proper mattress for us. I mean for you. I'll get myself something next time. How are you feeling? Are you in pain?"

Voldemort shook his head. The boy's presence was strangely soothing.

"That's good," Potter smiled. "We'll need to wash you again and change the bandages, and maybe put some of that antibacterial cream on. It seems to be helping you."

It was the boy's magic that was helping him, even though he seemed to be unaware of it. Voldemort was sure of it. He could sense the magic reaching out and healing him despite the boy not trying to use it. He had initially thought the boy was trying to suffocate him with his magic, mocking him, but the magic was actually healing him—bit by bit, slowly.

Potter grabbed one of the bags he had brought with him and started taking out new bandages and rolls of gauze. He must have spent all his meagre Muggle earnings on these supplies. He changed them every day. In the beginning, he'd change them at least twice a day, once in the morning before going to work and again when he returned.

He left the rolls of fresh gauze on the side of the mat and rushed into the bathroom to fill a bowl with hot water. When he came back, Voldemort noticed for the first time how fragile and slim Potter looked. He could always tell that the boy wasn't broad and muscular, but he didn't realise that he was underfed and malnourished and wasn't just naturally tiny. Now that he was sitting upright, his back pressed against the pillows, he could see how malnourished the boy was.

His thin wrists trembled as he held the large bowl of water and rushed to Voldemort's side. Voldemort still remembered this boy's father. Harry looked like him but was much smaller, and there was something else there in his features. It must have been his Mudblood mother's fetching looks.

"Alright," Potter said, placing the bowl full of warm water on the floor and crouching down. "I'm taking the blanket now, so we can undo the old bandages."

He seemed more nervous than usual, perhaps because Voldemort normally lay down and wasn't staring at him during the process of washing the wounds and redressing them. Voldemort nodded absent-mindedly, wanting the boy to get it over with, and earned Potter's little smile. Potter surprisingly didn't ask many questions. Voldemort was sure that he'd inquire about him, where he was from, what had happened to him. But Potter left him alone and cared for him.

It even made him suspicious of the boy's intentions, but soon he realised that the questions weren't asked not because the boy wasn't curious or knew who he was, but because he thought Voldemort couldn't speak. He was right. He could barely get a few words out. It was not as agonising as before; he could use his human vocal cords and didn't have to rely on Parseltongue, but the pain prevented him from saying much.

Potter folded the blanket and put it on the side of his own mat that was placed near Voldemort's and then started to gently undo the bandages wrapped around his left leg. He gritted his teeth, trying not to wince. The burning sensation spread through his body, but then Potter patted his shoulder in comfort, and the pain eased.

"It's good," Potter said, staring down at the gauze. "Look, the fluid is no longer yellow and brown. It's healing. It's now pink. There's still a long way to go before it's completely healed, but look—no yellow, green or brown drainage."

Voldemort stared at the unwrapped pieces of fabric and grimaced. Potter threw them into the bin he had set on the side and then proceeded to wash his leg, gently running the warm, wet cloth over it. His tissue had completely grown. There were no visible bones or completely thin layers of skin. His leg was still littered with wounds; some of them were still open gashes, but others were almost closed, and a few had even healed. Potter's movements were careful.

Potter pulled down the wraps on his other leg and cleaned them as well. His right leg had deeper wounds, and the pain was stronger, but Voldemort bore it silently. He was getting better. He could even sit up now. Once he recovered enough, he would heal himself with his magic. He would kill Potter mercifully when it happened, since the boy cared for him, but Lord Voldemort would eliminate his nemesis as he was supposed to. He wondered where the boy's father and Dumbledore were. Why was he alone in this Muggle flat? Did everyone die after he was vanquished?

His hands hesitated over Voldemort's groin, but he gently ran the cloth and then hurried to undo the wraps on his abdomen. His worst wounds were on his stomach. The boy continued to clean his wounds diligently, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

"I know it hurts," he murmured when Voldemort shifted in discomfort. "But I swear it's getting so much better. It's strange, but you are recovering. Whatever it was that hurt you must not have a lot of power against this Muggle cream."

It wasn't the Muggle cream that was healing Voldemort. It was Potter. How tragic that he had no idea of his own power.

Potter washed his chest and then proceeded to wrap everything up after applying generous amounts of the Muggle healing ointment.

"Now your face," he murmured softly.

Voldemort must have looked hideous. His looks had faded over the years. He had never mourned their loss, but he was sure that with all the wounds on his face, he must have looked monstrous. Potter's face scrunched up a little as he unwrapped the gauze, but then a smile crept to his lips.

"The wounds on your cheeks are closing," he said. "I am sure you'll regrow all your skin in no time. Maybe then you can heal yourself better. Not sure if you have magic, though I assume you do. You wouldn't have survived without it. It has been keeping you alive, so you must be very powerful, and I know, I know you'll be able to heal the rest, Tom."

Voldemort hummed, his face twisting in an attempt to smile. Potter smiled back and continued his work.

"There, all done," he said, attaching the gauze with adhesive tape and getting up.

He took the bowl of water away and then removed the bin. Voldemort closed his eyes and tried to relax. He had not felt this good in a while. He was still in pain, but he could feel his body healing. He was clean and warm, and even the thin, useless mat was the best comfort he had had in years. Potter definitely deserved a merciful end. He would be generous.

"Do you need a pain reliever?" Potter asked, coming back into the room. "I can't get anything stronger than paracetamol, but if you are in pain, it should help you a little."

Voldemort shook his head, realising that the muscles in his neck finally complied with him. Potter smiled and nodded.

"Good," he said. "Let me go and warm up your food. Apples today?"

Voldemort nodded. He preferred peach purée, but apples were good too. Potter confessed that the Muggle shop was out of peach purée and that he would stock up on them as soon as they had more. Potter himself always ate very little. No wonder he was weak like a twig.

***

Harry dragged the mattress up the stairs. It was heavy despite being just a standard double and not overly thick or specialised. Initially, Harry had planned to buy a smaller mattress, but the store had special promotions on the standard doubles, and Harry reasoned it was better to get the cheapest one even if it was bigger and would take up more space. The store offered delivery, but the fee was something Harry couldn't afford with the money he had allocated for the purchase.

He had to drag the huge mattress onto the bus. People gave him dirty looks, but Harry bit his tongue and bore the shame, because he simply couldn't afford delivery or renting a van.

He paused and took a deep breath. Taking the mattress up to his flat seemed a much harder task than he had imagined. He wished he had magic to levitate it up there, but then again, if he had magic, he wouldn't be in his current predicament, away from home, working in an awful Muggle restaurant, and living in a rundown, dirty flat.

"Why are you blocking the stairs, you stupid fucking cunt?" someone yelled at him.

Harry looked up and recognised the neighbour his landlord had warned him about. Shit!

"I am sorry," he hurried to apologise. "I just moved in and bought a mattress and taking it is..."

"I don't need your bloody sob story," the man growled. "Get the fuck up and stop blocking the bloody stairs."

Harry nodded, terrified that this man would attack him, putting all his strength into his arms as he pulled the mattress up the stairs. He didn't want this madman's attention on himself. He wouldn't be able to protect himself, and getting hurt would mean no one was caring for Tom.

Harry managed to get the mattress to his floor, opened the door, dragged it inside, and then slumped down when exhaustion overtook him.

"Harry?" he heard Tom's hoarse voice and crawled towards it.

"Sorry," he hurried to mumble, still breathing hard. "I have brought the mattress."

Tom had managed to sit up and had even propped his pillow behind himself. He seemed much better than a few days ago, his posture less hunched. Harry could tell he was in less pain. Tom must have been an Auror or a hitwizard. Harry was sure of it. He seemed to take the pain silently, as though he were trained to be strong and not show his emotions. He couldn't tell how old the man was, but he was definitely old enough to have been an Auror.

Harry wondered if his father was looking for a missing Auror. His heart skipped a beat at the thought of his dad. Was he looking for Harry? Did he feel sad that Harry was missing? It had been nearly two weeks since he had left.

"Did you," Tom spoke, his voice forced, scratchy and gruff, "finish work early?"

"Yes," Harry hurried to say, rubbing his eyes to get rid of any moisture that threatened to form at the thoughts of his family. "I had to ask to leave early so I could buy you a mattress. The store, unfortunately, was closing early."

Tom sighed and closed his eyes. Harry got up. This was the most the man had said since Harry had brought him here.

"Did you have a good day?" Harry asked, and the man gave him a confused look. "I mean, all things considered. Is the pain less than yesterday? I see you have managed to sit up."

Something strange flickered through Tom's eyes, akin to surprise, but he nodded.

"I bought fresh sheets the other day, so I should be able to set this up today. I'm sure you'll love the new mattress. I didn't have enough money for good pillows or a blanket, but as soon as I do, that will be my next purchase."

Tom didn't respond, so Harry walked back and dragged the mattress to the corner, bringing in the sheets he'd bought earlier.

"I heard noise," Tom eventually murmured, making Harry turn around.

"Oh," Harry bit his lip. "That was the neighbour. He was mad because I was blocking the stairs, trying to drag the mattress inside."

Tom probably was startled by the noise. Usually, the noise was muffled, even though they both could hear the neighbours on all sides fighting, yelling, and screaming. Tom was too weak and sick to realise how noisy this place was. Harry finished setting the sheets and turned to Tom.

"Do you want to move here?" he asked, gesturing at the new mattress.

Tom nodded. Harry walked up to him to help him move and was surprised when Tom managed to get on his feet, albeit with Harry's help and leaning against the wall. He made a few steps before toppling down, dragging Harry with him. Harry fell face down on top of the man, making him wince in pain.

"I am sorry," he hurried to say, quickly moving away.

"I thought I was stronger," Tom murmured.

"You will get better," Harry assured him. "You managed to stand up today and have spoken more than in the past ten days."

Tom didn't respond. He sighed and shifted onto the mattress, but Harry could tell that the softness made him feel much happier. Harry grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around him.

"Try to rest a little," Harry told him. "Then in the evening, we can have something to eat, and if you are feeling better, maybe you can read a book or two. I bought a few the other day. I know lying on that mat for days can get boring."

Tom's eyes widened, and Harry wasn't sure why he kept showing surprise at everything Harry suggested. It was like he wasn't expecting Harry's kindness. Maybe people were mean to him just as they were mean to Harry. No one could see Tom. And no one saw Harry's pain, suffering, and loneliness.

***

The mattress was really comfortable. Voldemort was surprised at how much more he enjoyed rolling about now that the boy had brought him a new mattress. At first, he thought the boy would share it with him since he had gotten a rather large mattress.

Voldemort was used to sharing a bed with others; he had grown up in a poor Muggle orphanage, and then he'd shared close quarters with others at Hogwarts. Even afterwards, he didn't have enough resources to have his own place during his travels around the world.

Potter, though, left him to sleep on the whole mattress by himself and instead slept on his tiny, thin old mat.

The pain was nearly gone. He would occasionally feel a burning sensation, a strange throbbing feeling if he made an abrupt movement. Potter still changed his bandages every day and dutifully washed him. Now there were only a few wounds left on his body. The one on his stomach was still deep and wouldn't close, but he no longer had any wounds on his legs, and the ones on his face were almost gone.

He had managed to take a few steps around the tiny flat without falling down, even though the muscles in his legs were still weak and unable to sustain long movements. He had even managed to walk all the way to the toilet by himself when Potter wasn't home. Seeing himself all wrapped up in white gauze, resembling a corpse, made him feel terrified. But he was alive, and Potter was right; he was getting better and better.

The flat was empty. Potter had nothing here, not even clothes. He had hoped to find a wand, but the boy definitely didn't lie about his magic.

He had tried using his magic, but it seemed to be still weak from his prolonged need to sustain his own life. He managed to levitate a book a few centimetres, so he knew that he was recovering in all senses of the word.

Once he regained his strength and killed Potter, he would return to the wizarding world and punish his useless servants.

The door opened, and Voldemort stilled. Potter walked inside, looking tired and exhausted as usual, but this time his face was red and puffy, as if he had cried his eyes out. He stared at the boy, confused.

"Oh, Tom," Harry mumbled, wiping his face. "You're up."

"Why are you crying?" he demanded. His voice sounded almost angry to his own ears.

"It's nothing," the boy lied to him. "Just something at work. Onions, you know. I was cutting onions."

Weak and pathetic. Voldemort scowled.

"How are you feeling?" Potter asked after a moment of fumbling with the bags of produce in his hands.

"Better," he said, watching Potter with curiosity. "I would like to go outside."

"Oh," Potter gulped. "Must be really boring cooped up here all day long."

He was bored; reading the very few books Potter had bought several times was doing nothing to alleviate his boredom.

"I will buy a few clothes for you," Potter said. "I was paid yesterday, but all the money went to cover our food expenses. Once I get paid again this coming Monday, I will buy you some clothes and take you out for a walk."

"Others don't see me," Voldemort muttered.

Harry's eyes widened.

"Um, right," he said. "I had completely forgotten. Okay, we can go out after I change your wound dressings again."

***

Harry had a hard day at work. The manager was very strict with him for some reason, telling him he wasn't cleaning the tables fast enough and wasn't washing the dishes cleanly enough. Harry wasn't sure what he had done wrong to earn her ire, but he knew it had nothing to do with the work he was doing. No matter how fast and how well he cleaned, he was still being scolded and shouted at.

At some point during the day, he wanted to quit and go home, but he realised that he'd become homeless if he did, so he bit his tongue and continued with his work. He missed his dad and Charlie. It had been over half a month since he had left home, and it seemed no one had missed him or gone looking for him. A small part of Harry hoped that his dad would find him and take him back home, but he simply wasn't missed enough.

He felt alone and helpless. He had no friends or family to rely on. The only person around him was Tom, who needed his help. Harry cried all the way back home, feeling ashamed at how useless he was.

Tom was up on his feet, a blanket draped over his shoulders, holding onto the wall. He was able to walk, albeit not much, but Harry was happy that he could stand on his own when just over two weeks ago, he had been unable to shift in place, lying down.

Tom wanted to go out, and Harry understood how difficult it must have been for the man to be locked in a tiny room with nothing to do for days. Harry was hardly home most of the day since he had to go to work.

"Almost done," he told Tom, wiping his body with a warm, wet cloth.

He had done this so many times that the sense of awkwardness was no longer present, even though now he was touching the very visibly naked skin when before it had just been a series of wounds. Tom had a nice body. He was tall and broad-shouldered. He was still weak and visibly starved, but as he was getting better and eating the food Harry was making, he was looking better and better.

Initially, Harry thought the man was his dad's age, but now that he could see Tom's healing skin, he realised that Tom was much younger.

"It's not cold, but it's really cloudy outside," Harry told him as he bandaged all of Tom's wounds and wrapped the blanket around him. "I don't have any shoes your size, but maybe you can wear these socks. They're stretchy enough."

He put the socks on Tom's feet and helped him up.

"Let's go," Harry said, opening the door to the flat.

They walked down the stairs slowly. Tom held onto him and the railing on the side. His steps were careful and slow, but Harry was amazed by the recovery he had made in such a short time.

"Is the floor cold?" Harry asked, watching how Tom's feet curled as he made his steps.

"It's fine," Tom replied.

"I'll get you some sandals or something," Harry said. "Maybe some home shoes for now. They're cheaper. That's until we have more money."

Tom hummed in response. They descended the stairs and walked out of the building. The outside was gloomy and cool despite it being the middle of July. They made a few steps through the yard when the grouchy neighbour glared at them, or in this case, at Harry.

"You dead-looking bastard, are you walking around naked?" he shouted, waving a finger at them.

Harry stared at the man, confused.

"And you? Aren't you that idiot from the other day blocking the stairs? Who is that? Are you a pair of one of those?"

"Can you see him?" Harry asked, shocked, hope twisting in his heart.

"Can I see him? Are you fucking mental? Do you think you two bastards are invisible or something?"

The man advanced towards them, and Harry closed his eyes in fear. But the man slipped and fell down before reaching them.

"Tom, he can see you," Harry murmured. "He can see you. I guess whatever was making you invisible to others was part of your sickness."