Harry Potter learned at a young age to stay quiet.

It was better that way.

At age five, he created Rule One - not to disagree when his Uncle Vernon decided something had to be Harry's fault. Even when he saw Darling Diddykins give him a vicious smirk over Aunt Petunia's shoulder, between practised sobs and faked tantrums. Even when Uncle Vernon had to have plainly seen with his own eyes that it was Dudley who had broken yet another one of his toy trucks, and yet still blamed Harry for what had happened. Even when the 'tears' on Dudley's face magically disappeared when he was promised a new film, or video game, or his favourite dinner. Harry would always be to blame, even when everything else said otherwise. Any arguments normally left him back in the Cupboard Under The Stairs without dinner, or with a headache - courtesy of Uncle Vernon, normally - that remained for at least the rest of the day.

At age six, Harry created his second rule - Not to argue against his aunt and uncle, in anything. Ever. He should be grateful they ever took him in. He's lucky not to have been dropped off at an orphanage the moment he arrived. It was no wonder his parents got themselves killed - they must have known that he'd be such a horrible, disgusting freak. A freak. That was Aunt Petunia's favourite way to describe him, when he got to that age. A freak, who should have died with his parents. He knows it has to be wrong, how they're treating him, no one else was treated like this at their homes, but where else, really, did he have to go?

At age eight, Harry learnt rule number three, the most important one for survival - hide anything that could be seen as abnormal. Because Aunt Petunia would throw a fit if she heard him recounting stories of teleporting in the park or at school, or of cups and glasses moving of their own accord, without them being touched, or people's hair changing colour when he wished it, or of… the list went on - and Uncle Vernon would be furious (the first - and the last - time he mentioned strange things happening around him, he couldn't move from his cupboard for a week) - and Dudley would laugh in his face, before throwing a tantrum about something-or-other on the television.

When he was nine, Harry's final rule was created - be careful, extremely careful, with trust, but make allies where you can. That year had been a bad year. People from the police or Care (with a capital C) visited three times. Once, after he collapsed in class with a Mrs Byers ("If anything is wrong outside of school, you can talk to me, you know that?"), then talked with a Miss Avers ("Is everything alright outside school, Harry?" No, he'd whispered quietly, head bent to look at the floor, hoping this time something would change), then a teacher whose name was lost in his memories, who'd asked a simple "You okay?" on a bad day, receiving tears in response.

His Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon became more angry each time, and each visit they left he lost hope. The Dursleys were the ideal, normal, law-abiding family, and no one would expect anything out of the ordinary - it only took a mention of him having some sort of 'mental affliction' for them to nod in sympathy, and leave after Petunia made them a cup of tea and some cake (for good measure) that Harry had probably had to make for them the day before.

Those teachers always were kinder to him, gave him the benefit of the doubt, more often after that.

He adapted to rule one with time, bitten tongues, and a lot of self-restraint, and the second took longer, but he (mostly) managed, avoiding many of the fists and harsh words that would otherwise had come his way. Rule four, he learnt immediately after the third visit and three days in the Cupboard.

Rule three… How could he hide something that he could barely control?

And that, he thought bitterly one night, was his problem.

Some time after school had finished for the holidays, just after his eighth birthday, Dudley restarted his oh-so-fun game of Harry-Hunting. And of course, because they were all free from school, he had his whole gang of mindless minions to join him.

So while Harry had his usual advantage of being small - it helped when trying to find hiding places - Dudley had the higher ground (quite literally, when it came to chases through the park) with an advantage of numbers.

He ended up on the edge of the village.

He seemed to have managed to lose the others a few minutes behind him, leaving him time to find somewhere to run. And of course - because he's Harry Potter, who else would do it? - he ran into a library, panting and gasping for breath. Almost instinctively, an old woman hissed quiet in his direction from the desk, before looking up from whatever it was she was doing, switching her expression from one of irritation to sympathy.

"Would you like some water, dear?"

He nodded, his throat still sore from running for nearly a few miles, and the woman left. Harry looked around hesitantly, noticing only one or two adults, seemingly oblivious to him, in plain view. The bookshelves were stacked almost to the ceiling, the books moving from shades of black and grey to bright blues and greens as they reached further into the light.

The woman tapped his shoulder, and he jumped slightly before turning to face her. She held out a plastic cup to him, and he took it, gripping with both hands to be sure he couldn't drop it.

"Are your parents nearby?" She seemed genuinely concerned, but Harry reminded himself of Rule Four, and what happened the last time he opened up. He took a sip of the water slowly, deliberately taking his time to catch his breath.

"Pardon?"

The woman smiled softly at what she must have thought was him being 'shy'. "I asked if your parents were nearby."

He shook his head, and she squinted at him. "They just live down the road," he lied easily, "So they let me come here by myself." The woman seemed to buy it, and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder to lead him to a brightly coloured area decorated with animals. He turned away from the window quickly as he saw Dudley and Piers running past, and they didn't even look in his direction. Success.

"My name's Alandra, if you need me. I'll be at the desk by the door."

Harry nodded, smiling at her slightly, and she left. Letting his hand run down the spines of the bookshelves, his mind reading ahead with the titles, he pulled out a book called The Hobbit, and sat in one of the beanbags on the floor, curling his legs up to lean on.

Well, at least he knew now there was one place he could stay safe.

A/N: Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts :) I've got another few chapters ready to post over the next week, so do follow if you want to be updated! (This is also on AO3)