Harry wandered out of Borgin and Burke's after the Malfoys had gone, clutching his broken glasses to his face. This was definitely not Diagon Alley, he realised, staring at all the dirty buildings and shadowy corners. A hag passed by, hawking what looked to be human fingernails on a tray.

"Not lost, are you dearie?" she asked, sickly sweet. Harry stammered something by way of an excuse as he turned and ran.

He tripped around a corner and tumbled into a little dead end alley, skidded on his side. A shadowy figure stirred at the far end.

"Hey, you alright?" it asked, the voice male. "Not in trouble, are you?"

"N-no," Harry stuttered, "I'm just l-lost."

"Circe, you sound young, kid," the man muttered, rising. He came toward Harry, carefully picking his way across the cobblestones with one hand on the wall. As he came into better light, Harry could see that he was young, probably in his late teens, and his eyes were covered over with a milky film. "How old are you?"

"Twelve," Harry replied, almost proudly and a little bit frightened. He got the feeling it wasn't such a good thing to be so young here.

"Too young," the man muttered to himself. "You shouldn't be around here, kid. Where are your parents?"

"Dead," Harry said automatically, staring at the man's eyes. "I'm sorry, but are you…blind?" he asked tentatively, afraid of the man's reaction to his boldness.

The man just grinned. "Yeah, had a potions accident when I was in school. There isn't much use in a blind wizard." He reached out a hand, searching a bit before he found Harry's shoulder. "Listen kid, you really shouldn't be in a place like this. Won't your family come looking for you? Or whoever you live with?"

Harry thought about the Dursleys and how they had locked him in his room and fed him through a cat flap, how they would happily be rid of him for the rest of their lives. He thought about the Weasleys, with their house full of five kids and two more already gone, and how they only managed to keep track of him because he was attached to Ron's side, whether he wanted to be or not.

"No," he answered truthfully.

The man sighed. "I'm too good for my own damn good," he said to himself. "I really think you should get out of here, but if you really have nowhere to go, I'd rather you stick with me. At least you'd be safe with me, if not all that well-fed."

"I'm used to being hungry," Harry pointed out, which made the man frown. "Could I really stay with you?"

"Course," the man grinned. "I could always use the company, and having a pair of eyes wouldn't hurt."

So Harry thought again. He thought about being Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, famous for something he never wanted. He thought about how everyone stared at him, expecting him to save the day anytime there was danger. He thought about how much he didn't want that, how he didn't want fans or people pretending to be his friends.

He thought about Hogwarts and magic, and what it would mean to give all that up, but then he remembered he was in a magical place. He could still learn magic, even if he did live on the street.

Uncle Vernon had always said that was all he was good for, anyway.

He thought about this man, this blind wizard living in an alley, and how no one looked at him or expected anything from him.

"I want to stay," he decided.

The man smile, squeezing his shoulder. "Alright kid. I'm Johnson. What's your name?"

"Harry."

"You got a last name, Harry?" Johnson prodded.

Harry frowned. He didn't want to say Potter. Johnson would know who he was and tell everyone, and then he would have to go back. He didn't want to use his mother's name, either. It was too obvious. "Black," he settled on, using his hair colour. He thought he'd heard someone say something about a Black family once, hopefully it was a big family.

"Pureblood, eh?" Johnson frowned. "Bit odd. You a Squib?"

So it was a real family, and a pureblood one at that. "No."

"Alright then," Johnson accepted, sliding his arm over Harry's shoulders. "Stick with me, young Mr Black, and we'll do alright."