Harry hated it when his uncle locked him in the basement. It was cold and dark and dusty, and sometimes he heard things scurrying.

He sat down on the step, staring out into the dark of the room. Uncle Vernon hadn't even given him a light. He was to stay where he was for an hour, his punishment for sneaking the dinner that Dudley hadn't eaten.

Gradually his eyes adjusted to the dark. Upstairs he could hear the sound of Uncle Vernon laughing gaily, Aunt Petunia saying something gently to her son. He heard Dudley's contented answer, heard him say, "Oh, yes, mum, I love you - "

Harry felt sudden, angry tears gather in his eyes. He had heard many mothers speak to their children that way, and children to their mothers, but no one had ever spoken like that to him, and he had never spoken like that to anyone. What had he done? Why was he different? Why couldn't he have any parents?

It was unfair, that with all the other things he was not allowed to have, he had never had a mother. Everyone had a mother. Even Charlie down Privet Drive had a mother, and everyone hated Charlie.

Harry buried his head in his knees. He had had a mother once, Aunt Petunia said. But she was dead, which meant he'd never see her again. Sometimes, if he tried very, very hard, he thought he remembered her. But he could never be sure.

He had been a year when she died.

Was that old enough for her to say she loved him, and for him to understand? Was it old enough for him to say it back to her?

It was too late now and she would never hear him or say it back, but if he told her, it might make him feel a tiny, tiny bit better.

"I love you, Mummy," he whispered into the darkness.

But he did not feel any better and he knew he never would.