A/N: Still don't own. This is non-canon compliant. And this plot would not leave me alone, so instead of working on INoS? or PMA, I started this one, which is in the same universe as INoS but they can be read separately. This does contain abuse scenes and perhaps other scenarios as it goes forward. Let me know what you think. ~Case

The almost eleven year old gazed into the darkness of his room, foregoing sleep once more. Sleep was not safe. The monsters came out when he slept and although he used to wish for help, he had given up. No one was going to save this little boy with his mess of black hair and startling green eyes. Eyes that were dull and bleak. Hopeless. He was hopeless. No one would save him, he no longer believed in wishing, hadn't made a wish since he was five. He just had to save himself.

The little boy, one Harry James, sat up as the first bit of light touched the crack under his door. His aunt would be raising soon and he needed to start her morning tea and heat the pan before she came down stairs. He wiped his taped glasses on his torn, dirty shirt, slowly cracking open the door. He peeked out, and finally deciding that it was safe enough, he slipped out of his room, trotting noiselessly to the kitchen. If he was quiet and fast, Aunt Petunia would feed him before her husband woke. He padded silently to the sink, picking up the kettle and filling it with water. He carried it over to the stove, setting it down on the back burner and, after climbing onto his stool, turned it on low. Stepping off the small footstool, since he was not yet tall enough to comfortable reach all the knobs, he pulled the large frying pan out from under the sink and grabbed a smaller one for the eggs. Returning to the stove, he placed both pans on the eyes, turning on the larger one while ignoring the smaller one for the time being. He tilted his head to the side, listening to the soft footsteps pattering around the second floor. His aunt was awake and just in time, as the tea kettle started to whistle. He carefully removed the pot, pouring it into a mug and setting it down on the table. He silently padded out the back door, slid around to the front steps and picked up the morning paper. He returned to the kitchen through the back door, uncle would have a fit if he used the front door, and sat it beside his aunt's tea mug, turning back to the stove.

Petunia Dursley entered the kitchen slowly, glancing at the little boy standing in front of the stove, on the bright green step stool she had bought years ago. She moved toward the table, a small scowl of her long, horsy face. She merely glanced at the table, a frown tugging at her lips. Perfect as always. She turned her sharp eyes to observe the child who was diligently working on breakfast. She stood, slowly moving toward him. His head snapped back up and the boy flinched as she reached passed him, moving the pan a little further back on the burner. She turned the handle so that it was facing the back, and turned the stove down a bit. It was too high and the grease would burn the poor child if it splashed him or that lard of her's knocked into him. "Settle Harry." She whispered, gently squeezing the boy's shoulder before moving to the ice chest. She rummaged around for a few moments, pulling out the eggs, juice, and milk. The boy already had the bacon started and it would not be much longer before the men of the household started to wake. Glancing at the time piece, she moved quickly, pulling out bread and lunch meat. She filled a glass with juice and another with water, pushing the latter toward the boy. The juice would burn his throat if he drank it first. Her damn husband had made sure of that. Her hands diligently made a sandwich, cutting it into quarters, two of which she wrapped in a towel and passed to the boy, who, without turning from rotating the bacon, slipped the food into his pocket. This was routine for them, had been routine since he was five and his aunt had finally had enough. Petunia had enough but she did not have the willpower to leave Vernon. The last time she tried...it was not pretty and Vernon had pushed much of the blame onto Harry. With one hand, the child lifted the glass gingerly to his lips, taking small sips of the water. She sat the rest of the sandwich on the counter, within his reach, knowing that the moment she turned away he would tear into it. Another reason she only gave him a small portion and the rest in his pocket. Otherwise he would make himself sick, eating so fast. His stomach was shrunken and she knew that. She worked desperately during the summer to keep him at a healthy weight, but without school meals and Vernon's decree that the boy did not need much food to survive, it was much of a struggle. Once he had finished with the water, she handed him the glass of orange juice, knowing full well that the boy hated it, but she also knew that he needed the vitamins. She just had to keep him alive. A few more months. And then she could sent him to Hogwarts where he would hopefully be safe.

Harry glanced at his aunt, who had finally seated herself and wa reading through the paper, before grabbing a small square of the sandwich, stuffing it into his mouth. Vernon was off today. He could very well not receive another meal. He was lucky as it was. He knew that. He had clothes, food, and a roof over his head. Isn't that what Vernon was always telling him? Although, if Harry was honest with himself, and he always tried to be honest with himself, it was not much better than when he had run away. Twice before he had taken off, survived on his own for weeks at the time, but always returned here. Even the nice man at the shelter could not save him. The man had promised to try but there was no evidence against Vernon. Nothing. Vernon was normal. It was he, Harry, that was the problem. He was a freak. A good for nothing freak. A starving, sickly, hurting freak. He didn't deserve what the Dursley's gave him. He was not good. He knew that. Even if Aunt Petunia had tried to explain to him that Vernon was wrong, had tried desperately to help him, he knew she was just confused. Vernon had told him, over and over, that he was useless and he learned to believe everything Vernon said.

Later that afternoon, Petunia watched out the window as the young boy weeded the garden in the horrid heat. She had slipped him several glasses of water, when Vernon was busy watching the telly, and had slathered him with sunblock, but she knew it might not be enough. His magic might keep him safe from the worst bits, but he could still get sun stroke. She glanced at the timepiece and sighed. Harry had been doing yard work, on her husband's orders, for nearly six hours. The yard was perfect, as always. Characterless. Boring. But perfect. And perfect is what Vernon expected, from everyone. She opened the door, wordlessly beckoning the boy inside and shooing him down to the laundry room, keeping one eye on her husband's bulk. Dudley was at a summer camp, one that she had picked, hopefully he son would learn how to be a real man and not become like his father. Already the older boy taunted and terrorized Harry, but Harry never said one word against Dudley. Once inside the laundry room, she shut and locked the door, turning her eyes toward Harry. The slight boy automatically pulled his shirt off, throwing it into the wash, as she moved to the cabinet, pulling out a hidden bottle of sun relief, knowing that her husband never came in here. She kept many things for Harry hidden in the cabinets here. Spare clothes, food that wouldn't spoil, bottles for water, medicine. Anything a ten-year old could need, especially if he was locked in the house by himself for days on in. She tried to convince Vernon that Harry needed watching, but the man refused point-blank. So instead, she made sure he had enough food and water to survive. And ways to contact her in case of an emergency. With gentle ease, she slathered his red skin with the lotion, motioning for him to turn. When he did, she rubbed another lotion into his back, a pain cream like one that Lily had given her, years and years ago, trying to be gentle, but the boy still fought winces as she rubbed his bruises. "Settle Harry." She whispered, stepping back and reaching into a basket of clean clothes. She pulled out one of Dudley's older shirts, it was a few sizes to small for the bulging lad now, and handed it wordlessly to Harry. It was much to big for the boy, but fairly new. And better yet, it was clean. She handed him a second shirt, which he slipped on over top of that, familiar with the routine also. He would slip it under his mattress so that he always had a second shirt. He could be semi-clean for a week this way.

"I'm sorry, Aunt Petunia." The boy whispered, staring at the floor.

Startled she turned her gaze fully to the boy. "For what, Harry?"

"For being so much trouble." He shrugged his thin shoulders, shuffling uncomfortably.

"Oh child. You are not too much trouble. Not at all. It is my duty to take care of you Harry. I promised your mother that I would. And I always try to keep my promises to Lily." She whispered, running a hand through his dirty, ragged hair. The boy needed a shower. When Vernon went to work tomorrow, she would make sure he took one. A long one. His green eyes had finally snapped up to her, listening eagerly. She glanced at the timepiece and then back at the boy. Not much time today for a story, but perhaps a short one could be managed. "Your mother was beautiful, Harry. Much prettier than I am. She loved to swing and every time she would jump, so high off the ground and float gently down, landing softly on her feet. It was...special. She was special. Her best friend, when we were children, was a little ragged boy, not much different from yourself. He was always there to play and talk with Lily. He convinced her of how special she really was. I do believe he loved her, in his own way." Petunia whispered, letting a smile grace her face as those green eyes lit up. Another tradition, but much more sacred to the both of them. He knew nothing of his parents and she, loving her sister as she did, wanted him to know the little girl that she clearly remember. They have had their ups and downs, but Lily was her sister and she loved her. And now she loved her child. Vernon had forbidden the 'M' word anywhere in the house and she knew better than to slip, for if the boy accidentally mentioned it, Vernon would thrash him.

Harry turned his green eyes up at her and a small smile twitched on his lips, making him look so young. But then, he was young. "Thank you, Aunt Petunia." He whispered, glancing at the timepiece. "I best start supper." And with that he was out the door, headed for his cupboard, where he stashed his second new shirt, before trotting to the kitchen.

"Worthless whelp! Good for nothing freak!" As Vernon's fist connected with the child's face, she found her voice once more. The child did nothing! "Vernon, he's just a child!" She objected, moving toward her husband. Vernon ignored her, pushing her out of his way. He was angry. His team had lost and the stocks were down. What better way to relieve stress than to take it out on the boy in front of him? None.

"Leave her alone!" With a force he didn't know he had, Harry slammed his uncle into the furthest wall. He turned to his aunt, fear in his eyes. He had been freaky again. And he would pay dearly for it. But he didn't want uncle to hurt her. Petunia was the only one to ever care about him.

"You little freak! How dare you harm me!" Petunia knew there was no stopping Vernon now, even as the man turned his beady eyes to her. "Go to our room love. I'll deal with the brat." He snarled.

"Vernon, please-" But she was cut off when he slapped her, hard.

"Now!" He roared. He would not have his wife denying him. Not over some little street urchin. Useless little monster.

With one last look at Harry, an apology in her eyes, Petunia fled. Staying would only cause more harm to Harry, she knew that. She would just have to wait until Vernon was sound asleep and sneak downstairs to tend to the little boy. Hopefully, Vernon did not try to kill him this time. Because she would call the police. She could not let him kill her only link to her family.

Downstairs, a boot connected with Harry's leg, causing the boy to yelp in pain. But then he fell silent, curling up to protect his stomach and head, as Vernon's boots kicked him over and over again. One well-aimed kick had him seeing stars. The next, and he started to black out. He did not fight his uncle, he knew Vernon would stop eventually. He heard the drawers sliding open, as the kicking briefly paused. The labouring breath of Vernon as the lard of a man stomped about, looking for something. He squeezed his eyes closed tight, waiting, just waiting for it to be over.

Back in his cupboard, the young boy laid still, unmoving. His ribs hurt, his body hurt. But he was listening, focusing on the noise upstairs. The sound of Vernon hitting his aunt. Again. He closed his eyes and bit his lip, wishing that it would just stop. That Vernon would change. Petunia did not deserve to be beaten. He knew that he did, he was a freak, but she was not. She was just trying to help him. And he still got beaten. His body ached but the bleeding had stopped and the pain was dull. His freakishness again. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Wishes did not come true. He knew that. Nothing would change.