Chapter 1
Harry Potter stretches, his back cramping from the small cupboard he is still “kept” in despite being much too old for it. His internal clock is blaring, and yes- there is “Aunt” Petunia, banging on the door. “Boy! Get up!”
Harry sighs, opening the door to his cupboard and clambering out. He hardly has any time to stretch, before his aunt is wacking him with a broomstick. “Out! Out! Come on boy, we haven’t got all day, get out and earn your bloody keep!”
It’s been like this for as long as he can remember. Not that he remembers much other than his time with the Dursleys. His head pounds from the thought, so he avoids thinking about it.
Back to the Dursleys. They picked him up from an orphanage at six years old, and have not stopped reminding him about it since. Hence- nearly every day he is sent outside to do odd work- if he can find any- and has to give every single bit of his meagre earnings to the Dursleys. If he doesn’t give enough. Well. His “Uncle” Vernon likes to use his fists more than his words. Luckily for him, Harry thinks as he pockets a can of peaches from a distracted stall owner, Uncle Vernon is a merchant, meaning he isn’t at the house more often than he is.
Whistling, content with his peaches tucked safely into the folds of his trousers, Harry is suddenly confronted with a headache. Shit. This isn’t good. Whispers of voices, crackling, screams…a sweet song. It all overloads him at once, and he has since stopped trying to decipher them. Shit! As he stumbles across the road, a car beeps at him, and he flinches violently.
Suddenly, he is comforted. Warm arms settle around his midsection, and strong hands grab onto his small waist. “You’re shaking.” is breathed lightly into his ear. Harry twists out of the grip, frowning as he is met with cold, piercing eyes that have warmth peaking through them, like the light of the sun on a winter's day. The man, clearly a soldier of import if his numerous badges have anything to do with it, smiles at him. “You have nothing to worry about. Those days are over, when it was neighbour against neighbour. There’s a teashop, just near by-”
Harry, though still overwhelmed, could punch his ignorant face. An esteemed soldier! What could he know about the daily struggle of everyone else in “Leningrad”? Shiny new name, same fucking empty stomachs.
“I’m sorry- I have a shift now. I can't be late; work is hard to come by." He adds that last bit in almost spitefully, before dating off, not sparing a last look for the man behind him, the man whose eyes have the same haunted look he sees in his own.