The Light.

A soft knock on the table drew Harry back to the world.

Looking up, he found himself staring into the bespectacled, black pair of eyes of the Librarian, Mr. Wilson.

"It's time to close.", said Mr. Wilson blandly upon successfully drawing Harry's attention.

Giving his share of gold, without waiting nor hoping for any sort of response, he walked away towards other few readers still blissfully unaware of the passage of time.

Looking at the retreating back, Harry couldn't help but wonder if the stern librarian drew some kind of sick pleasure from dragging people back into the colorless reality from the colorful world of their own creation inside the books.

Maybe, and more likely, he was just doing his job.

So, with nothing he could do, Harry closed the book while sighing resignedly and, with a push against the table, made his somewhat recovered but still hungry body stand.

Placing the book back to the shelf it belonged to, Harry made his way to the exit only to stop at the doorstep. He turned his head to see the time on the clock hanging on the wall behind the counter.

It was a few minutes past five o'clock, the usual time of closing the library on the weekends.

For Harry, it was also the dreaded moment of truth.

It would determine if Harry would get to 'play' once again and then be made to cook or would he have another few blissful hours of peace followed by a long night of hunger.

Both choices were equally bad, but he would rather accompany hunger than reacquainting pain for the second time in a single day.

With a deep breath, he cautiously peeked through the open doors to search for the unfortunately familiar presence of a pig with a wig that his cousin Dudley was. If his relatives had returned, then Dudley would surely be waiting outside the library for his preymate to come out of the restricted hunting grounds. If not, then Harry would just have to wait till after dinner only to be locked inside of his cupboard.

He didn't have to put much effort into searching. Dudley and his gang were rather incompetent hunters. Let alone knowing important things like camouflage, sneakiness, and traps that were an essential aspect of hunting, they couldn't even spell them.

Therefore, a single glance was all it took Harry to find Dudley, along with his friends, standing across the street. One of them, Piers, seemed to have noticed Harry for he tapped Dudley's shoulder and pointed towards Harry.

Even with his bad eyesight that was not helped by his ill-prescribed spectacles, Harry could see Dudley's eyes lighting up, his face twisting in wild glee in anticipation of what's to come in stark contrast to his own worsening expression.

"Hey!", exclaimed Dudley giddily. "It's Harry Hunting time!"

Taking the loud, delighted declaration as a sign, Harry ran.

He knew that running was futile, not because Dudley was faster, no, there were just too many hunters hunting for the sole prey. He knew for sure that he would be caught, be beaten, but the more he delays his capture, the less he would get beaten before it was the time of their curfew.

So, draining the energy from throughout his body, he ran, he ran as fast as his weak body could allow him, he ran as if his life depended on it because maybe, it did.

After all, kids didn't know restraint, did they?

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Back at the playground, Harry once again lay splayed on the ground, his body once again in pain and hunger, and his clothes all dusty.

He was caught and beaten once again just like in the morning. And this time, there weren't any clouds accompanying him; only the dusky, red sky.

Even if the clouds were present, he wouldn't have had time for cloud-watching; he had to go and cook dinner for relatives after all.

But, it seemed like his body didn't agree with him. No matter how hard he wanted to get up, no matter how hard he tried doing so, his body wouldn't agree. Even the possibility of further pain, and this time by the hands of his Uncle, did nothing to help his body obey.

...That broke the camel's back.

Harry had learned very early on that crying wouldn't help him. His tears, his whimpers, his distraught voice seemed to rile up his tormentors even. Hence, he had stopped letting his emotions show, letting his voice leak for years. Whether in pain or in hunger, whether in anger or sadness he didn't show any of it.

Most of the time, that is. Sometimes, he couldn't.

With his sniffles about to escape, Harry drew his arm across his face and tried to hide the most of his face under it, succeeding even, what with those large sleeves of his shirt.

If seen from afar it would look like he was taking a nap on the dirty ground; quite an unusual place to take a nap but thankfully, nobody in the neighborhood would expect anything different from him.

He needed his silence for a while.

"Hey, Kiddo! That's quite not a nice place to take a nap."

"Urgh…", groaned Harry softly. It seemed to him that the world wouldn't even let him rest in peace. The sheer vigor and chirpiness in the unfamiliar voice annoyed him to no extent. Though beautiful it was, and had none of the unjustified sternness, disregard, or apathy present in the voice of most of the people who directed their voice at him, Harry just wasn't in a state to enjoy the temporary warmth it conveyed.

After all, it wouldn't take long for the person to recognize him with how infamous he was.

Still, taking advantage of the short distance of the speaker, under the soft sound of approaching footsteps, Harry used the sleeve covering his face to wipe off any traces of tears that might have leaked just in time for the owner of the voice to arrive near him.

"Are you alright?"

...That was not what Harry expected and it showed with how his body went stiff for a moment. The concern he could discern in the voice felt unreal to him and left him stunned momentarily.

'Someone new, perhaps?', he mused.

Taking his arm off his face he looked in the direction of the voice only to squint due to the sheer light the figure exuded. He could only see one thing, one characteristic of the figure before he needed to close his eyes.

Hair.

Long they were, but what imprinted on Harry the most, and that too in a single glance, was the passionate, warm, flaming red color of the hair.

Everything that Harry thought sitting beside a bonfire with a family would feel like.