Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. That honor belongs with JK Rowling. I own only the plot.

July 6, 1996 - 845PM

Faster and faster! Harder and harder!

The teenage boy huffed and puffed as he slowed from the 100 meter straight away sprint to jog around the bend. He wore nothing but a pair of emerald green jogging pants, sleek black trainers, and his wand holster on his wrist. His upper body was bare and dripping with sweat. Muscles rippling as he moved swiftly. His upper body was tanned lightly, and on his lower back you could catch a glimpse of a tattoo somewhat hidden from sight.

The teen didn't think of it as a tattoo, he thought of it as a brand. His uncle had chosen the design. It was a slave tattoo the fat overbearing man had called it. His uncle, his rapist, his owner, his pimp. He still had scratches from his latest customer.

His last customer had been Lars, his uncle's loan shark. His uncle had borrowed an extensive amount of money from the man, and was unable to pay the man back. Lars was thus given free access to the boy whenever he wanted. The tall thin man was really the only customer he enjoyed being raped by. The man always gagged him and took without care, was quick and always used a condom, so he had never had to clean the man after.

No one ever bothered the teen as he ran. He came to the local school every day at five in the afternoon and stayed, running, for a good three hours before he would begin the three mile walk home and make it in just before nine, which was when his uncle locked the door.

Tonight he wanted to go home, but he was stuck in this place. He wanted to rest after a long day of chores and two customers, but thanks to his uncle's business partner being at the house, he had been told to stay away until morning. The bastards.

The day had been relatively clear. He had spent every waking second from the time he woke until noon washing dishes, tables, floors, cars, weeding outside, polishing windows. At noon he was loaded in the car by his uncle, and he was taken to his customers. They had returned just before four. Then, at five his aunt had handed him his backpack loaded with food, water and a blanket and told him to make himself lost and not to be back until morning.

The teen finished his sixteenth, and last, lap around the track before slowing to a walk, grabbing his bag without a falter in his step and walking from the school track area. Around him people drove by, unknowing that one of the most powerful men in the world was walking by or that said man was near to breaking from the traumas of being a forced child prostitute.

At fifteen years old, he stood just six inches shy of his goal of six feet. His skin was the most beautiful tan, and he was proud of that. His green eyes shimmered in the night as he walked swiftly. His silky black hair was tied back into a braid that swung as he moved, and he enjoyed the feel of his braid gently smacking his rear as he walked. He loved his long hair. It was his pride; although sometimes he hated it because his customers often used it to hold him still.

He had grown since the death of his godfather weeks ago. He was in such pain that he had turned to books, manual labor, and physical training to keep him sane. Of course, it didn't help that his uncle had made him into a disgusting and filthy whore.

He hated the Headmaster with a vengeance. If he ever had the opportunity he would kill the bastard, he would. Dumbledore's betrayal had been the worst. He remembered the day when the man had taken his most pressure treasure. He would kill the man someday. He hated the man, and he understood Voldemort's train of thought when it came to the older Headmaster.

He turned the corner and walked into the small forest area. He had a small hideaway inside the trees, and he knew that not only would it be warmer, but he could relax there.

Harrison made it to his clearing and smiled as he prepared the sleeping pallet his aunt had packed for him. He wanted to smile, but he did not. The truth was... over the last few years, since departing for school, his aunt was kinder to him; often providing him with food, when his uncle was out of the house. She hugged him as often as she could. Then on days when he was banned from the house because of his uncle's business dinners, she'd pack a nice dinner and breakfast for him, warm clothes, a thick blanket and a pillow. Sometimes she left him a note inside to be safe while he was out. She never showed kindness in front of his uncle, and for that he never blamed her.

Something in his mind told him that his aunt would have been furious and disgusted that her husband and son had been raping her nephew.

As he settled down on the pallet she had packed, he gazed up at the stars, his gaze centered on one in particular. Sirius, the dog star, his godfather's star. That star guided him through everything he did. He remembered the poem that Hermione had given to him, his mantra…, his reminder that someone had once loved him.

"O, Sirius, bless me this night with the warmth of your light. Protect me and guide me. Bring me courage, bring me light. Love me always, hold me tight." He smiled. It was his customary ritual to speak the poem every night, never knowing that it was a prayer of the Old Ways. "I love you, Dad." He rolled over, closed his eyes and slept not seeing the blue eyes glowing in the darkness or the large wolf licking its lips as it stepped into the clearing.

The wolf paused a moment, looked around and shifted form. A large man with a dark mane of flowing black hair stood in the center of the clearing and smiled. The dark tattoo in on the forearm of his arm, twitched slightly as he approached, but he didn't register it. He used his wand to ensure the boy wouldn't wake, picked him up and disappeared.

The scent coming from the boy was calling to him. He inhaled deep, and the wolf inside him rejoiced, as realization struck. He had found him. He had found his mate. The stars be blessed after 46 years of searching he had found him.

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