It had been a week since the figure huddled in the corner of the tiny room had been brought in. It had also been that long since he had anything to eat or drink. The figure occasionally drank from a muddy, stank water puddle on the floor of the room; the ceiling had a leak. The figure was none other than a boy. Maybe six years old and rather small for his age. His usually bright emerald green eyes were now a dull and lifeless. A pair of broken, oval shaped, glasses sat perched on his nose.

He didn't understand what was going on. One minute he was sitting in the kitchen with his Aunt, Uncle and cousin. Then the next he was waking up inside the cold, dark room. He had cried the first few days but stopped when his throat began to show signs of rawness. He then gave up. No one was coming anyways. So why bother?

The boy looked around the dark, cold room and shivered. He was wearing a pair of grey sweat pants, a black tee-shirt and a pair of ragged tennis shoes. All of the clothing was too big for him since they were hand me downs from Dudley who out grew clothes at an astounding rate. The pants had a large hole in the leg and the shirt was ripped at the collar. The shoes were holey.

His black hair was matted to his head from a mixture of blood and dirt. He had a gash on the side of his head about the size of a silver dollar; it had bled freely for quiet sometime. He couldn't remember how he got it.

He had made several, failed, attempts to stand until finally he managed to get to his feet on his finally attempt. But he was swaying dangerously. A yelp of pain escaped from his cracked lips as he stepped down on his right foot; clearly it was either broken or severely sprained. He had to lean against the wall for support so he didn't fall.

The cell was completely pitch black except for several streams of light that filtered through boarded up windows during the day.

He managed to makes his way over to what appeared to be the outline of a door. "H...Hello" He stammers out, throat raw and parched. Maybe someone would hear him this time. He licks his badly cracked lips. He felt so weak. The lack of food and proper water was starting to effect him. And the gash was swollen which would suggest that he had at least a mild concussion.

He slowly made his way through the small beams of light. He held his hand up and let the light shine on it. It was filthy and he imagined that his other hand, no his whole body, looked like it. He slowly set himself down and pulled the leg of his pants up. He carefully slipped his shoe off his right foot. A hiss, of pain, escaped through clenched teeth as he began to survey the damage. His foot was dark purple and horribly swollen. He gave a little whimper before he slipped his other shoe off. Then he just sat there for a while, staring off into the darkness.

He wasn't a stupid boy. He knew that his family didn't care for him. They were always saying how he was strange and abnormal. His Uncle even told him once that his parents were bums. He didn't know what that meant but it sounded bad. It didn't take a rocket scientist to know that he was an unwanted addition to the Dursley family. They practically told him that everyday. But he never talked back. He never once tried to get them to accept him. He just did what he was told; which was everything. He cooked his Aunt, Uncle and whale of a cousin breakfast, lunch and dinner every day, this had gone on since he tall enough to reach the stove. He mowed the lawn on the days that the weatherman told everyone to stay inside. His bed was the cupboard under the stairs, which used to be an old supply cupboard until he arrived. So you see, he knew for as long as he could remember, that he was unwanted.

He was five when he asked the dreaded question. The one that got him a months worth of punishment. It had happened one night at dinner, which consisted of a salad. It just slipped out. "What happened to my parents?" His Uncle had turned an ugly shade of purple before hauling the boy away from the dinner table and throwing him in to the cupboard and slamming the door. His Uncle only stayed long enough to push the small vent open and hiss "Your parents were killed in a car accident. That's why we got stuck with you, boy." The vent was snapped shut and he didn't see the light of day for weeks, only allowed out, at night, to use the loo. They had occasionally slid in a glass of water and a piece of stale bread. So after the month was over, he never mentioned his parents again.

He let out a small sigh and curled up on his side with his back to the door. Even though it had only been a week, it felt longer to the small child. He slowly let his eyes close, never hearing the door being pulled open or seeing the people, wearing black cloaks and white masks, that began to filter in. He didn't even notice when one of the men, with blonde hair and steal grey eyes, had picked him up. He was too tired to even care. All he wanted to do was sleep. And that is exactly what he did.