Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter; J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter. This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, businesses, places, events, or incidents are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Only the plot of this fanfic and some OC characters belong to me.

September 17th, 1989, London, Baker Street, 8:57 PM

Amid a chilling Sunday's night in London, one could see a small silhouette running briskly along Baker Street as if it were being chased by some horrifying monsters.

It was long before the small silhouette stumbled due to extreme exhaustion and hit its face hard on the pavement.

Despite the stingy pain, the small silhouette gasped for air and slowly got up. Under the brightly lit streetlamps, one could see the small silhouette.

It was a boy around 7 to 9 years old; he was utterly petite and scrawny, and his face looked haggard, as if devoid of any vitality a child should have. There were clear traces of tears streaming down his cheek. His hair was deep black and untidy, and he was wearing round-rimmed glasses.

He was Harry Potter.

As he finally calmed down, Harry found himself arriving in an unfamiliar part of London. There were blocks after blocks of 3-story buildings; the sky had long turned into darkness as the stars were shimmering above his head; and today was a full moon.

Particularly, there was no one else on the street at that time, just him and rows of streetlamps interleaving zelkovas.

He was lost.

The last thing he could remember were the images of the Dursleys screaming at him for blowing up the table along with the entire dinner. With his 'freakiness', he was utterly petrified, tears streaming down his face as he repeatedly mumbled the sentence, "I'm sorry, please forgive me," over and over. However, in return, there was a streak of punching and kicking that came from his own "Uncle Vernon".

There was only hatred and disgust coming from those eyes of the Dursleys.

"Oh, poor us! Why do we have to suffer from your sinisterness? You're a foul, filthy orphan.

"Not only did you bring upon your parent's demise but also tried to bring upon us, you heartless, ungrateful brat... You are a total waste of space who should have died alongside your miserable parents."

Harry could not take it anymore, for if this got any longer, he'd be dead! In that fraction of hesitation, Harry's instinct screamed for life as he bolted out of the house, running as fast as he could.

Anywhere but 'his home'.

Now that the pain had finally emerged as the adrenaline faded, Harry slumped down and curled up on a nearby staircase, under the eaves. Harry's tears silently fell amid his sobbing.

"Why? Why do things end up like this? Why does no one love me?"

"Am I really supposed to have died that day?"

All the nearby streetlamps flickered with Harry's sadness.

The subtle waves of magic fluctuation had woken a man clad in a formal white shirt, a dark vest, and dark trousers.

He was sleeping in his comfy chair; he rested his cheek on one hand while another hand was holding onto the open book placed on his lap.

He seemed to be in his late 20s, and his beard hadn't been trimmed for quite some time; his dark chestnut hair was unkempt, yet it could not hide his delicate yet slightly haggard facial feature, accompanied by a distinct scholarly air to him.

Those dark amber eyes of his shone briefly before returning to their usual slight dullness as he slowly opened his eyes.

'Accidental magic?'

'No, more like a residue of it'

The man placed the book back on a brown coffee table, and as he reached for his slivery square-frame glass, he rose to his feet, intending to search for tonight's abnormality. He was 182 cm tall with a lean build.

"It seems like we have a special guest". He turned to look at the cuckoo clock as it pointed to 9:15 PM.

It was not a spacious room yet exuded a comfy ambiance; the clock was placed right above the crackling fireplace, and there weren't many decorations in the room—just some bookshelves and a coffee table 2 navy armchairs, a brown sofa, and a typical table, all of which revolved around the small fireplace to the left of the wide bay window facing the nighty street.

One could say that the view was rather beautiful; there was a wooden table with various tools, books, notes, pens, drafts, and unhinged materials…

The most prominent one would be an old moving picture with Hogwarts and the Great Lake in the background. Three small pots of exotic plants were situated nearby. A few landscape drawings are scattered across the wall, along with some mundane tapestries that serve as decorations.

Opposite the working desk was a small, tidy bed.

He opened the door, which led to the first floor. There was only one room on the second floor; another served as the guest room on the first floor; and one on the basement in this apartment.

He proceeded towards the blue wooden door unhurriedly.

As the door was opened, presented before him was a small, scrawny boy, hurdled against the staircase, which was also the source of the magic fluctuation.

What the boy was wearing could be described as shabby, and it was also too big for him. He wore rather 'antique' shoes, which had worn out for quite some time.

At first glance, the man can tell that the boy was treated awfully, which led to severe malnutrition, and his living condition is probably very dire, though he doesn't seem to be homeless for obvious reasons.

"It's already late; don't you have to go home?" The man's voice was flat, yet it bore no malice or concern.

Harry jolted and awoke from his anguish. He hurriedly gathered himself as he quickly turned to the man, ready to apologise for intruding on his doorstep.

"I'm so...ry s...ir, I di…dn't me..an to" His voice was brittle, and his face remained to stare at his feet as he braced himself for the worst to come.

Yet the man only asked him a few questions.

"Why were you lying at my doorstep? Did you perhaps run away from home?" His tone was still flat, yet it was very calm and carried a little more concern this time.

Harry slowed down his breathing as he nodded slightly to the man's second question. His hand was shaking as they held on tightly to his clothes.

The boy was anxious, shy, and rather frightened. The sleeves of his thin coat were rolled up, revealing lots of bruises, and looked rather recent. He's been abused severely.

The man's dark amber showed some slight fluctuations briefly before returning to their usual calmness. He let out a long breath.

"It would be rude to let the guest stay outside this late. Please come in. Would you like some tea or juice?" The man said this as he extended his hand towards the boy, accompanied by a business smile.

Harry was taken aback, for this was one of those rare times when there was someone saying something pleasant to him. Harry raised his head to take a clear look at the man.

His unkempt hair and his smile bore some creepiness, yet those dark ambers carried warmth and sincerity.

It took a while before Harry decided to take the man's hand, and he was led to a nearby guest room. Compared to Harry, his hand was big and soft, despite its sturdy look.

The moment Harry walked through the door, it closed off on itself quietly, revealing the address of the building, 221B.

Harry was led to the guest room on the first floor. This room was decorated simply, serving only one function. Harry sat on a green sofa, waiting for his tea.

A few minutes later, the man returned with a glass of lemon juice and a cup of green tea. He then pushed Harry the lemon juice, saying, "I hope it suits your taste," as he sat on the opposite armchair, enjoying his tea.

"May I ask what happened that made you decide to run away from home at this hour, Mr..."

Harry responded in a much calmer tone, although his hands were still held tightly together to keep them from shaking. "My name is... Harry Potter, 9 years old, sir." His emerald-green eyes were looking at the man, eager for his reaction.

"Hello, Mr. Potter, I'm Ethan Esther, 28. It's a pleasure meeting you". His words exuded only gentleness and empathy, yet unbeknownst to Harry, thousands of thoughts ran through his mind.

'The boy who lived!? How come the hero of the entire Wizarding World suffers this utter demise? Who set him up for this? Judging by this scrawny complexion, whomever his guardians are, they despise to their core.'

'And he's only 9! How dreadful, dreadful indeed!'

'Yet no one from our world notices this? Or has someone deliberately hidden this fact? The question remains: why?'

'Very likely that the reason for his runaway stems from this Accidental Magic outburst...'

Using the unique 'Sight', Ethan can pry into the nature of magic in the form of a colourful, wavy thread-like aura.

At this moment, various colourful threads were fluctuating non-stop; dominantly was the blue colour, albeit not as fiercely as when he first sensed it. But out of the dense blue, standout a crimson thread menacingly.

'Dark arts? This colour…' Ethan's eyes shone for a moment as he focused on the red thread, trying to pry information from it. As his mental state touches the thread, various pieces of information pour in.

'Interesting… A blood ward, a profound protective enchantment... Home, Blood…So that's how this is.'

It took him only a minute to process all this information.

Maintaining his dignified yet friendly posture, he continued to probe further about his distinguished guest. "So, Mr. Potter, can you tell me what happened? Maybe I can help you with it."

"Just Harry, sir, I..."

All those horrible memories, along with dreadful feelings, once again surged up and encompassed Harry's mind as he relayed the event to Ethan, how his 'freakiness' led to the destruction of the Dursley dinner, causing a big ruckus, and how he was being punished for all of that.

Tears streamed down the boy's face, his body shivered, and darkness enveloped his mind. He curled up on the armchair, his eyes filled with terror as he grasped for air.

Following that, every piece of furniture inside the guest room began shaking violently, yet they remained unmoving, as if being held in place by a mystical force.

Ethan's heart ached for the longest time as he watched the boy relive all those hellish events in his life, not just the events he told. Phew… Ethan rose from his seat as he moved to the boy's side.

A gentle warmth enveloped Harry as Lighton pulled him into his embrace, gently patting his back. Amid the cosy ambience and warm colours, the gentle silence of the room

The boy's emotions burst out as he cried, crying for everything he had been through.

All he wanted now was for someone to truly care for him. Tell him that he deserves to live.

Harry's hands slowly held onto Lighton, hoping all of this was real and that this wasn't just his desperate instinct's creation.

Time flew as Harry finally gained his composure; he felt much better now as he quickly wiped away his tears, pulled himself out of Ethan's steady embrace, and apologised for his inappropriate behaviour.

"There is nothing to be sorry for, Harry; you're safe now." His calm voice was like gospel poured into Harry's ear as he gently patted Harry's messy hair.

This time Harry, for sure, could see the genuine smile on Lighton's face. In return, a small smile bloomed on Harry's haggard face.

"Now you must be very hungry from all that. I happened to have some toast, bacon, and eggs here; I hope it served you enough."

Before Harry could refuse, a spectacular event unfolded before him. From the small kitchen at the end of the room, dishes with food flew out, placing themselves beside the lemon juice. All of this was achieved with a wave of Ethan's hand.

"Please enjoy this slowly. In case you're wondering, I already have dinner So…"

Harry can only utter "Thank you, sir," as his eyes were still wide open, speechless at what just happened. Maybe hungriness clouded his mind. Pushing all those thoughts aside, Harry began his decent meal for the longest time.

Ethan watched Harry savour the meal with a monotonous smile as his eyes scrutinised the boy's condition. Bruised, malfunctioning, and callous all stem from years of abuse, except for his poor eyesight, which must be inborn.

From what he said, one can extract that his guardians must be Muggles with little knowledge about witches/wizards.

Ethan continued enjoying his late-night tea as he contemplated how to handle things from now on.

He admitted that he had always had a soft spot for children; therefore, letting him return to that hellhole was out of the question. 'Seems like I'll have to make a trip to Gringotts and the Muggle Liaison Office tomorrow; also, I'd better meet the Dursleys first in the morning, for now…'

As Harry finished his lemon juice, he took notice of the distant look in those dark amber eyes, under the illumination of the fireplace, as if they were forged of starlight! The gentleman's posture further added to his mysterious atmosphere.

Before Harry could raise his voice to suggest that he did the cleaning as a way to return the man's generosity,

"Was the dinner to your taste?" Still, that caring tone poured into Harry's ears.

"Thank you, sir; that was the most delicious meal I ever had," Harry replied happily.

Ethan cast a genuine smile towards the boy, hiding his pitifulness. With another wave of his hand, all the dishes began cleaning themselves as they returned to their respective cupboards.

"Now about those bruises of yours, I have just the perfect solution to that, can leave my guests feeling uncomfortable, right?" Ethan spoke playfully as he reached into his inner pocket.

"It's all right, sir; they will heal over time; there is no need for your further concern," Harry briskly replied.

"It's alright, Harry; I insist." Placed in front of Harry was a lustrous green vial—the Wiggenweld potion.

"This is the Wiggenweld potion; it will treat your wounds in no time. You should drink it before going to bed."

Harry reached out to receive the potion with a confused look on his face. "Who are you, sir? Are you truly a- "

"It's late, Harry. I believe you should have some sleep now. I will answer all your questions in the morning. For now, all I can say is that you are not a 'freak' Harry". The boy nodded as he tightly held the potion in his hand.

Ethan then led the boy to his room on the second floor; he was going to let Harry use the only bed available right now in this building. He had already gotten used to sleeping in the armchair or on the sofa.

To Harry, this room looked like a study with numerous books, unfamiliar tools, and materials, all of which were placed in order except the table opposite the one-person bed.

Harry drank the potion as Ethan said, as the wave of tiredness flooded the fragile consciousness of the nine-year-old boy. He was completely exhausted.

The last thing Harry could see before he dozed off was the image of Ethan's gentle smile as he caressed his hair, humming a peaceful lullaby like the afterglow slowly receding into the tranquil ocean waves. Harry wished that all of this wasn't a blissful dream and that when he woke up, Ethan would still be there.

Harry fell asleep with a smile on his face.