Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling. No money is being made.

Written for the Daily Prophet competition on the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition – Round 2

Prompts – Go back to a previous season, find a round you liked and write a piece for a position that you currently don't write for, up to 500 words.

Picked: Season 2, Round 12 – Fairytale Dabbling, Chaser 1 – Hansel and Gretal (additional prompts: (word) sore, (word) bleeding, (word) hate.)

Seeker for the Wimbourne Wasps

Final word count: 498

Sort of like a Fairy Tale

The sharp sound of a siren startled him awake. He looked around, panic gripping his heart and stopping his breath until his eyes landed on the boy already getting up from his own bed in the small room.

"Come on, Harry," Tom ordered crisply, practically dragging him out of the room.

He followed without complaint, trusting Tom to keep them safe. He wasn't really surprised to see that the orphanage was practically empty. He supposed that everyone else had already sought refuge in one of the available shelters. It surprised him even less to see that no one had bothered to wait for Tom and him.

Things had been bad before this Merlin forsaken war between the muggles had started, but now they were unbearable.

He was sore more often than not, he had lost count of the times he came back bleeding from scavenging around London trying to find food. He had never felt hate as acute as he did when Dumbledore had again denied their request to stay at Hogwarts. The hate had almost consumed him; only Tom had been able to bring him out of it, whispering sweet words of revenge in his ear.

"Look," Tom whispered, pointing at a house with the lights on.

Harry almost salivated when the scent of fresh bread assaulted his nose.

With an efficiency born of repetition they sneaked into the house, looking for anything edible they would be able to carry with them. Harry nodded when Tom told him that he would be going to the kitchen while Harry should look into the dining room.

Harry had been practically salivating at the feast he found in the dining room when screams from the kitchen had him racing back to Tom. He burst through the door in time to see a man kicking Tom while Tom tried to curl into as small of a ball as possible so that he could shield most of his body.

The following moments were a blur. When he came to the man was on the floor, bleeding from several stab wounds on his back and Tom was looking at him with eyes full of pride and what could only be called hunger.

Slowly Tom got up and gently took the knife from Harry's bloodstained hands.

"It's alright, little snake," Tom murmured, his eyes looking around the room til they landed on the oven, "Help me with this," Tom instructed and Harry did as told still in a state of shock.

Not that he regretted what he had done. He didn't.

Tom was all he had. Since he woke up on those steps of the orphanage, away from his cupboard under the stairs, Tom had always been there for him. He would not give Tom up. No matter what.

And while both of them shoved the body into the oven, Harry couldn't help but smile. This was almost like a fairy tale Tom had once read to him.