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BRIGHT AND BITTER FLAMES

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Slash, X/HP. He wasn't the charitable sort. He was the type of boy who kicked stray dogs when they came begging for scraps from him and his mother. Who bared his teeth at the other homeless kids when they looked at him. But this time, he extended a hand to the soaking wet scrap of fluff hidden in a box. And for what was probably the first time in his life, his hand was taken.

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I do not own Harry Potter, nor do I own Katekyo Hitman REBORN. I'm just playing in their sandbox. Special thanks to my waifu, Reighost, and to my followers on facebook for their lovely prompts and constant support. You guys rock.

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Chapter One

The rain was coming down hard as he plodded his way down the cobbled alleyway, eyes sharp for any dumpsters that looked hopeful, or black bags that had been stacked outside the food places. The place was a tip, but it was empty. He could see a woman smoking out of a window a few floors up, but she wasn't paying him any mind, just watching the rain fall upon the roofs opposite with an idle interest that only those whose minds were a million miles away could have. She wouldn't notice anything if he kept quiet.

He just had to hope none of the staff at Franco's decided to have a sneaky fag break before the Dinner rush was over, if any of them caught him prowling around the alley in search of scraps again, they'd kick his ass so hard he'd be pissing blood.

It was only a Monday, which meant that it wasn't really a good day for food foraging. Most places weren't allowed to keep, or resale, things past their expiration date. So a lot of it got thrown out. Franco's and other places like that were practically treasure troves of food Wednesday through to Friday, with Friday practically being the Golden Globes of goodies. Sandwiches, fruit pots, yoghurt, salads, sliced meats. However, every day they had to throw out the stuff that they couldn't store or reheat, things like fries, steamed vegetables, etc. He had missed the Breakfast throw out at ten this morning. Lunch throw out was at about three in the afternoon, while dinner throw out could be anywhen between six to nine at night.

Right now, he was hoping to rummage from the Lunch throw out before it got cold and congealed from the rain.

Clambering up the side of the red dumpster he knew belonged to Franco's, he balanced on the edge and carefully probed the assorted black bags with his hands, looking for the warm one. Eventually he found it. Once he knew which one it was, he went for the other bags, already having felt various containers, boxes, bottles, etc, inside them. As expected, several flattened boxes that were used for coffee bean deliveries were in there, along with a large metallic tub that they got hot chocolate from. With the tubs under arm, and an unexpected boon in an unopened fruit pot full of grapes that had Friday's date on it and a mist of condensation (it must have been left in the fridge over the weekend and been discovered that morning), he went into the still warm bag and got as much of the good stuff out as he could. Chips went in the box along with peas and veg, he scooped up some baked beans into the tin and followed it up with what smelt like a chicken korma curry mixed with rice and a few soggy sausage rolls and steak slices.

He heard a bang from Franco's and quickly scrambled backwards as he heard the chief shouting at the kitchen staff. Thank god, Old Christian caught Alex before he could successfully sneak out for his cigarette. Alex was the nastier of the kitchen staff, he took pleasure in hurting others. Last time he got caught stealing food, Alex stomped his fingers into broken glass and laughed as blood and tears decorated the ground. It wasn't until the old lady who lived up stairs threatened to call the police that he stopped – the only reason that she herself didn't end up getting a beat down was the fact that she was Old Christian's mother. And if anyone touched a hair on that withered old granny's head then they would find out just how shady Christian's past was, and just why Franco never got into trouble with the local colour, even when he got caught bussing heroin through their routes, and fucking their Boss's second wife.

He scrambled out of the dumpster, accidentally knocking the grape pot to one side in his haste. It dropped off to one side and landed amongst some boxes, and prompted a squeak of alarm from a pile of soggy newspapers.

He froze, staring agog in disbelief that anyone would be stupid enough to stick around out here.

Green eyes peered out from under sodden papers.

It was a kid. A little kid. Littler than he was.

About the same age as he was the first time he ran into Alex back here at that. Four, maybe younger. He was soaked through to the skin, tiny, skinny, huddled in a cardboard box that read 'free to a good home' on one side, he had tipped it to one-side and pressed it as tightly against the dumpster as he could. Newspapers shielded him from the worst of the heavy rain but weren't all that effective, staining his fair skin grey and black in places that weren't already decorated with dotted bruises and scrapes. A thin scar the shape of a lightning bolt, traced in black ink, stood out starkly between the sodden strands of black hair.

He stiffened as he heard Alex swearing and Christian threatening to take him out back if he didn't wise the fuck up. Any minute now and he would be banging out here, pissed off. Which meant that if they got caught, they could expect a hell of a lot worse than broken fingers and glass. His mother's special power almost hadn't been enough to help him last time. He didn't want to risk getting caught, not again.

He didn't know why he did it.

What possessed him.

He wasn't the charitable sort. He was the type of boy who kicked stray dogs when they came begging for scraps from him and his mother. Who bared his teeth at the other homeless kids when they looked at him.

But this time, he extended a hand to the soaking wet scrap of fluff hidden in a box.

And for what was probably the first time in his life, his hand was taken.

000

Free to a Good Home was a quiet kid. And yes, he had been calling the boy that in his head ever since he dragged him out of that alleyway – thankfully just before they heard the tell tale bang of the door and Alex's foul cursing of the weather. He hadn't known it was raining apparently. He just held his hand and followed where-ever he lead, big green eyes darting this way and that, blinking every now and again when the rain spat in them. He was even smaller than he had anticipated when he first saw him curled up in the box.

Still, Free to a Good Home was quiet, and that was good. Especially given the folk who lived in the other room of the squat he and his mother had decided to occupy for the night.

It was a run down abandoned house next to the railway, the windows boarded up, the plaster peeling off the walls, dust and crumbling stone in the corners, plants, lichen, and mould in the corners and climbing up the walls. He had dragged a stainless steel sheet from the garden outside and thrown a bunch of old skirting boards and some splintered railway sleepers onto them so they could get a fire going. His mother's special power fixed up his injuries with sunlight, while his special power gave him fire that burned without smoke. It didn't seem useful, until you realised that you didn't have to worry about gassing yourself in a closed room just to stay warm, or that the smoke rising from the broken windows or chimney would give away the fact that you were squatting illegally in a derelict house. There was an old mattress in their room, it was still good, if you ignored the smell of old pee on it. He had managed to find it outside a family house before the rain got into it a few months ago, he and his mother had covered it with a blanket to hide the worst of the smell and it was quite comfortable.

He wondered how she would react to Free to a Good Home?

His mother wasn't very well, after all. Even he knew that. Something was wrong with her head, she saw things that weren't real, misunderstood and didn't understand others, but always she loved him and that was good enough as far as he was concerned.

It wasn't much of a home, but it was theirs. And he liked to think it was a good one.

And the box had said 'Free to a Good Home'.

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"Get rid of him," his mother groaned hoarsely, her dirty fingers dragging the smaller boy from her Son's grasp, dusting him off and checking him over absently, "We can barely feed ourselves. This isn't the Church, we can't afford to be merciful, or charitable," she told him, her voice rough as she smoothed her hands through Free to a Good Home's hair.

"They don't know charity," Xanxus grunted, already unloading his spoils from the back of Franco's, laying them out on the sheet of stainless steel, the edges slightly rusted.

Neroli hummed absently, her eyes far away as she swayed, still running her fingers through Free to a Good Home's hair, petting him like she had that kitten Xanxus had brought home once (before she had one of her episodes and ...it didn't survive). She licked a thumb and rubbed Free's cheek, smearing dirt onto his cheek before letting him go with a slight push towards Xanxus.

"Extra hands would be useful," she stated flatly, as he knew she would, as she'd said when he brought the kitten home. Though, that had been 'a ratter would be useful'. The squat they were living in had a lot of them. This time though, Xanxus decided as he dragged Free into his lap, folding both arms and legs around the smaller figure who shivered wetly against him as he dragged over a thin, second hand grey towel and began to rub his dark hair dry, he wouldn't let his mother break this one's neck.

His mother organised the food and some dry clothes from the wire cord stretched from one side of the room while Xanxus reluctantly abandoned Free in order to get a fire started. Green eyes widened impossibly when orange flame leapt from his hands to ignite the old railway sleeper and assorted dry grasses and twigs piled into the metal barrel drum they had gathered as a fire place.

He squeaked a question, making the two of them pause when they realised... that wasn't Italian.

Why did this kid not speak Italian? What was he even doing here?

The boy reached out hesitantly, hands slowly, very, very hesitantly, grasping Xanxus's own. Turning them over in his own smaller ones as he meekly squeaked a question. Xanxus tilted his head, he didn't understand that question, but it was pretty clear he was asking about his special power. He slid one of his hands free and lifted it, concentrating on the churning fire inside of himself and directing it towards his free hand, feeling it ignite with the hissing flickering orange and red flame.

Green eyes stared at it in unabashed awe.

Free turned away slightly, directing his free hand towards the pile of food, he squinted and grit his teeth, an expression of utmost concentration flickering over his face.

A second later, one of the grape fruit pots shot out from the pile and slapped into his hand so hard it bounced off his palm and rolled away before he could catch it. He flushed in embarrassment before peeking up at the two of them in a mix of hope and wariness, shaking a little in suppressed terror.

His mother hiffed, "Well I suppose he'll have to stay then," she grunted, gathering a bucket and making her way to the exit, patting him on the head as she passed. "He'll be safer with us than out there with them," she sneered as she left the room her own hand lighting up with fizzling and sparkling golden yellow light as she moved, making her way outside to the tap the other squatters had jigged into the water main below.

Free's eyes, dominating his face in confusion and fear, flickered between his mother's departed form and Xanxus, who still held his other hand tightly even when tiny little fingers tried to pull away. The red eyed streetrat nodded shortly and stepped forward, hugging him and petting his hair.

"She likes you really," he assured the smaller boy. The fact that he had even shown them his special power meant they could trust him with theirs, it meant he was special, he was one of them. Slowly, the shaking stopped as Xanxus continued to pet his hair, now drying into soft curls and tufts of wild chocolatey black. Hesitantly, he felt a small hand latch onto his top and squished Free a little more tightly into the hug. He was theirs now. His. Xanxus's, because he brought him home. Free was his now.

000

Free was a quiet and generally unobtrusive addition to their lives, but he was so small, and had such an air of helplessness and vulnerability that it was like fucking catnip to the predatory scum they shared the squat with. The number of times those filthy, greasy pieces of trash tried to pull, entice, lure, or drag him away from Xanxus's side, or his mother's shadow, was disgusting. They had learned the hard way never to bother with Xanxus himself, but Free, with his big green eyes, and oversized clothing, and pale clear skin was too sweet a mark to ignore. What they actually wanted with Free neither he nor Xanxus were quite old enough to understand – but they knew it was nothing good. Quite often, Xanxus had to use his odd smokeless fire to burn or scorch them away from the smaller boy who quite often didn't even have the faintest idea of what was being said to him. Not that he was entirely helpless himself! No. Free's ability wasn't just pulling things he wanted to him, he could do other things as they discovered one day when Xanxus's mother, Neroli, was not at her best and frightened the smaller boy from their room during one of her fits – and right into the dirty grasp of Rotti, the toothless meth head from across the hall.

The second his hands landed on Free's bare flesh, Rotti started shrieking in agony. His flesh bubbled and crumbled to fine white ash where he had touched the boy's skin. Drawn by the screaming, Xanxus quickly snatched up his friend and pulled him into the garden, a relatively safe neutral zone, leaving Rotti to scream and writhe in the hallway, a backing soundtrack to his mother's own shrieking and incoherent screams. They did not see Rotti again, not until Pietro, his roommate and fellow meth head, pushed his corpse out of their shared room in a shopping trolly, swearing under his breath. He had, apparently, OD'ed on Crystal Meth trying to blot out the pain of his missing hand. Pietro hadn't noticed until the smell started getting to him. Xanxus resolutely did not tell Free what had happened. And Free didn't ask.

Eventually, because Xanxus wasn't exactly the most civilised of children, or socially aware, and his mother was... well, even worse, and not very well, they found out that Free's name was actually Harry, and he was two years younger than Xanxus. A lot of miming and puppeting, and a few drawings on the dirt of the floor explained that he was from England, he and his family had come here to the Spa Resort just outside of the city, only they had kicked him out of the still moving car as they passed through downtown. He hid himself away and lived on the streets alone for about two days until Xanxus found him in his box. He didn't know, or care, where his family were, or what had happened to them when they tried to return to England without him.

Xanxus wasn't sure if he should be happy or angry on Harry's behalf. Angry that the Scum would so easily throw aside family, or happy that they had because it meant that Free to a Good Home was his now. It was probably for the best that Free didn't know (Harry was a stupid name), Xanxus would have quite happily turned them into nothing more than ash and cinders if he had the faintest idea of where the scum were hiding.

In the end, he decided to brush the matter aside entirely. There were more important things to consider.

Like teaching Free how to speak Italian, and getting their next meal.

With Free acting as a look out, Xanxus's scavenging was more successful and a lot less dangerous. It also meant he had an extra set of arms to help him carry things away, meaning even more food for the three of them. It turned out that Free could even cook with something approaching a level of skill greater than both Xanxus or his mother. He made the stolen scraps taste good, even if if their texture and looks were something to be grimaced over. Xanxus also stole on occasion, this disturbed Free a great deal the first few times. He kept trying to pull the older boy away and shaking his head, babbling rapidly in hushed, distressed English. Eventually though, he stopped, and started making sure that Xanxus wouldn't get caught. Sometimes even going so far as to use his special ability to unlock the doors and then lock them again behind themselves once Xanxus had pilfered food, money, and anything else promising that he could find (it was how they got some good bedsheets actually – and he even stole a small soft toy specifically for Free, a small spotted cat toy).

Yes, begging was supposedly more lucrative for children, but Xanxus knew better than to try it. This was 'Ndrangheta territory. You didn't beg for handouts on these streets. Not unless you were working for them, or sharing some of your cut with them.

Xanxus did not go near them. They were Flesh Traders. Traffickers.

Money laundering, drugs, weapons, insurance fraud, even forced prostitution were one thing, but Flesh Trading? Human and Child Trafficking? He didn't jive with that kind of shit. Not in the least because he was fairly certain that his mother had once been a victim of them, but because those activities were a threat to his small, largely helpless, little family.

And he would kill anyone who thought to hurt them.

A promise he had come very close to fulfilling if not for Free himself.

When the other street kids noticed that he had taken in another kid, tucked him under his wing to to speak, they had been shocked, and then offended. More than a few of them had invited Xanxus to join their little gangs and cliques. Had tried to bully him into their stupid ass games. Challenge him. Trick him. Follow him. He was strong, fast, intelligent, and he didn't take any shit. A lot of them wanted to impress him, some wanted to control him, others wanted protection from him. He rebuffed them all, often times with violence.

And now suddenly there's this little brat foreigner chasing his coattails, clutching at the end of his scarf? What? Did he think he was too good for them?

The fights that kicked off were monumental for all that they were children under the age of ten. Bones were broken, blood was spilt, teeth were swallowed. And it was only Free dragging him away from the bloody mess he made of T-Bone, the nine year old leader of the Graveyard Hounds (or so they stupidly called themselves), that left the older boy alive once the fighting had died down and most of the vermin brats had run off already. Took him down to the beach to clean up his busted knuckles, his bruised eyes, skinned knees, and split lip. Salt water stung like a bitch, but Free's hands were gentle as they carefully smoothed over broken skin in the sea water, the cold soothing them as much as the salt burned them.

Needless to say, an unspoken war broke out between the children. One that quickly saw Free losing a great deal of his hesitation in hitting other people, or in no longer using his unique talent to strike back.

000

"Where is Mama going?" Free asked from above him, his legs swinging and bouncing off the sagging rusted chainlink fence he was perched on. Xanxus rolled his head from where he was fiddling with the knife he stole off T-Bone's second in command. He could see his mother with her head covered in a familiar blue scarf making her way out of the squat they were staying in, her mouth a single slash of scarlet on an otherwise pale face.

He grimaced in disgust, "Work," he answered flatly.

"But it's almost dark," Free protested frowning as he peered upwards towards the setting sun.

"That's the general idea," Xanxus grunted, "She's a whore," he stated blandly as he carefully hacked through a loose thread on his coat with the knife. Tch. Blunt as all hell.

"What's whore mean?" Free asked confused. His Italian was still limited.

Xanxus paused, he wasn't even sure what a whore was himself. "They're... girls. Girls who spend time with men doing things like..." he wracked his brain, "kissing, and..." He had seen a few of the whores at work so... "they play with your bits for money."

"Bits?"

Xanxus patted his crotch, "Bits. Y'know. Your dick and stuff."

"Oh."

There was silence for a while as the sound of Free's kicks bouncing off the chainlink filled the air, the distant throaty calls of seagulls from the city occasionally drifting into the yard with the wind. Then:

"What's kissing?"

000

When his mother was out working, Xanxus often didn't stay in the Squat. It wasn't exactly safe, especially without her there. Her mental condition was enough to make the other squatters wary of crossing her as they had no idea how she would react to it. But without her there, they were more likely to try and get to Xanxus or Free for whatever reason – so instead, they opted to find somewhere else to spend the night.

Xanxus meandered through the streets lazily, Free scampering on ahead, chattering happily in a mix of English and Italian. Occasionally Xanxus would understand him. Even as Free learned Italian, Xanxus himself was picking up English from his friend. Right now his friend was chattering about kissing, about how he'd always wondered if his mother used to kiss his forehead like 'Aunt Petunia' did for 'Dudley' before bed, asking if Mama kissed his forehead, and if whores kissed people for money, why didn't they do the same?

"Different kinds of kissing," Xanxus told him blandly.

"Oh?"

The red eyed boy hummed in agreement as he kicked aside a few stray newspapers on a doorstep. Nah. Not good enough. "To be paid for kissing you have to kiss in special places. The mouth. Neck. Some people want kisses on their bits, though they have to pay extra for that," he explained, recalling some of the negotiations he witnessed between the whores and their customers. Sometimes people went to them just to get kisses on their bits.

Free frowned, pausing and waiting for him to catch up, "What makes kissing down there so special?" he asked curiously.

Xanxus shrugged, "Dunno. Sometimes they make weird noises like it hurts so maybe they're just weirdos." They continued walking until Xanxus spotted a doorstep he liked the look of. The windows were covered in yellowing newspaper from the otherside, there were more than three different news papers on the steps and a bunch of crackling brown leaves in the corners. Perfect. No one was going to be using it. Plus, it was sunken in just far enough and at enough of an angle with the house nextdoor that even if it started raining, they would stay dry.

"If it hurts so much... why would they pay someone to do it to them?" Free pondered as he helped Xanxus lay down their stolen blankets and coats.

"Who knows, grown ups are weird."

Free wrinkled his nose as the older boy dropped down and got himself comfortable. He sighed and crawled up next to him. He supposed Xanxus was right. Why else would Pietro take that weird white stuff that gave him nosebleeds all the time, and made him scream about ants in his skin? Still... if kissing someone's bits was painful, then at least he knew foreheads were okay.

He leaned up and pecked his friend on the forehead like he had seen Aunt Petunia do, grinning when red eyes flew open to stare at him.

"Night night!" he chirped before rolling over and pillowing his head on his arm and going to sleep as best he could.

Xanxus grunted behind him. "Night."

000

Fridays were the best day ever.

It was the day Carlos the Crepe guy was at the market, and he always made free crepes for the two of them. Harry loved the lemon and sugar ones, especially when Carlos put EXTRA lemon juice on and used the brown sugar instead of the white. Xanxus however loved the chocolate strawberry one best because it came with just a thin lash of whipped cream down the middle. Carlos always made them fresh so they were warm when the two bit down into their treats crowing happily.

And if Harry hugged the man, Xanxus didn't say anything.

He was too busy licking chocolate from his fingertips.

000

To most, the rain was a pain in the ass.

For Free and Xanxus, it was a torture.

"You're going to go out there and you're going to get clean, or so help me God, I will scrub you up myself!" Neroli commanded, brandishing a wash cloth as the two scrambled away from her to opposite sides of the room.

"But it's cold!" Free squawked, "And everyone can see!"

"And you stink!" the woman barked, flicking her cloth at him like a whip – giving Xanxus the chance to escape out into the hall, mentally vowing to pray in thanks for his friend's noble sacrifice. The squeal and sound of thuds as his mother stripped his bestfriend and shoved him outside with the wash cloth and bar of soap encouraged him to make a quick escape in the other direction before she came looking for him.

Free was right, there was no damn way he was going to get naked and scrub up in the rain where shithead vermin like Pietro and his ilk could get a good look – speaking of...

He positioned himself carefully just out of sight where it was dry and made sure to keep an eye on his friend. His mother probably wouldn't. So anyone who took a step near him was going to be in for a very unpleasant surprise he decided, fingering his knife in the darkness. He would wash later when he and Free heated up some rainwater in a bucket.

000

The moment he realised what he was looking at, Xanxus slapped a hand over Free's eyes and began to pull him backwards.

"Eh! Wh-what?"

"We're leaving," the older boy declared sharply, eyes roving the immediate area anxiously. They had gone down one of the cobbled backalleys looking to cut through the industrial estate to the other side of the docks in order to hit the beach without having to go down the main highstreet and get spotted by the other kids who tended to do their begging at the height of Tourist season. But the sight of someone so very clearly broken, bleeding, and covered in broken glass from a forth floor drop meant that there were 'Ndrangheta in the area. Xanxus wasn't going to risk tangling with them. They were a different level entirely to T-bone and his pack of bitches.

Free thankfully shut up and followed after him silently, glancing back only the once.

He never saw the body.

And if Xanxus were to ever have his way, he wouldn't see one at all, ever.

000

Looking for new shoes was always a pain in the hole.

Xanxus grumbled unhappily as he observed what the charity shops had available. Mostly it was old lady shoes, but sometimes you could find something decent – even if they were expensive. He had, at last, outgrown the old tennis shoes he got several years ago and had to pad with tissues and scraps of fabric until recently. Now they were too small and not even the very clever needle-work of his mother could save them from the trash any longer.

"These ones," Free suddenly declared, digging through some of the ugliest brown heeled sandals Xanxus had ever seen to something black towards the back. He frowned and then goggled, red eyes widening as Free dragged out a pair of scuffed, but very much serviceable black boots.

"Are they motorcycle boots?" he gaped.

"I don't understand. But these are good, yeah?" Free asked brightly, jigging them up and down in his arms. They were more than good. They were fantastic. Xanxus was pretty sure he had fallen in love with them. With goddamn footwear!

He kicked off his tennis shoes and grabbed the boots, eagerly jamming a foot in to get a feel for them only...

"They're too big," he complained with dismay. Way too big. Not even cloth scraps would be enough for this. These were for a man ten years his senior and it showed. His skinny legs didn't touch the padding even after he'd done the armoured clasps up properly.

"Too big?" Free parroted before blinking at the look of disappointment on his friend's face. "We can't get them for later?" he asked curiously.

Xanxus shook his head. They didn't have the money.

In the end, he found a pair of sensible brown school-style shoes and paid for them, leaving with a very dissatisfied expression on his face. They were just shoes, he told himself as he sourly went about the evening chores of gathering firewood and getting something warm going as Free mixed them up something to eat from their dry storage stuff.

When Free proudly presented him with those same damn boots just before bed, he wasn't sure if he should hit the boy, or hug him.

He did both. And even kissed his forehead for good measure.

Fucking brat.

000

T-bone was a big nine year old boy with a round ruddy face and muddy brown hair. He was always dirty and had the look of a semi-feral dog about him. His Da was a drug dealer down the docks, and his Ma was one of the local whores. He had no one in particular to care about broken bones or busted lips and scraped knees. His Da would have only told him to shut the fuck up, and his Ma would be too stoned to do much of anything but lie there and earn her keep. His gang were mostly boys, but a few of the more ugly and vicious girls, unsuited for whoring, were in there too.

And Harry was alone when he ran into them.

It didn't happen often. He and Xanxus were fairly glued to the hip, but he was sick. Hence why Harry was on his own – heading to the Pharmacy on the highstreet so he could steal some medicine for his friend. Only he had to run into T-bone and his gang half way there. Unlike Xanxus, he was not proud, and he knew a losing battle when he saw one. Instead of squaring up, standing his ground, Harry took one look at the group, counted them, calculated his odds – and then ran the fuck away.

Which, of course, meant that he now had about fifteen kids shouting and hollaring at him, giving chase.

Good luck to them, he thought viciously, not even Piers, arguably the fastest little shit in Little Whinging, could catch him outside of a playground.

He jumped onto a set of railings, bypassing the disabled ramps entirely and launched himself from one railing to the other before landing and racing off down through another back-street. He could still hear shouting behind him, further away though, and falling back. He was pulling ahead.

The dead end was – not good.

Thankfully it was only a chainlink fence with a bunch of feathers and leather braids and paper strips tied into it. He launched himself up and onto it, scaling the twelve foot high obstacle and dropping down on the otherside just as T-bone and his gang rounded the corner.

"The fuck did he go?!" one of the girls screeched.

"He ain't 'ere!" a boy snarled. "You sure you saw him go down 'ere?" he demanded getting in the face of one of the other guys.

"I fuckin' saw it!" the blond snapped, shoving him away. A fight kicked off in short order while Harry stood behind the chainlink, confused, and more than a little out of his depth.

Could they not... see him... through the chainlink?

"Aren't you a little young to be on this side of the chain?" a voice rasped from behind him.

000

And chapter end. I'll be covering Xanxus and Harry's lives on the streets in a drabble format at least until I get into the proper MEAT of the fic. They're adorable but there isn't much plot happening right now beyond the typical growing pains of, well, growing up together.