It was dawn, Harry felt it. He endured dehydration, a great deal of starvation too. He no longer saw his family, they never came. He hadn't heard much anymore, either. His mother's incessant wails stopped all too quickly.

The fears that shook her half to death had become a grisly reality; A doleful nightmare. Harry wondered what had become of her. Maybe she found her alleviation within the bottles of gin they stored in the basement. She always loved a small glass of gin on Fridays. When she was buzzed, she would start to dance.

She was balletic in the presence of her alky, demure without it. Harry loved watching her dance. When she was drunk enough she would saunter over to him and embrace him. He was withdrawn during the duration of her hugs, however. She knew that he was gone, yet she held on tight.

She would tell herself that Harry flew away and when an urgent nausea egressed, she wished to fly away herself. Not to find her son, though. She wanted solitude. Nothing more. She'd sigh and press her chapped lips upon Harry's soft forehead when she would realize that she was stuck, anyhow.

Now, older and excessively grim, he had no indication of his parent's doings. With his father's intrusive temper he was sure his mother was being hit. He was sure she was close to nothing. She was close to her solitude that she craved all along. He had no idea how many bottles she would drink a night, nor the amount of times his father's unkempt fist would connect to her beautiful face, but, he felt no dolor.

They had their choice and although the decision was not yet made, it was clear. It was then that Harry made a commitment to himself. He was now to create his own nether world.

~

Harry snarls lowly when a piece of wood slips beneath his dreggy pointer finger as he strokes the pane. His nails scrape against the glass, softly at first, then more promptly. He pushes up against the window, yet it doesn't budge. He sighs deeply, a steady rill of vapor releases from his mouth. He sashays to the back of the house where larger windows remain.

The moon, trapped behind precursive clouds, paints the white boards that overlay in a heather. He scans the windows from afar before approaching. She hadn't drawn the curtains like she usually does every night. He tries pushing up on the largest window of the family room. As expected, it doesn't budge.

Harry breathes hard as he stares inside. A gelid wind slowly begins to blow, his curls push forward, tickling his cheeks. His face begins to get hot, he is getting frustrated. His hands clench into a fist, stiff with bulging veins. He smashes a fist against the pane, causing it to rattle.

The other window is smaller. He runs his hand over the pane like the others. This one is cold. It is scarcely wet, a result from imponderous snow storms. He runs his hand across the glass, accidentally breaking off a small piece of the wood frame. He pushes to the left, earning no alteration. Harry furiously impels the window to the right. It opens rapidly.

Harry nearly pants peering into the sombre. It makes him feel young again, trapped in his cell. It reminds him of a past so burdened, though it feels different. It is warm. It is new. It is her. His heart pounds hard against his osseous chest as he pushes the window open wide enough for his entrance.

It is as he places both hands upon the bottom of the pane to accommodate his weight that something in the air shifts fleetly. His head begins to ache, his stomach churns. A large gust of wind shakes the boards adorning the house. There is no omission of the figure behind him, waiting in the trees. His energy has quickly turned sour.

Harry shifts his head to left slightly before scoffing under his breath and pushing himself through the window. He is met by a large sink. He quickly realizes he is in her kitchen. He climbs over the sink and drops down off the counter. He takes a deep breath in after closing the window behind him, only leaving a sliver open for his escape.

The air is stale and stuffy. The smell of cigarettes engulfs most of the room. It is warm nonetheless and Harry accepts it thankfully as he has endured an abundance of glaciation. He begins to rub his biceps as he treads around the kitchen. His stomach jolts at the thought of food. He hasn't had more than a few wild berries in a few weeks.

Opening up the steel fridge that's settled next to the stove, Harry frantically rummages through the drawers. He grabs a hold of anything he can get and ferociously gets it down. He pants, leaning against the counter. He leans over, placing his head within his hands as a terrible sick exudes.

His breathing decelerates as he is able to keep the food down. He reclaims himself. He begins to analyze and even though his legs feel as though they are filled with mortar, he takes them with. He wanders into the family room, the same room where his seraph and her mother spoke earlier that day. There is a pressure in this room, an invisible tension.

He places a hand upon the couch in which they sat. He softly ran his fingers over the delicate fabric. He sees the silk. Her silk. He touches it, he grips it hard beneath his filthy hands. He breathes in deep and slow as an eager heat crawls down his torso. Upon scanning the rest of the room, he is drawn to the staircase.

That is where his legs take him next. Each step creaks as he ascends, filling the devoid air. The air above is easier to take in. It feels ringent. Instinctively, Harry is drawn to her bedroom. It is disengaged without her company, but he feels her. Her windows are open, the curtains blow calmly.

Harry runs his hand along the width of her bed. He brings his hand up and strokes his cheek, eyes closing tenderly. The front door opens. Harry's eyes jolt open. His heart pounds. He grins, his dimples emerging. She stumbles downstairs, her footsteps pounding against the wood flooring.

"Harry," He hears the demons behind him. He does not move. The stairs creak. She is coming. "Harry," They whisper aggressively. She begins to giggle as she stumbles up the staircase; She is drunk. Harry is vehemently yanked from where he stands next to her bed. The demons pull him into the shadows as she forces the bedroom door open.

Harry's breath hitches as she stumbles in. The demons hold a firm hand upon his neck and mouth to keep him quiet and in place. She throws her heels onto the ground and stumbles to her record player. She puts the needle upon the record and as it begins to spin, so does she.

Harry nearly gasps. She dances exquisitely. She dances just like his mother would. Her sweet giggles fill the hollow space. This is the most divine, aphrodisiac thing Harry has yet witnessed. The grace in which she holds steals his breath and even more so his heart. She sighs when the record hitches and turns off. She lays down.

It is quiet, unnervingly vacant. She starts to rustle around in her sheets uncomfortably. She feels him. He feels it. She apprehensively sit up in her bed, her eyes still closed. She is afraid, her eyelids flutter. She bites her lip hard as she opens them slowly, staring into the darkness. The very darkness in which Harry remains. The darkness where Harry's nether world prospers.

Her breaths are shaky, her heart pounds hard as Harry's does. She squints.

"Are y-you my guardian angel?" She stammers.
~
A/N
  How are you guys? I hope you all enjoyed this chapter I loved writing it! All my love to you.

-Isabelle<3