Harry stared out the window quietly wishing himself happy birthday. He found it funny that he was eleven, he didn't think he'd survive for so long. But life had, after six painful years, given him some relative calm. Relative being the key word. He got into fights with other street kids almost every fifth day, he'd counted. And there were those odd occasions of having to steal from someone, that was bit of a lie he did it so often it was practically second nature. Sometimes he wondered if it was good for him to constantly steal but then again he looked more on the healthier side then the unhealthier side, thanks to thieving. His clothes made it seem like he wasn't as sickly and pale as he really was so he had to thank that.