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[He's not used to London from this side. Usually, they took Floo Powder, or else apparated when they grew old enough. When they wandered down the street, it was always firmly on the Wizard side of the invisible line. This is Muggle London, and it is different, and part of him still has to swallow on the word 'Muggle' so nothing worse comes out.

He found a place in the Park, and a bench to sit upon. He doesn't know where to look, or what to say, so he looks down and says nothing. It's almost like being a shadow. He's gotten rather used to it.]

[He's on a bed. He thinks it might be a bed. For a moment, a very long one, it felt like rocks sticking into his back. Sunlight might be getting in through the window. Might be something worse. So he keeps his eyes shut firmly. His hands are clenched in fists. Little half moons of nails digging into his palms. He breathes in and out, but it's so much more difficult going out than coming in.

But there are worse things. He's seeing most of them, his eyes shut tight. He doesn't want to know what he'll see when he opens them. Just in case there's no difference at all.]

Mother, mother, I'm sorry.

[That's what he says most often and most clearly.]