Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

And Her Lap Was His Sanctuary

Chapter One: At Last

Pamela Glenconner

Bitter are the tears of a child: Sweeten them.
Deep are the thoughts of a child: Quiet them.
Sharp is the grief of a child: Take it from him.
Soft is the heart of a child: Do not harden it.

He propped his elbows up on his lap and leaned his head into his hands as he watched his mother play. He watched quietly as her fingers glided over the keys, emitting rich notes every time they stomped down on one of the black or white steps. There were no words to her music, no sound but the crisp notes that floated in the air of her music room.

Occasionally Alex would rock along with the music, closing his eyes as he often did, and hum along to the songs that were so familiar to him. This time, however, he was content to listen as fresh notes poured out from the big, black baby grand piano. He was content to watch Helen, who's hair swung ever so slightly and brushed her neck as she moved with the rhythm of the music, her eyes focused intently on the keys, her mouth pursed (of course, she didn't notice) from her concentration.

Alex felt it as she rode out the last of the notes before she ended her song with a lingering C.

For a moment neither mother nor son moved. There was no sound other than the sound of their breathing, perfectly in sync. Finally, Helen huffed and turned to the small jade-eyed boy that sat on the floor near her piano.

"Well, you like?" asked Helen. Alex nodded.

"It was beautiful," said Alex calmly, still in the same position as when his mother had ended. Helen slid off the bench to the floor where her foster-son sat. She was sure he was unaware of the tears sliding down his beautiful golden skin. She watched with sadness as the boy hesitantly crawled into her lap. He had been through so much in the past few months and Helen found herself glad that she was the one that he turned to for comfort. Helen wouldn't ever forget what had caused her to remove her and the small child from England.

Five months ago…

Helen wasn't a nosy person. Nor was she very social. Frankly, she was introverted. That's why she had decided to work with children. All they required was someone to make sure they weren't shoving their head between the rods of the banister, to be fed and for someone to nod their head in feigned interest to their nonsense words. Adults were the problem. They were often so caught up in politics, celebrity and everyone other than themselves that they often missed that that was right in front of them.

Which is how she could understand them completely overlooking the obvious signs of abuse and neglect in the little boy in class six

.

He could be no more than five. His skin was inhumanly pale and he was thin, as if other than the times when he was at school, he was starved both sunlight and food. He was also more to himself than her. Helen would often spot him off in a corner or sitting inside while the other children were at recess.

The only times, in fact she had seen the boy interact with anyone his age was when he was being bullied by Dudley Dursley, who was in fact one of her own students, in class four. It had been in stopping him one day that she had discovered the pale boy's bruises. They were all up his arms. The reason why even in the hottest of weather, the young boy wore long sleeves.

"What's your name Honey?" asked Helen, knowing better than to ask the child where he got the bruises. That would make him avoid her. She knew that from experience.

"Harry" he'd said. His voice was like silk, smooth and light. She looked up at the sound of it and met his magnificent eyes, glimmering like two green orbs of precious glass, framed by thick black lashes and hooded by the smooth brow of a baby. His mouth was shaped like a bow and was curved into the most beautiful frown that she had ever seen. Tears shimmered in his eyes and she pulled him into a tight hug. He stiffened nervously. She knew his tears weren't just stemmed from Dudley's bullying, but from everything that she had no doubt that he was going through. She knew at that very moment, the moment that she took the strangely beautiful, quiet child into her arms that she had to save him.

From that point on it had been about gathering the right information to use against Harry's guardians, who she learned were Dudley's parents. It was difficult as Harry never spoke of them and refused to speak of his bruises, which in time had faded. She often feigned giving him detention to have a chance to speak with the child without his teacher or other children around. There she would provide him with a proper lunch, ten steps up from the crap his aunt sent him to school with. She check him for more bruises, knowing that bringing them to the nurses attention would be pointless as she often passed them off as welts received on the playground. She would speak to him like he was a person, which was more that she could say of the Dursley's who would address him as 'boy'.

He had slowly began to come out of his shell with her, waving to her in the hallways and seeking her out when he had just received another punishment from his relatives. And then, just as she had made progress with him, Helen and Harry were thrown for a loop.

Helen knew that sometimes Harry and Dudley walked home, because that's how Harry sustained many of his bruises. Dudley hit Harry even harder than he did the other children. It wasn't hard for her as a teacher to conceal her disgust with the child. She realized that he was just that, a child. He was only six. He was under the influence of his parents who spoiled him rotten. Helen hoped that one day he would grow out of it. He never got the chance.

He and his friends had been pushing Harry around and Helen noticed too little to late how close they were to the curb. Her eyes saw in slow motion the Dursley boy fall backward as if some invisible force had pushed him. She saw the other boys watch with horror in their eyes as the red compact rushed toward Dudley. She felt her own legs pumping as she ran in a worthless attempt to stop the inevitable. She watched in revulsion as Harry stood covered in his cousin's blood.

It was a scene that would forever be etched into the minds of those that had witnessed it.

Helen would never be able to recall how she had made her way to Harry snatching him up in her arms and cradling the boy against her as he stood frozen, eyes in a blank stare fixed on the body of his cousin. She wouldn't remember the sound of the ambulance as it arrived to try to save the boy who had died on impact. She would never be able to recall how long she sat with Harry as he slowly melted from petrified to aware and eventually into horrified shrieks that no one could calm.

But Helen would always remember the sound of an angry, shocked and sorrow-filled Vernon Dursley's pen scratching his signature onto the official adoption papers of one Harry James Potter. She would remember picking up a ridiculously small Harry, who wore only a pair of shorts and one of her long shirts, and carrying him out of the hospital and climbing into the cab. Helen would remember sitting in a chair in her small apartment and cradling the sniffling, but otherwise silent child against her chest thinking one thing: He's finally where he belongs.