Left Alone
"Mr Potter, I trust you can find your seat without aid?" Mr Hendrickson snarled, a faux polite smile etched upon his face; and that same face, which held deep-set blue eyes, twisted in the oddest of places – it was a most curious thing indeed, as if it were physically painful for the man to even pretend to be nice.
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir," an eight year-old Harry whispered in shame. It hadn't been his fault, last time, not really. He'd needed glasses – quite badly, he might add – and Mr Hendrickson hadn't been very forgiving when he'd squinted and squirmed as he tried to find where exactly his mysterious and evasive desk was.
"I don't need apologies, Mr Potter - I need respect! And frankly, what with your … reputation … I don't anticipate much of that. I have been informed numerous times by other teachers that you continually cause trouble in their classes." Leaning down, Mr Hendrickson stared straight at Harry, his breathing laboured and smelling of peppermints. "But not on my watch, child. Not on mine." The foreboding teacher straightened abruptly. "There will be no tomfoolery in my class. Now get to your seat!"
Harry scrambled for his desk, a piercing burn in the back of his throat. He should have known better, he lectured himself bitterly. Why should his new Science teacher see through the lies, the rumours? Why would Mr Hendrickson be any different? Second day of school and Harry was already in trouble. If another teacher called Uncle Vernon, he'd be in big trouble. But it wasn't his fault! he wanted to scream.
Not that time in Mathematics, when Dudley had thrown a pencil at Ms Pritcholm and blamed Harry.
Not in Art, when Dudley had purposefully spilt blue paint all over the floor and blamed Harry.
Not in Geography, when Dudley had vandalised the class's projects…and blamed…Harry.
It had always been Dudley. And Harry had always been the inevitable culprit.
No amount of "But ma'am, please, if you'll just listen - !" had ever been heard. After all, with Dudley glaring around the class with such a vengeful promise burning upon his face, all the other children went along with it.
Harry remembered last year. A teacher had … doubted … for a moment; a glorious, hopeful extract of time.
"Jonathon," she had asked kindly, "did you see Harry break the window? It's alright, you can tell me."
And Johnny, coward that he was, had lifted hateful black eyes to his gentle English teacher. "Yes, ma'am. It was definitely Harry. He always causes trouble." Leaning in closer, he'd whispered conspiratorially in her ear, "He even picks on the little ones, yunno?" Shaking his head sadly, he had added, "Dudley and I try to stop him ... but he's such a meanie …"
Harry's teacher had looked so disappointed; and that had been the worst moment of his short life. Worse than anything his Uncle Vernon had ever done.
"Come along, Harry, to the principal's office." And suddenly; Harry's teacher had stopped being nice to him … just an awful, cold polite front.
It had cut like a knife to the heart.
And eventually, when people had even stopped pretending to listen to Harry, he'd stopped trying to convince them otherwise.
What was the point?
So Harry sat down at his old, worn wooden desk, carefully unpacked his one pencil – courtesy of Dudley's throwaways – some paper he'd scavenged from the library and his Science book (thank you, girl who transferred schools and had semi-liked Harry).
Then he looked up, sat up, and waited for class to adjourn. See, the thing was, Harry enjoyed school. Not that anyone ever took the time to bother with him. Harry liked school, but Dudley did not. And so when Harry did well, his cousin got angry and Harry got hurt.
So it was best not to do his homework, 'cause Dudley tore it up.
Best not to study, 'cause Dudley would get angry if he did well.
Best not to try, otherwise Dudley would get upset.
Harry understood this concept: x + z = p + y
If x = Harry; y = Dursleys; z = happy; p = upset
Then…
Harry + happy = Dursleys + upset
Harry = Dursleys + upset – happy
Harry = Dursleys p-z
Harry = Dursleys + VERY ANGRY
But…
Harry – upset = Dursleys – happy
In other words…
Harry not upset = Dursleys not happy
Yet…
Harry = Dursleys + VERY ANGRY
Therefore "No Solution" for Harry happy + Dursleys happy
Unless…
Happy = Dursleys - (Harry - upset)
And frankly, no Harry was not a viable option. And the answer Harry kept coming back to was Harry = Dursleys + VERY ANGRY. So he guessed he'd have to stick with staying out of their way. Although he didn't know how many more times he could say that as an answer before it was no longer a correct solution…
"Hurry up, hurry up," Mr Hendrickson ushered in the latecomers. "Take your seats, all of you, that's it. Young man, I suggest you spit out that gum immediately, lest you find yourself castrated!" The teacher waited until all of his students were present. "There. Took you all long enough," he muttered dryly. "Next time you're late, I trust you'll find yourselves rightfully punished."
Harry swallowed nervously. He didn't like punishments. Not at all.
Mr Hendrickson began the lesson. Striding up and down the classroom, he gestured wildly as he explained the world of science to a bunch of "candy-brained nitwits." Said nitwits slumped in their seats in utter boredom as their teacher droned on and on; and Lord almighty, did he ever stop to breathe?
Time ticked by, and Harry, whose gaze nor attention had wavered for a mere second, stared in fascination as concept after concept was explained. He may not like the teacher, but he loved learning. His mind gobbled up the facts and stored them, as a sponge to water.
Suddenly his teacher halted his strenuous explanation. His gaze skipped lightly across the room, taking in the drool and vacant-eyed expressions. Mr Hendrickson muttered something that sounded suspiciously similar to "I knew I should have requested to teach seniors."
Straightening up, the science teacher turned to the chalkboard and began scribbling furiously across it with the chalk he'd picked up off of his mahogany desk.
Harry squinted at the blurry words. He felt a headache coming on. Sighing absentmindedly, he rubbed at the faint throbbing of his head.
"Detention!" the furious word snapped across the room, and Harry's head reacted in much the same manner; whipping upwards and absorbing the sight of his teacher's livid face. "All of you! This whole class will be receiving two hours of detention on Friday, and so help me, if any of you skip it, I'll give you detention every week until the end of school!"
Everyone was awake now, staring sullenly at their new 'favourite' teacher.
"Am I clear?" Mr Hendrickson questioned crisply.
"Yes, sir," the class intoned.
Turning around slowly, the teacher returned to the board. He finished off writing and put down the chalk. Taking a seat at his desk, the man eyed his class of note-scribbling-eight-year-olds.
And Harry squinted, desperately clutching his pencil in his hand. Oh, no, he thought in misery, his weak eyes staring at the board in undiluted terror.
"Mr Potter … what a surprise." The Science teacher got up and walked towards Harry's shivering frame. "Think yourself above something as simple as note taking? My chalk board scripture not good enough for you?" Mr Hendrickson planted himself in front of Harry, his skin a terrifying hue of blotchy red. "Why are you dawdling in my class, MR POTTER?!" he roared, and spittle fell upon the terrified boy like meteors upon a doomed planet.
"S-s-sir," Harry managed to stutter.
"Not another word, young man," his teacher said, suddenly a frightening calm. "Give me your parents' phone numbers. I will call them immediately and inform them of your insubordination in my class, and invite them to join you and I in the principal's office, where, rest assured, you and your family will be told of your expulsion. Don't even bother coming to school tomorrow," he sneered.
The class was deathly silent; all eyes turned to the tiny, downtrodden boy and his towering, horrifying teacher.
"Right now, Mr Potter," Mr Hendrickson's eyes flashed dangerously.
"Sir, please, my parents -" Harry begged, but the man before him was beyond reason.
The Science teacher darted forth and gripped the boy's arm, dragging him from his seat and pulling him towards the door. He stopped just before exiting it. "I'll give you one last time, Mr Potter. What are their cell phone numbers?"
"They're dead," a girl in front of the two cried out, her pale, pinched face staring in sympathy at Harry. "They're dead, sir. You can't phone them. Leave him alone – he didn't do anything! Just … leave him alone." Wide brown eyes burrowed into Mr Hendrickson.
The teacher paused. "Is this true?" he asked Harry.
The child nodded, eyes downcast.
Silence enveloped the room once more.
"Do you have any other family?" the teacher asked, and, for once, he seemed slightly unsure of himself.
"Yes, sir," Harry whispered. "I live with my cousin Dudley and his parents."
The teacher's jaw clenched, and he flushed. "So you think because you're an orphan you can get away with whatever you like, Mr Potter? Well, your aunt and uncle may be fine with spoiling you and bowing down to whatever their dear, poor orphaned nephew wants, but I will do no such thing! You're coming with me to the principal's office, right this instant." And he jerked open the door, shoving Harry outside with a bruising grip.
The door slammed shut, reverberating in its frame.
The class stared in shock at where their classmate and teacher had disappeared from.
"Just leave him alone," the same girl whispered once more to her absent teacher, her eyes filled with sadness and pity for Harry. "Just leave him alone."
"Shut up, Susan!" a boy snapped at the pining girl.
Leave him alone.
But no-one ever did.
And that, it seemed, would always be the case, for as long as people like Mr Hendrickson and the Dursleys existed.
Just leave him alone.