Not Harmed: Veruca
Word Count: 963
Credits: The title of this collection is from a line in the Augustus Gloop song. Basically my whole characterization of Veruca is based on "The Strange Change of Veruca Salt" by Crab Apple Princess, which I read before writing this and was therefore in my head-canon...
Cautions: This is intended to be a short exploration of what happened to the four rejected children after the tour, based on the assumption that the Factory is well kind of evil. If you think they got what they deserved, you should probably not read this.
A/N: The other kids will be up whenever the heck I get my act in gear...
Reviews: Motivate the author...

Veruca Salt's bed is soft and warm, but Veruca can't seem to stop tossing and shivering.

Her parents – no, her father, Mother just sat and watched with raised eyebrows and one of her bright, fake-looking drinks – let her keep her old bedroom. They gave her that much at least.

Veruca is what is commonly termed a pack rat. Her many shelves and stacked crates should be stuffed to critical mass with all the toys, accessories, and random bits accumulated over a life of wealth and luxury. Veruca can't remember ever doing anything with half of them; she regularly considers disposing of some toy she has no recollection of getting to make room for a newer acquisition, but in the end she always pauses and stuffs it in some corner instead of the trash bin.

After all, no matter how stupid or insignificant, each one is a sign that someone, somewhere, for some little slice of time, acknowledged the existence of Veruca Salt.

Everything is gone. After the factory her room was stripped bare of everything except a few most basic items. Only a few books and toys remain clustered forlornly on a single shelf; not one bath lotion or piece of jewelry was left to her; her closet is stripped of everything but her school uniforms and a few simple outfits.

That first night Veruca slept in her clothes, sprawled on top of her comforter, her body finally worn out from hours of screaming and fighting and sobbing.

Her father was there the whole time, watching with the steely expression Veruca had only ever seen him use with misbehaving employees, eventually pulling her back, holding down her flailing limbs in a grip that oddly reminded Veruca, though she has never had the occasion to experience one, of a straitjacket.

And that is why Veruca is shivering in her bed. Because of her father's steely eyes and how small and worthless they make her feel.

Parents are supposed to love their children. Unconditionally. No matter what. Veruca has never had a clear idea of what this means, but she knows it. She knows her parents are supposed to, because they don't.

From the moment they straggled out of the factory until they returned home, her father was distant with her, for the first time since she can remember shutting her down instead of responding to her demands. And then she came home and found her things, the entire sum of her life, being shoved into boxes like they were worthless rubbish – to be returned in grudging increments provided she "earns them," whatever that means. The next day there were muttered discussions of boarding school ("No good, she'd be expelled inside a month, wouldn't she though? Christ…") and then of hiring some awful governess woman to "straighten her out."

(Veruca lay awake that night mentally honing her tried-and-true weapon, the Screaming Temper Tantrum, and grimly steeling herself for confinement and missed meals and God only knows what else – it may be inevitable that in the end the adults will have their way with her, but she will let them punish her to the absolute limit before she lets herself be straightened.)

Veruca doesn't need some strange woman. She's not something broken to be fixed and she is not being unreasonable.

No more shopping trips – yet another of Father's decrees – means no more outings with Mother, cooing over the latest highest-end fashion trends together, having dainty sweets at the best cafes London has to offer and genteelly disparaging any patrons known to be richer or more respected than the Salts. Granted, Veruca never exactly understood what Mother means by phrases like "old-money snobs" and "nouveau riche" but that didn't matter to her – she loved being with her mother, laughing with her and thinking they understood each other.

She realizes acutely now that those are the only times she and her mother have ever spent together.

Father never had even that limited amount of time for her. The only time he notices her is when she asks him for something. Veruca knows she will have no use for another necklace or dress or plush toy, that it will only end up buried in her room's beloved clutter, but it's the only way to get his vague smile – this is how one should look at one's daughter but he can't be bothered to quite put his heart into it.

That's not enough, Veruca knows it. She wants something else, something she can't (or can't let herself) put a label to but she wants it and it drives her to mindless, toy-throwing anger that instead this is all she gets.

And it makes that same rage boil up inside her stronger than ever (because now if she tries to throw something she gets slapped, and because now at the edges is a potent tinge of fear) to know that now even that facsimile is denied to her. That her father looks at her now like – say it, it will make you feel a little better – like he hates her.

It makes her furious that he doesn't understand.

I don't need to be punished, I don't want to be corrected and straightened like I'm some rotten freak! I want – I want –

I want a family.

I want Mother and

I WANT YOU!

Veruca dreams, as she periodically does, of squirrels dragging their tiny horrid claws across her skin and of warm, rotten air sticking in her throat.

What keeps her shaking and gasping tearfully into her pillow for long minutes even after the nauseated, choking feelings have gone is not so much the nightmare itself as the knowledge that there will be no one coming to comfort her.