Author's Note: This chapter is revised. There have been a few changes to this chapter, but it isn't anything major that will change the overall flow, or information, in it. I also realized that, in the last chapter, I forgot the disclaimer. However, given the fact that everyone knows I am not the author of the original universe, I don't really see the reason to place a disclaimer. However, I will say that I do own characters I create, and events that did not actually happen in the actual books published across the planet. Which is obvious, really, once you think about it.
Read, Enjoy, and Review!
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Morning came with silence in the Dursley household.
Hadrian sat in the darkness, the worn cot that made up his bed beneath him, as a small spider danced over his pale fingers. He watched it with a light smile on his face, and tilted his hand upside-down. The small critter, eight legs dancing as it glided towards his lap with a silken thread keeping it aloft, was a peaceful creature. Innocent. He cocked his head to the side, eyes glowing in the darkness, as he caught the spider in midair in his other hand. Another spider, with odd markings coloring its body, skittered onto his lap.
He wasn't sure if it was poisonous, but they never bit him so he wasn't all that worried about them. Hadrian knew they had reason enough to dislike him with them being so small compared to him, but they often found themselves in his small space under the stairs. Absently stroking the back of one spider, he watched the front legs raise a hair and quiver in what he thought was happiness.
He couldn't be sure, though, since it was a spider.
Dudley's birthday had passed, and summer was well underway. It was often hot outside, blistering hot with a shimmering veil dancing across the roads. A heat wave, he thought it was called. Leaning into the wall, eyeing the rafters above his head, Hadrian frowned. He carefully placed the spider in his hand on the beams with a small smile. It wouldn't be good for his auntie to get him and see him covered in the small critters. Petunia didn't like spiders. Vernon despised them, though Hadrian couldn't comprehend why.
Hadrian shooed the small spider off his lap, herding it to a corner it could hide under, when he heard the soft press of feet walking down the steps. Eyeing the door, he knew it was latched shut on the other side; he wondered how early it was. He had crawled out of his dream not long ago, and it was too early for his aunt to be awake.
If only I was strong enough to open the door. Hadrian wondered, once he was too big, if he would get a different room. The space under the stairs was cramped, but it was big enough for him. Wiggling his toes, he idly wondered if he could sneak the spiders outside for a while. He wondered if they liked sunlight.
Stomach churning, growling, Hadrian closed his eyes.
He had no way to track the time as it passed, but the inky darkness soon faded and dusty light peeked under the door of his room. The spiders had vanished, as if knowing light meant the big people woke up, and Hadrian envied their abilities to hide from them. Pulling away from the door, shuffling though the tattered blankets to open a board next to his bed, he pulled out a pair of pants and shirt. Slipping them on, both hanging off of him and easily the size of a child three times his age, the small boy waited. It was only a bit later when he heard the stairs over his creak, and then the soft press of light feet against the floor in the hall outside his door.
The door unlocked, and the sharp features of his aunt greeted him. She blinked for a moment, her gaze locked onto his face as he tilted his head to the side. Petunia swallowed, and stepped out of the way. Hadrian crawled out of the small space, and locked the door behind once he was on his feet.
Idly rubbing the long, jagged scar on his face, Hadrian wondered why they were up so early. His aunt guided him to the living room, a hand on his shoulder, and lifted him up onto the couch. Perched on the edge, Hadrian eyed his aunt with wide, emerald orbs as she carefully sat in front of him. In her lap was a small box, plain and white, but it was a box he knew. Dudley got boxes like that on his birthday, and they often held candy of some sort.
The box was plain, unwrapped, and his gaze slowly shifted to hers. Petunia held his gaze, and he noted how relaxed she was. After a moment, she let out a long breath, and handed the box to him. Hadrian took it, holding it in his hands with a light frown.
What was he supposed to do with it? His gaze returned to his aunt when she said, her voice light, "It's for you. A present for your birthday."
Hadrian looked at his aunt, then to the box, and back to his aunt. When she offered a soft smile, he turned back to the box. He eased the lid off, and tilted his head to the side as he spied the contents. There were two boxes within, coloring sticks from the look of it with one set of black tips, and a larger bundle wrapped in a cloth the color of his eyes. He carefully pulled the bundle out, eyes widening when the cloth flowed against his hands like cool water. He noted a silver lining woven into the cloth, the lines wrapping and coiling like a snake made of pure silver moonlight.
When he unfolded the cloth, he was met with the cover of a black book.
"It's a sketchpad." Hadrian glanced at his aunt, and tilted his head to the side. She smiled, and opened the book as she elaborated, "You draw in it. I thought you would like something to do when we have quests, or when you finish your chores early."
Hadrian pulled it out of the box entirely, the silken cloth resting under it as it sat on his lap. He flipped through the empty pages, caressing the thick payment with a smile on his face. The pages were warm, and seemed to pulse under his inquiring touch as his aunt continued, "The cover is leather, and the book itself seems old. A treasure, if you will. The cloth came with it, so you can keep that as well."
Hadrian pulled out the two thin boxes, and held them out to her. Petunia took one, and opened it as she said, "There are pencils. These are plain lead, like Vernon and I write with on occasion. These here, the colored ones, are coloring pencils."
Coloring pencils. He took one with a green tip, the length also the same green, and smiled. It was the color of grass, of the silk, and his eyes. He looked at the blue one, and was reminded of the sky. He blinked at the pink one, and glanced about the room to see if anything bore a similar color. He spotted a vase in the corner, and nodded to himself. Colors were everywhere, and he glanced at his aunt.
He plucked out a deep red, and held it up next to her blouse as she said, "You can draw for a bit, if you like. Vernon won't be awake for some time. When he isn't home, and your chores are done, you can draw in it."
Hadrian smiled, and gestured to the box it came in. She nodded, voice light as she said, "You can store the book and pencils in that, and hide it under your pillow. It will bring you good dreams at night."
He curled up in the corner of the couch, and fiddled with the pencils for a moment before picking out a yellow one. He carefully ran the tip across the page, and smiled at the brightness. He drew another line under it, in orange, and then again in purple. One by one he added a color, and left black for last. It wasn't long until he had to close it, and he hid it in his cupboard. A few spiders in the room paused what they were doing to look at him. He petted one of them, and closed the door to begin his day's work. It wasn't long until his uncle left for work.
His aunt already made breakfast while he was playing with his gift, and he smiled at the thought. There were other chores to do, and he moved from one room to another to get a general idea on what needed to be done. The kitchen counters needed washing, the floors swept. The living room needed a good round with the vacuumed; the stairway needed a meeting with the Dustbuster, and the hallway needing dusting. It took him a moment to decide the bathroom for it needed a great deal of attention, the beds needed to be made, and items around the house needed to be in their proper place. He liked cleaning. He saw all the small details in the house like the soft lavender lining on the bottom of the wall, and the lines between the boards on the floor. He thought that, if he got done early enough, he could get a bit of downtime to play with the drawing pad that afternoon. The thought made him giddy.
Sketchpad, auntie called it. Sketchpad. Sketchpad. Sketchpad.
He tossed the word around, tasted it in his thoughts, and wondered what it would feel like on his tongue. Cleaning the counters in the kitchen, the rag warm in his hand, he wondered what he could possibly draw. Dudley drew pictures all the time, and Vernon and Petunia would coo over them. Hadrian thought of all the colors he saw every day when he cleaned, and smiled. He could draw the house.
The journal and pencils were objects belonging solely to him, and he liked the green and silver cloth that came with it. The snake on it was enough to keep his aunt away from it, though he wondered who made it. Snakes were strange creatures. They were always slithering about, complaining about the cold. Birds watched them from afar, idle comments about how good it was to fly away from the ground.
The cloth, though, he thought it was made of a material unlike anything else in the house. Silk he believed the word to be. It was a word he had heard the few times he watched the television, and those days he kept an eye on the Animal Planet. Such days, it was the house and him alone. Summer was close to ending, and a new year was about to start in school.
Hadrian did not think it was normal to be taking kindergarten during the summer. Preschool, he mused to himself, is what a few people would call it. Though he highly doubted anyone would say that to his uncle's face. Preschool was for three and four-year-old children, not one who was six.
A refresher course, then? Harry had heard his aunt use the word, and wondered if it was the correct one.
Eyeing the floor, he decided he would mop it last before moving into the front-room. Parts of it were already picked up, and a small smile stretched across his face at the sight. Auntie was cleaning, then, though she didn't do it often. He could hear her moving around upstairs, in her and Vernon's room, and figured she was making the bed. Eyeing the widow, seeing a sleek black car pass the house, he wondered when his uncle would get home. Hopefully not till tonight.
It was a later, when the sun was high up in the sky, that he got a chance to return to his little book. He looked at the first page in confusion, a frown on his face. The lines of color he had drawn were gone, as if they had never been there to begin with, and he gently ran his figures over the page. Under his touch, the warmth spread. When he turned to the inside of the cover, he noted the three fancy lines. Letters, he believed they were called. He traced them with a curious touch, content to believe the book sighed under his touch. As the days turned to weeks, and the weeks turned to months, Hadrian spent a great deal of his free time drawing in the book.
Each thing he placed sank into the pages, like water being soaked up by a sponge, and on few occasions they seldom came back. When they did, there were odd letters and words written next to them. Hadrian didn't know what they meant, so he paid them little attention. The book was a comfort, his alone, and as the air grew chilled and his chores lessened, he kept it close to his heart.
A year passed, and his sixth birthday swept by in silence. There were no gifts.
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Hadrian knelt in the garden, his knees dirtied as he weeded the contents. Spring, it was one season he loved, though he did adore winter. At times like this, as he knelt in the garden, he had a hard time deciding which he preferred. Was it the dancing flakes of white coldness, a time when all things slept, that he felt at peace with? Or was it the time when snow melt, and gave way to new life that he longed to be a part of?
These kinds of things often found themselves in his sketchbook. Scenery of rain falling over a park, flowing streams in the garden, and snakes sunbathing on large rocks were some of his favorite. The book drank them in, but the one picture he had drawn, the one that took the longest for the book to eat, was a picture from a dream. It was a picture of a giant, a wildman with crazy hair and small black eyes, flying over the moon on a motorcycle. The book did not absorb any other pictures that day, and Hadrian wondered if it was confused about the picture.
After all, people did not fly over the moon. Not on a motorcycle.
Hadrian was convinced the sketchpad had a mind of its own. Sometimes it would absorb a picture, and it would stay there for days. Then, as if realizing it wouldn't go away on its own, it would eat the picture slowly, piece by piece, until it was gone. It was amusing, and he was always eager to see what kind of reaction it would have to different pictures. It was when he could draw, to sit content with no work for the rest of the day, which he was happiest.
It was midday when he was called in, and Hadrian trekked into the house. He washed in the bathroom, and splashed water on his face before making his way downstairs. A glance outside showed him Vernon was gone, away to work, and a rush of pure happiness swept through his body. A quick, inquiring glance at Petunia was rewarded with a soft nod of her head, and he scrambled onto the couch.
His aunt came in the room a moment later, a glass of chocolate milk in hand, and his drawing pad in the other. It was in its box, as it always was when he wasn't using it, and he took both with a wide smile. He curled up in the corner, and carefully pulled the book out. He stroked the silk cloth, fingering the silver lining, before picking out a pencil and opened the book to the closest empty page.
It was rather interesting, Hadrian mused as he pressed the tip of the pencil into the paper. When he was around his aunt or cousin, pictures littered the pages. Things he had drawn, some in black-and-white and others in color, were scattered on the backs and fronts of each page. He gently caressed the book in thanks, grateful it was able to know when it was important for the pictures to be visible. He shuddered at the thought of his aunt or uncle coming across it empty.
They, the pictures, were detailed. More so than they had been when he first began, and that, too, was a gift. The sketchbook provided outlines for him to learn off of, and, on occasion, with a few letters pressed close together next to them. When an arrow from the letters to the picture showed up, he knew the book was showing him the letters that spell the word. But he still didn't know the letters themselves, but he did write them down, several times, after seeing them.
It was a magic book, he like to think to himself with high amusement, and he spent a good deal of time picturing his relatives reactions if they had known what auntie had bought him. For his birthday! Glancing up from the book in his lap, he watched his cousin, sitting in front of the television, play one of his games. Beside him, Petunia was knitting a blanket of some sort. With her legs stretched out across the couch, Hadrian was able to rest his feet on her lap as he drew.
He glanced up at his cousin a second time, and then down to the page he was drawing upon. He carefully etched his cousin's face into the page, the furrowed brow and jutted lip, when a knock on the door stalled his pencil. The pages warmed under his hand, a steady heat he had grown accustomed to, and he turned his gaze to the door.
His aunt frowned, set aside her needlework, and, after he drew back his legs, she rose to her feet. He heard the front door open, and Dudley, game paused, was staring at the hallway. Dudley's gaze turned to Hadrian, and the younger cocked his head to the side with a curious glint in his eye. It wasn't often for a guest to come without notice, not with Vernon's disapproving eye glowering at those who came unannounced.
There was a quiet murmur of conversation before Petunia returned. Trailing after her was someone who Hadrian knew, and the stifled groan from Dudley mirrored the feeling they shared. Mrs. Arabella Figg trailed after their aunt and mother, with her handbag in hand, and a kindly smile on her face.
Hadrian snapped his sketchbook shut with a light frown, and folded his arms across his lap as the elderly woman looked at him. Her voice was soft, gentle, as she said, "I see you have gotten a bit taller, Hadrian dear. How are you today?"
His expression stayed blank as his aunt sighed. "Mrs. Figg, you know he doesn't speak."
Petunia sat down next to him, and he watched as she gestured Mrs. Figg to sit across from them. Dudley plopped down on his other side, their arms brushing, and both boys stared as his aunt continued, "You mentioned there was something you wished to talk to me about, Mrs. Figg. What can I do for you?"
Hadrian looked between the two women, and then he looked at his cousin. The large boy was quiet, eyes narrowed, and Hadrian knew Dudley was waiting for a dismissal that had not yet come. Instead, Petunia settled into the couch, and placed her knitting kit on the table. The look on Mrs. Figg's face, the light frown furrowing her brow, did not bode well with him.
The silence stretched on. After a few minutes, Mrs. Figg finally commented, "Are you enjoying school, Dudley?"
Dudley blinked, but answered regardless. "Yes, ma'am."
Hadrian glanced at his cousin. Dudley met his gaze. A taste of confusion, soft lavender, filled the space between the two boys and their guardian. Mrs. Figg turned her gaze on Petunia as she said, "Petunia, my dear, I was wondering when you were planning to enroll Hadrian into school. Julian mentioned he hasn't seen his enrollment form as of yet, and he's rather worried."
"I'm in the process for getting things ready to homeschool him, Mrs. Figg." His aunt answered, and her voice was calm and unperturbed. She took his hand in hers, and Hadrian nestled into her side as she continued, "Hadrian doesn't like crowds, and he's very shy. Since he doesn't talk, I thought enrolling him into a public school wouldn't be the brightest of ideas. Surely you understand, Mrs. Figg."
Mrs. Figg hummed under her breath, a smile still on her face. "My nephew teaches the younger years, my dear. I do understand why you would want to keep young Hadrian in the safety of the nest, but the only way he will hold societies expectations is by working through them step-by-step."
The elderly woman withdrew a wallet from her purse, and she opened it. She turned it around, and held it out, a photo looking up at them, as she said, "This is my nephew Julian Figg. He was very excited to start working at the school here, and was happy to teach the children I told him so much about."
Hadrian didn't want to go to school. He didn't. He felt his insides squirm at the thought, and pressed closer to his aunt as her arm wrapped around his shoulders. His heart skipped a few beats, and, thinking of all the other children, all talking and loud and curious, staring at him, made him uncomfortable.
Drawing attention was bad. Vernon reminded him of that every day. As the thought crossed his mind, Petunia murmured, "I'll speak to Vernon about it. We had both agreed that homeschool would be best, but perhaps he might see it as a good thing, a learning opportunity for Hadrian, to be exposed to more children his age."
"See that you do, my dear." Mrs. Figg stood up, her cane in hand, as she added with a bright smile, "A bright boy like Hadrian should get every opportunity to grow. He's such a helpful child, my dear, and a gifted one at that. If he does have any problems in school, I'm more than sure his cousin will help guide him."
Gifted. It was a word Hadrian didn't like, least of all from Mrs. Figg. He watched her leave the house, and he heard his aunt and her talking at the front door. "Yes, Mrs. Figg, I'll let you know if we need any help with his schooling. Yes, of course, I'll see that Vernon signs the papers. Of course, Mrs. Figg. Do have a nice night."
The moment the door closed, Hadrian shot a look at his cousin. Dudley shrugged, restarted his game, and picked up where he left off. Hadrian, oddly enough, found the picture he started gone and smiled. At least he never ran out of paper, and he was content to pick out something else and draw it despite the lack of the picture he had started on. Knowing the book, it was tired of the countless drawings of Dudley.
It was only one mystery the book held, one of many, and Hadrian was happy to keep that secret to himself.
The evening passed uneventfully, the house clean and spotless, and it was the one time during the day Hadrian was allowed to sit with his aunt and cousin in quiet contentment with his drawing pad. The three had a mutual understanding that Vernon was not to know. It was one secret they share of many.
A great many things in the house went unsaid. As he got older, Hadrian began noting odd things that occurred in the house; among them was the vanishing dishes, the way a room would be dirty one moment and spotless the next, and how the plates would be set on the table in the morning before he was up. Small things.
Even as evening came upon them, and Hadrian placed his book back in the safety of his cupboard, he knew some things would never change. He was sitting at the table at his cousin's side, and Petunia on the other. Across from him was Vernon, his plate loaded and the newspaper in hand. Next to him, his aunt folded her napkin on her lap, and spoke, voice light. "Vernon, dear, I've been thinking…"
Vernon looked up from the paper he was reading, eyes narrowed, as he said, "What's on your mind, Pet."
"Well, Mrs. Figg stopped by this morning." She traced the rim of her cup, and Dudley took a deep drink of his soda. Hadrian sipped at his water as she continued on with whatever thought she was speaking, "And, well, she pointed out something. The neighbors noticed Hadrian doesn't leave the house. A few of the others have also brought it up, in fact, and I thought it would be best to enroll him into classes. We don't what the neighbors gossiping."
Hadrian bit into a slice of apple, eyeing his uncle's expression from under his bangs, and brushed his hair back as he reached for his drink as his uncle mulled the information over. Slight pains danced along his sides, impressions left by anger when his uncle's temper was unchecked, and he gingerly sipped his water as his uncle said, "We'll have to get papers for it, as well as his identification."
"Mrs. Figg brought the papers over, and, well, his other papers supplied any ID we would need to put him in school." Hadrian watched his aunt, questions he could not ask dancing across the surface of his thoughts, as she picked up her glass, her voice light as she said, "I have them upstairs. We can fill them out in the morning, and I'll take him to the school in the morning on Monday to get him enrolled when I take Dudley to class."
"Oh, you have the papers?" Vernon leaned back, downing his drink as he spat, "The brat might as well not exist concerning the state of his bloody parents!"
Hadrian shrank in his seat, a sliver of unease settling over him, and eyed the drink in his uncle's hand. Petunia smoothed her hands on the napkin in her lap, though he did note how her nails bit into it as she said, "Yes, I have the papers. I kept them in case something like this came up."
Hadrian slipped from his seat, plate in hand, and took Dudley's when the boy wordlessly handed it to him. He stepped up onto the stool, washing the dishes as Vernon spat, "We might as well tell them he's daft. God, everyone knows it's true. Boy, do we have to do everything!"
Hadrian jumped, and turned on his heel to look at his uncle. The man was lumbering towards him, and he grasped his chin in tight fingers as he asked, "Think you are too good for school?"
The air around his uncle was a sickly color, one that changed, and Hadrian noted a scent on him. Whiskey. His aunt was behind Vernon, eyes wide, but she made no move to interfere as she shooed Dudley from the room as his uncle growled, "Little cretin, we've taken you in, and you don't even have the manners to speak when we talk to you!"
Sweat beaded on his forehead, and not a sound escaped as Hadrian was pushed out of the way. "Get the dishes done, and get in your room!"
Hadrian cleaned up with eager hands. It wasn't long until he was in the crawlspace, the door latched shut behind him. He leaned against the wall, the spiders crawling onto his lap and hands moments later. He pulled his sketchbook out from under the pillow, having forgot to put it back in the worm box, and cradled it to his chest with the cloth around it.
It was warm, the heat seeping through his thin shirt to caress his chest, and he sighed in relief as the bruises on his shoulder lessened. As he settled in for the night, a small candle burning next to him, he opened the book and began to draw a sketch of the spider on his hand with minute detail.
To his relief, the spider did not move until he was done.