Chapter Four
He had narrowly escaped the wrath of his uncle the night before, but Harry knew that he wouldn't be so lucky on two evenings running. Not now that Aunt Petunia knew that he was the one that Dudley had been bullying. He knew without having been there that she would know; Aunt Petunia had a way of irritating people to the point where they'd tell her anything without realising it. It was a skill that Harry envied on occasion.
The house had felt more tense than it had in a while that night, and Harry strongly suspected it was to do with school and Dudley. It had only been a week and already things were becoming difficult for him. He didn't want teachers to get involved in this, though he suspected that Mr Glass had his best interests at heart, because really, how could things get any better? He had given up realistic hopes of anyone ever rescuing him from the Dursleys a long time ago, and if he allowed himself to daydream idly in the evenings of a man coming to save him, it was with full knowledge that it was entirely fiction.
He was not called upon until after dinner, giving him a little time to peruse the newspaper he'd discovered earlier on. He didn't understand much of it, but it was a welcome change from Narnia, his favourite parts of which he was still scribbling onto the walls to make a more permanent version of them.
The hairs on the back of Harry's neck stood on end as he cleared the kitchen table. Dudley had retired to his video games upstairs, and Aunt Petunia was in the lounge doing whatever it was they did inside there. Harry was not allowed inside the lounge, and had only caught the briefest of glimpses of it over the last few years. Uncle Vernon, however, had not retired to another part of the house, and was watching him like a hawk while he wiped down the counters and the table he was barely tall enough to reach.
When he'd finished, he stood before Uncle Vernon waiting to be excused. He kept his eyes on the floor, as he'd been taught, and barely moved an inch.
"So, boy, you're ungrateful for our hospitality?" Uncle Vernon said in that dangerous voice that heralded bad things to come. Harry dared to glance up at him through his lashes, and could see that his uncle was breathing heavily, a glass of red wine in his hand that he hadn't noticed before. Things never ended well when Uncle Vernon had been drinking, even just a little bit.
"You're unhappy with the roof we've put over your head, so you're spreading foul lies at that school of yours?" Uncle Vernon continued, and Harry dared not answer or interrupt. "How dare you shame us in this way? Get upstairs. Now!"
Harry felt his blood run cold, and his feet began to move of their own accord, as slowly as he dared. Uncle Vernon jabbed him sharply in the back, and told him he'd be up shortly. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see that he was pouring himself another glass of wine. It was rare that he was sent Upstairs; he was often there to clean or repair Dudley's broken things, but otherwise, it was part of the house that was foreign to him. Upstairs was reserved for punishment for whatever heinous crime Harry had unwittingly committed that day. He stood alone in Dudley's second bedroom, listening to the house, and dreading the sound of Uncle Vernon's footsteps on the stairs.
Focus on something else, he told himself sharply. Don't think about what's coming. Thing about something else. And so it was with his mind firmly entrenched in the world of Narnia that he awaited his uncle, and if he was hurt a little, it was a distant pain that couldn't reach so far as his home on the other side of War Drobe.
Sitting in his cupboard later on, his body still trembling faintly, he felt things beginning to ache where Uncle Vernon had hit him, or eventually kicked him. He had been told to make sure he didn't make such mistakes again as informing the teachers that Dudley had done anything to him. How dare he slander such an outstanding person as Dudley? Harry wasn't quite sure what slander was, but he'd read a passing reference to it in the paper earlier, and he gathered that it wasn't a good thing to be doing.
The light in his cupboard dimmed and went out of its own accord, and Harry smiled faintly. This happened to him often when he'd been hurt beyond a sharp slap by his aunt, or a single strike from Dudley. He'd be sitting on his own in the cupboard and the lights would dim, then without warning, a warm feeling would envelope him. It felt like whatever it was, it was seeping into his very bones. Afterwards, he was left with the lingering feeling of warmth, and some of his more serious injuries were often healed. He didn't know why this happened, but he had long since realised that this only happened when he was alone and relaxed in his cupboard, and that it couldn't happen when the cupboard lighting was on.
Harry wondered if he was the only person with a magic cupboard.
And then he wondered what else it could do.
He suspected that it wasn't strong enough for whatever reason to light the room for him and help him get better at the same time, but even if this was so, Harry didn't mind. It was nice of the cupboard to help him like this anyway. He was very grateful to it.
The warm fuzzy feeling of the cupboard lasted for the rest of the night, and when he awoke the next morning, the only visible thing he had to show for it was the remnants of a particularly nasty mark on his arm where Uncle Vernon had held onto him for the duration of his punishments.
Simon closed his eyes with relief. Friday. The best day of the week. Even though he was at work, the sheer expectation of the weekend to come made it all bearable. Even when Hannah poured paint all over the floor, and when Jamie hit Zack for putting on his jacket by mistake. Nothing could ruin a good Friday. Nothing!
"Harry, if you'd come and read to me, please?" Simon said. He reserved the time before lunch to listen to the individual children reading aloud to him. Not only was it a necessary chore, but it was one of the easier ones, and he could zone out somewhat listening to the children reading to him, coming back to himself for long enough to correct pronunciation, or help with a particularly difficult word.
Harry was one of the better readers in the class, his voice gradually gaining confidence and a steady pace as he got into it, and forgot he was being listened to for long enough to lose his self consciousness. Simon remembered that he'd told Stephen the previous day about his reading The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe, and supposed he shouldn't be surprised that Harry could speak aloud well if he read anything that crossed his path.
It was coming to the end of the ten minutes he had to listen to Harry, and Simon was just returning to the land of the living, maintaining the interested expression he'd been wearing all along. He glanced at the boy, frowning slightly at the sight of his threadbare clothes that looked vaguely absurd on him. Knowing what he did of Harry's home life, he would have put money on his attire being Dudley's cast-offs. Why wasn't he surprised that Petunia wouldn't pay for clothes just for Harry?
He noticed a strange purple mark on Harry's arm at that moment, and rolled his eyes slightly. Harry was one of the slightly messier pupils when it came to paint and anything that could get all over them, his zeal for the painting and the enjoyment of it overriding the remembrance to keep his clothes clean.
Just then, Harry reached up to brush a stray lock of hair from his eyes, and the sleeve slipped down to his elbow. It was all Simon could do not to gasp, or to reach out and grab his arm. But then it looked like someone else had already done that, and he didn't want to think how hard someone must have grabbed hold of this boy to mark such a clear handprint on his skin. One thing was clear to him in that precise moment – the print was too large to be that of any child, or even that of a woman like Petunia. His stomach lurched as he thought of the implications, and he felt vaguely sick.
Perhaps it had just been an accident, he rationalised to himself. Perhaps Harry had been sharply pulled out of the road and his life saved by someone, leaving behind a hand print? He felt that was pushing it a little.
"Sir?"
He glanced up at Harry and realised that the boy had stopped reading. He'd finished reading the book to him, and the rest of the class was becoming restless. Simon ran a hand through his hair and exhaled deeply.
"All right, thank you, Harry. That was lovely. You may go back to your seat now."
Harry gave him an unusually astute look for the briefest of moments, as if to say he knew perfectly well that he'd not listened to a word he'd read, but then the look was gone, replaced by an expressionless void.
Harry didn't bother to point out the lie to his teacher; he knew that nothing good would come of his insolence. He had always wondered why people bothered to lie, when it could be detected so easily. For as long as he could remember, he had always known whenever someone was telling the truth to him, and as he aged, he was beginning to tell to what extent a lie was being told. More and more, it seemed like those older than him were only telling half the truth when they spoke to him. He wondered if this was some strange adult way of life, as of yet unknown to him. As a result of his upbringing, he never pointed out the lies that people told, but he had a tendency to remember them. Harry never imagined that it was only he who could detect these falsehoods for some reason.
Restlessly, Harry tugged his shirt sleeve down to his wrist again. He was warm in the shirt, but didn't dare roll the sleeves up. He was embarrassed by the mark that lay stark against his pale skin, and for one dreadful moment, he'd been afraid that Mr Glass had seen it and would say something. He didn't, and the rest of the afternoon passed by uneventfully for everyone.
Eventually, the bell rang for the end of school, and Harry slumped slightly when he picked up his bag. He hated the weekend. Two whole days with no escape from his home.
"Harry, a moment, please?"
He was glad of the slight delay in going out to see his family. He hated to see them turn away from him and go home without him. This way, he could almost pretend that they'd never been there. There was no one who left him, because no one was ever there.
"Sir?"
"Harry, may I ask how you got that bruise on your arm?" Simon asked, watching Harry's face intently. He wondered whether or not it was his imagination making him think that the young boy's face was losing its colour or not.
"I almost fell down the stairs, sir. I was pulled back at the very last moment." Harry said, almost mechanically. He'd thought up his lie the previous evening, and thought it a not entirely unacceptable one. He waited for his teacher to call him on the lie, but he never did.
Mr Glass nodded in what seemed like a sad way, and then released him to go home with a quiet, "Have a good weekend, Harry." It was only when he was halfway home that Harry wondered for the first time if, for some reason, his teacher might have believed him. He resolved to try out his lying abilities again at some point in the near future on his relatives.
Simon stayed standing alone in his classroom long after Harry had disappeared from the school grounds and the other parents and their children had wandered away. It had been an innocent enough answer, but something about it didn't sit quite right with him. Perhaps it had been something in the way Harry had answered, or merely what he already knew of his life with the Dursleys, but he didn't quite believe it.
A weight had settled upon his chest then, and he felt far older than someone of his age ought to. All his joy at escape from the school had left him, and suddenly he just wanted to go home. He almost regretted becoming a teacher at that moment. Almost.
He took his time in leaving, and by the time he got to the staffroom, he found it deserted. There were few people that hung around the school when it was the weekend. He didn't blame them. Simon picked up his jacket, and was just about to leave, when something caught his eye.
He turned around, and found himself looking straight at the library. The door had been left slightly ajar, and without thinking why he was doing it, he wandered inside. It was as silent as the rest of the school was, but Jackie never left the door open, and he couldn't help but wonder who'd opened it.
"Hello?" he whispered quietly, not really expecting an answer. He heard something from further in, something that sounded like it might have been a soft gasp, and he moved towards it without thinking.
"Is anyone in here?" he tried again.
He came to the very end of the library, and he felt something inside him break slightly at the sight before him. There, in the very furthest part of the library was Harry Potter. He'd curled up in the cushions that had been provided, and had hidden himself away. Simon realised that no one would have found him had he not turned around to look inside the library, and Harry might have been here on his own all weekend. He was almost well hidden, and it was only his dark hair against the green cushions that had given him away.
"Oh, Harry," Simon said quietly, reaching out and removing the cushions from on top of the boy one by one. Green eyes stared up at him, watching him with such intensity, Simon almost looked away. "What are you doing here, child? I thought I saw you leave."
Harry sat up straight, rubbing his eyes. "I just wanted to read something," he whispered. Simon saw the book closest to the boy. The Magician's Nephew. Another Narnia book, he realised. He looked at Harry again but the boy seemed unwilling to meet his eyes again.
"Get up, Harry, you can't stay here." He gave him a hand to his feet, and Harry focused his eyes rather intently on the floor in front of him, as if he were waiting for it to do something exciting.
"Sorry, sir," Harry offered quietly.
"I'm the last one in the school," Simon told him. "If I hadn't realised you were in here, you could have been locked in all weekend. That wouldn't be so nice for you, would it?"
Harry didn't contradict him. It wouldn't be so nice at home either.
Simon picked up the book from the floor, aware that Harry was watching, and pressed it into the boy's hands. "Here, I'm sure Ms Roberts won't mind you borrowing this over the weekend."
Harry looked at the book as if it were treasure. Then he stared up at his teacher with the slightest of smiles on his face. "Thank you, sir. I'll take good care of it."
And before Simon had chance to say another word, Harry was gone. Definitely gone. Simon made sure he watched him walk right down the street before he left. On the way home, he tried very hard not to think about just why Harry Potter would knowingly hide in the school library at the weekend. He wasn't doing too badly until he remembered the way in which Harry had held his bruised arm against his chest to keep him from looking at it. He swallowed and focused on the road again. He wished again briefly that he'd never become a teacher.
