Hi Guys! Next chapter's up, but I'm not too sure about it. I took a lot of time reading and rewriting and editing this one. It still seems a bit too emotional. First a bit too sappy and then too ... um... intense, I guess. But it's your verdict. As always feedback is always greatly appriciated.

Shout outs:

Mogi93: Thanks so much for your comment. Had me laughing and exclaiming with accomplishment. I wasn't sure I'd pulled off the whole Mama Jeanne/Papa George moment but you have set my doubts at rest. THANK YOU! and yes, Isabelle is very jealous! Ha ha! hope you like the next chapter!

Ellis: I was incredibly touched by your comment that mine was 'the only fan fiction pieces that are actually good in the Hugo section' I am so thankful for your support!

StelzaRinator: Oh yes! I see Hugo as a very complex and mixed up character. Extremely innocent in some areas, but all too mature in others, as you'll see in this chapter...

TheBFG: Hurray for abnormally tall people! Concerning the whole 'madam/mama' matter, what I was trying to bring across was Hugo surprised into a sense of formality. He would usually call Mama Jeanne ... Mama Jeanne, but he was shocked and caught guiltily that he reverted back to politeness, sort of like "Yes ma'am, sorry ma'am," Thanks for your comment and support!

Narnian Pirate: I'm glad to see your getting so involved in my version of the characters (and that you think they're good too!) Thanks again!

LuMenzenga: Thank you! Yes. When I first saw that there was a Hugo section here I was SHOCKED to see no Hugo/Isabella, it's one of the reasons I started this whole story in the first place. Lots of people are saying it's cute how innocent Hugo is, but I prefer to see him as innocent in some areas, you'll see the other side of him in this chapter (though he's still a bit awkward C; )...

Isabelle watched the rain splatter itself against her bedroom window as she listened to the radio, crackly and sounding far-off, though it was right beside her on her bedside table.
"And a reminder to all our listeners that the rain is unlikely to stop for some time, so remember to stay indoors as much as possible,"

Isabelle rolled over on her bed, trying to get comfortable. It was no use. She couldn t sleep. No matter how warm she felt, how cosy she felt, how safe she should have felt, she could not get rid of the slow nausea that threatened to flood her stomach. It was always the same in this kind of weather.
Fear.
Slowly she got up and drifted across to her bookshelf, perhaps if she read, if she escaped into the world of a book, she could calm down enough to fall asleep.
Her fingers flickered over the various spines of her favourite books, a kind of serenity already spreading through her, calming her beating heart.
A flash of light illuminated the room momentarily and Isabelle scampered back to her bed, book in hand, already under the covers before the roll of thunder hit the room. She tried to relax and enjoy her book but just as she felt herself drifting to sleep a crash of thunder woke her with a jolt.

Breakfast the next morning was an almost silent affair. No one had gotten much sleep last night, as was always the case when these violent storms came. The constant weather meant everyone was kept indoors that day, and as the thunder and lightning continued through the day Hugo thought he saw Isabelle flinch every so often, dark circles tracing her eyes.

The day past in a tired daze for Isabelle who, with no sleep the night before, became snappish and irritable. That night too, she tried to read but her attention span shortened as the rain lengthened, her eyes begging for release before being jerked awake by the sound like a shotgun, and Isabelle soon found that none of her own books could hold her attention.

On the third night, after finding no book in her own room could hold sway against her, Isabelle, desperate, her mind clouded by lack of sleep, snuck down the corridor and crept into Hugo s room.
Perhaps one of his books could entice her.
She crept past his bed, where he slept, dead to the world. He was curled over to face the wall, his gentle snores filling the room, his quilt twisted around him. She envied him.
She squinted at the books on his shelf. Unlike her own bookcase, Hugo s bookshelf was messy and disorganised. Her books were carefully placed up-right, squished next to each other for want of space and set alphabetically. Hugo s books had been stashed unceremoniously on top of one another, Verne right next to Proust, with no discernible order at all. His paperbacks were dog-eared and various screws, gears and tools were scattered over and in between the novels. Isabelle squinted, trying to see through the dark and her own tiredness.
"Isabelle," the murmur woke Isabelle more thoroughly than anything.
Hugo had turned to face her, his face hidden in shadow. Isabelle froze, her hands on a book entitled Les Contes de la Mythologie Grecque * and she knew she had been caught.

Seconds that lasted eternities passed as she watched his body rise slowly, and then slump sharply back down to his pillow.
Isabelle breathed again.
He was still asleep. He had only muttered her name in his sleep.

She quietly continued to the door. She was almost out when she heard him mumble her name again. Confident this time, she continued on her way.
"Isabelle, what are you doing in my room?"

She stood there. Ghostlike in her pale nightgown, her skin deathly pale against her flushed cheeks and eyes now completely rimmed in darkness.
"Isabelle," Hugo repeated, his voice clearer now, unclouded by sleep, "What are you doing in my room?"

Isabelle turned slowly to face him. She looked flustered, as if searching for an answer, when a flash of lightning broke across the room and she cringed again, as he had seen her do before.
Hugo got up, he looked from the window to Isabelle, tired but also with concern.
"Are you afraid of storms?"

She avoided his gaze. "Not storms. Lightning. And the thunder keeps me up,"

"But these storms have been going on for - are you telling me you haven t slept for three nights?" She stared at him now, biting the lower corner of her lip nervously. "Maybe,"

He looked out at the rain, shaking his head slightly, "and you ve been reading all this time ... because you can t sleep ..."

Isabelle nodded again, watching carefully for his reaction, as he continued to stare out the window. The pale glow of the outside streetlamps lit his face, the rain-stained window casting glimmering shadows across his face, giving the illusion that the water outside was speckled across his face, almost like tears. He seemed lost in thought, contemplating something. She flinched again as another flash of lightning made its way across the room. His eyes flickered back to her face, uneasy.

"Do you want to try to sleep here? I mean, in my bed. With me. Would that help?" He was looking up at her, through his eyelashes, and at that moment he looked so nervous, so afraid that she might reject him, might take his request the wrong way, so striking that she almost ran up to him and hugged him, right there and then. As it was, she contained herself to a small smile, and she saw the tension in his shoulders relax instantly.

"I think it might help," she said softly, "That's what I used to do when I was younger, I used to sleep in Mama Jeanne and Papa George s bed. I thought I had gotten over it. I thought I wasn t afraid anymore, but the truth is that there simply hasn't been a storm as tempestuous* as this one in years. I didn t want to go in there this time, though, because I thought ..." she faltered, "I thought they might think ..."

"That seventeen was too old to be afraid of lightning," Hugo supplied for her, and she nodded. He stared at her and then said suddenly, "There are some things, I think, that you can't outgrow," and she smiled at him gratefully.
He turned towards his bed and got in, then twisted back towards her, opening the quilt to her. "So, um, do you want to get in?"

She nodded.

The bed dipped slightly, and then, suddenly, she was right there, right there in front of him. Her eyes had circles so dark they looked bruised, and somehow the deep contrasts that created in her face, even though he knew she wasn't well, made her even more beautiful than usual.

Not that he allowed himself to think like that often.
However, he knew he needed to ask one more question if he was going to get any sleep tonight.

"Why?"

"Hmm," Already she seemed calmer, as she closed her eyes.
"Why are you afraid of lightning?" She opened her eyes with a shudder. "It's the idea of what lightning can do more than anything else. It s so sudden and unpredictable. It only appears for a second, but that second can kill someone. With no warning. That scares me. Even when I m safe, it terrifies me," Hugo nodded as he felt her shift her body, so that she was cocooned in his arms.

"I ..." He began, but he was broken off by the soft, steady breathing of Isabelle. Already, she had fallen asleep. He gave a small half-smile down at her, glad she had found peace and she could sleep at last. He was almost glad she had fallen asleep before he spoke. He hadn t been completely sure he was ready to tell Isabelle his own fear that night, and now, he didn t have to. Still, however unbidden, the thought of them came to them. The one thing he hated above all else, for all the memories they brought. Rats.

"Papa! Papa! Papa! It's here! It's here! Come on!"

Papa came through the door, walking. Not running like Hugo expected him to. But by then it was too late.

"You missed it. It ran away again!" Hugo crossed his arms and frowned at his Papa. It was his fault. Papa, instead of looking ashamed like he should, grinned down at him.

"You know Hugo, all small creatures will run away if large creatures are being particularly noisy. You must be careful and quiet, like the creature you are seeking. Not jump and shout like an elephant. Think how small it is compared to you."

Hugo looked down at his shoes, ashamed. "Sorry Papa. I just thought we might have been able to get it this time."

It's all right. But come, I have something to show you,"

Hugo followed his father down into the basement cellar. A small hole had been made in the wall. Papa put his finger to his lips and Hugo nodded understanding. Hugo leant forward to see through the hole ... and leapt back, disgusted.

"Papa! There are little monsters in there!"

And there again, Papa was trying to hide his laughter. Hugo frowned at him.

Papa's face straightened. "Those are not monsters, Hugo! Those are rats! Baby rats with their mother. Do you see? That rat we see above in our house is father to all these. He is the provider. If we kill him, then the whole family would die,"

Hugo frowned. "Would that really be a bad thing. I don t like rats that much,"

"Hugo. No matter how much we might dislike something, that dislike does not give us the right to kill it. Every soul on this earth has a story and a family, no matter how small they are. Or ugly. Or scary. Or just because we are bigger than they are."

Hugo was feeling uncomfortable again. But he still wasn't too keen on the idea of having a family of rats living with them. "Could we just remove them then?" Hugo asked. "Would that be okay? Take them out to a forest or something? Where do rats live anyway?"

Papa smiled at him. "Yes, I think that would be okay. Let's see if we can catch that other one. Just catch, mind you - Hugo!

But he was already racing up the stairs.

Hugo smiled at the memory. He realised he had been gently tracing Isabelle s outline in the dark. Her hair, her cheek, her shoulder, all gently coming under his touch. He drew his hand back. He looked about the room, empty and dark, thinking of his father. The Provider. He had died. And so too, just as he had said, a part of Hugo had died with him. Never to return. Never again would he be as innocent and carefree as he had once been.
Hugo closed his eyes in pain and guilt as he thought back to those first months with his uncle.

How he would rather spend his pay-checks on his drinks, which he found harder to steal than food. Or rather, he taught Hugo to steal for him. How his uncle, once the food was in his grasp, would guard it, putting locks on all the food cupboards, keeping the key, delegating food rather than letting Hugo choose it for himself. How he had punished Hugo for letting so much as a crust of bread out in the open unprotected, usually with a beating. How he hadn t understood.

Hugo was organising the jars on the bench when he heard a scuffle to his right. A sort of scratching sound. He turned and saw a rat. A rat so painfully thin that its ribs were showing and little tufts of fur was missing from its coat. Pity swelled in him for the creature. Hugo took out a crust of bread from his pocket, which he had been planning on eating later when he was doing his evening rounds of the clocks. Deciding the rat needed it more than he did, he carefully knelt down and carefully tossed it to the middle of the floor.

The rat bounded to a corner, but then carefully, cautiously, it weaved its way towards the bread. It sniffed it tentatively. And then suddenly grabbed it in its jaws and scampered away.

The rat came back the next day. And the next. And the next. Slowly but surely getting better. Hugo grew fond of the little creature. It was playful and adventurous and soon grew to trust him.

One evening, as Hugo was kneeling down, now able to feed the rat out of his hand, his uncle came back.

Earlier than usual.

Hugo watched fearfully as his uncle stood there, not moving, filling the doorway. In a sudden jerkish movement his uncle swooped down and grabbed the rat. Around the belly and under the legs so that it couldn t bite him. He walked back out again, and Hugo did not know he wanted him to follow until his uncle yelled back at him. "Come boy! Come see what happens to parasites like this!"

They walked and walked. Right down to the River Seine. Hugo stamped his feet in the cold and dark. His uncle looked down at him. His eyes were full of quiet fury and Hugo wondered what would happen next.

Then his uncle threw his rat out into the river.

Hugo cried out but his uncle held him back.

"Don't be a fool, boy! Do you want to drown for a rat!"

But Hugo continued to bend and squirm, trying to get free, but it was too late. He watched as the rat twist in the dark water. Squealing terrified as the water engulfed the small body.

Hugo slumped, his energy gone.

His uncle let go of him and began walking back towards the station. After a long time, Hugo followed him.

When he got back his uncle was waiting for him. "How much food did you waste on that creature?"

Hugo looked up at him, his face streaked with tears. He did not answer.
His uncle got up. "I asked you how much food did you waste, boy!"Still he would not answer.
His uncle turned his back on him and brought out a loaf of bread, tearing of a small chunk. "This much?" He asked holding the piece out for Hugo to see.
Hugo stared at him a moment longer before saying softly, voice hoarse, "About that,"

"About that, eh? For how long?"

"About that every day, once a day, for two weeks,"

His uncle nodded again. His face looked deep in thought.
Hugo wondered what was coming next.

"Well," his uncled said suddenly, "Best be getting to bed Hugo. You've got a big day tommorrow."

The next day, his uncle handed him his breakfast. It was the knob of bread he had broken off the loaf the night before. Hugo looked up at his uncle confused, but his uncle looked straight back, as if saying, 'Well, are you going to eat it?'

Hugo ate it. That day, his uncle didn t give him lunch or dinner.
Hugo collapsed into his bed, exhausted from his day of work.
The next morning his uncle gave him breakfast again. A small knob of bread. And again, he would not give Hugo any lunch or dinner.
Day after day Hugo pushed through his exhaustion. Climbing all the stairs of the train station, winding the clocks. Sleeping whenever he could to preserve his energy.
Day after day it went on, until, two weeks later, his uncle didn't give him breakfast.

Hugo looked at him in protest. His eyes were almost bug-like in his face, he had lost so much weight. But his uncle either ignored him, or took no notice. That day Hugo didn't return until late. He didn't see the point. After he had finished the clocks he knew his uncle would feed him no lunch, and so he climbed to the tallest tower, looking out on Paris and wondering what on earth he was doing there, when all he felt like was an extra part.
In the end though, he had to come down. He couldn't sleep there. When he opened the door he nearly cried out in joy. On the table, untouched and at his place, was an entire loaf of bread. He raced to the place. Then looked up at his uncle, would he allow it? But the bread must have been put there by him, and his uncle gestured for him to go ahead.
Hugo eagerly sat down and began tearing at the bread, slightly stale though it was, he felt he had never had anything so delicious. His uncle watched him almost hungrily.

"Now you know," He said softly. "Don't ever feed a rat. It will always come back for more."

The bread suddenly felt dry in his mouth.

Hugo looked down at Isabelle, unshed tears glistening in his eyes. But he would not cry.

Carefully, so as not to wake her, he put his arms around Isabelle and held her. Because she was here. She had found him . She had taken him away from that place. She saw him for all that he was, all that he could be.

It was at that moment, so long ago, two weeks after his rat had drowned, that Hugo first began to see how his uncle saw him. A rat. A parasite. Indeed, he believed the only reason his uncle hadn't gotten rid of him, the only reason he had come to fetch him in the first place, was that Hugo could do things for him. Like doing the clocks and stealing their food. Things that put his uncle in the line of fire.

So ... whadya think? Heavy huh? Any thoughts on the uncle and his tactics?

Also I've been thinking people could start suggesting unusual words for me to use for Isabelle. Just put your suggestions in with your comment and review!

Special words:

+ Les Contes de la Mythologie Grecque - this is French for "The Tales of Greek Mythology." It is a homage to the original book "The Invention of Hugo Cabret" by Brian Selznick where Isabelle's (and then Hugo's) favourite book is one of Greek Mythology.
+ tempestuous means tumultuous, turbulent, of the nature or resembling a tempest.