The caregiver was creepy. He liked to sit next to her, his knees a little too close, and put his hand on the small of her back, not too high, not too low. He'd watch her, eyelids heavy, just staring.

Sometimes, when she was on the rug, legs kicked up and her nose in a book, he'd settle down next to her. He wouldn't talk, but he'd touch her, just barely, on the shoulder, his skin like poison against hers. Holly hated it, hated him, but he wasn't unkind — not really.

Just creepy.

He's staring again. The thing was draped around her neck, reading her book through a veil of tousled black hair. To her side, the caregiver was on the couch, his knees to chest, sucking on a silver spoon, just staring, not at the radio, not at his cereal, but her.

Holly wrinkled her nose in distaste, not daring to look away from her book. He's always staring.

I don't like him, it said, curling, if possible, closer to her, and she grimaced. Its skin was wet and slippery like blubber, rubbing against the back of her neck, and it smelled horrible, like fish and rotting wood.

You don't like anyone.

Fair, it snorted, but still, he stares at you like you're a piece of meat.

Holly toyed with the corner of her page, running her thumb along the edge. Like you're any better.

The thing scoffed, butting its head harshly against her chin in a soundless reprimand. I might be a monster, but unlike him, I will wait until you are of sound age to claim you. You're seven.

At that, she blanched, vomit rising from the depths of her stomach and burning the back of her throat as she tried to forcefully shake the images of — of that out of her head. I really don't need those visuals right now, or ever, for that matter.

Get used to it, cupcake.

Holly frowned, and then winced sharply, pulling back her hand from her book. A dribble of blood balanced on the tip of her thumb, and before she could do anything about it, the caregiver was by her side, hoisting her up by her elbow, and inspecting her injury.

He smiled nastily, the tip of his tongue darting out and wiping up the trickle of blood that ran down the length of her thumb. "There you go," he muttered against her wrist, pressing a kiss to her pulse. "All better, yeah? It was just a little paper cut."

"I'm okay," Holly said meekly, goosebumps going up and down her spine as he locked eyes with her. She wanted to slap herself silly; she wasn't some damsel in distress, but his eyes, his eyes were so rotten. "Thank you."

The caregiver's smile mutated into something darker, and he let her go, stalking towards the windows and shutting the blinds. He turned towards her, and she trembled in her dainty pink dress as his hooded eyes traveled hungrily down her tiny frame. "Why don't we play hide-and-seek?"

"But, I want to read my book," she squeaked out, wanting to shield her body from his crude stare. The thing was pinching the sides of her neck painfully, glowering at the caregiver. Sick fuck.

"You can do that later," he said in what he thought was in a reassuring manner. "I just want to play one round, promise."

Holly's eyes darted towards the door. "Okay, and then my book?"

"Yes, and then your book," he said, his smile straining. "Now, scram, before I decide to count down from five!"

-X-

Dust was everywhere, suffocating her, and despite Holly not being able to see a thing, it was comforting. She had her back propped up against the cabinet wall, cleaning supplies puddled at her feet, and though she couldn't breathe, not properly, and not here, she didn't have a choice.

The caregiver was in the living room, still counting, and she was in the kitchen cabinet underneath the sink, scared out of her mind. It reminded her of her cupboard, of her misery, but it was the closest thing to safety she could find. He wouldn't find her here; he wouldn't. Instead, he'd check under the bed, and behind the drapes, but he wouldn't dare look underneath the sink.

"Seven!"

He wouldn't.

Calm down. The thing was on the counter, beady eyes narrowed and on the lookout. You're behaving like a frightened child.

"Three!"

Sniffing indignantly, she rubbed her nose on her sleeve. I am not a frightened child.

"Two!"

Of course, now, when he finds you — Holly sucked in a shaky breath — and he will, do not attempt to run, do not attempt to scream, and do not attempt to attack him unless I say so, do you hear me?

When? What do you mean when — "One! Ready or not, here I come!"

Don't be daft, girl! You aren't the first child to think hiding beneath the sink was a good idea.

Toying with a sponge on the bottom of the cabinet, Holly stuck out her tongue childishly, glad the thing couldn't see her. That might be so, but he's an idiot.

My point exactly.

Holly huffed.

Noisily, and without care, the caregiver shuffled through the doorway, head inclined and fiddling with his hands. He looked around anxiously, hungrily. "I know you're in here," he chuckled breathlessly. "I might've peeked, but just a bit."

A gaggle of goosebumps laminated her pale skin at his voice, and she felt let her tongue slip, squeaking as he hobbled closer to her hiding spot. Hurriedly, she clamped a hand over her mouth, the hairs on the nape on her neck bristling. He peeked, he says, well, she glared at her feet, fuck you too, cheating bastard.

The thing snorted mockingly. What, you expect a pedophile to play fair?

Shut up, maggot.

Oh, touchy.

The caregiver crouched next to the sink, leaning in close, his ragged breath coming out in spurts. "Found you," he whispered, rapping his fingernails up and down the cabinet door.

Slow and deliberate, Holly huddled herself further into the cabinet, mindful of all the cleaning products. "Come on," he chided, clicking his tongue. "Don't be shy, I only want to play a little."

Cupcake?

Holly's stomach lurched as the thing materialized on her shoulder, nestling into her collarbone. Yeah?

Kick the door open.

Smirking, Holly booted the door without hesitation. "Fuck!" the caregiver howled like a just-lugged bear, rolling onto his back. He clutched his nose and tasted the blood on his tongue, snarling. "You little bitch!"

Run! Holly cursed, pushing cleaning supplies to the floor as she quickly scrambled out of the cabinet. Her head was pounding, and though her legs were little, she could run. The caregiver was on her tail immediately, chasing her around the house with great abandon, sweat dripping from his matted hair.

"Come here, brat!" he snapped, lunging at her wildly. Holly scrambled back, kicking at his hands blindly as he caught her by her ankle. She tried to scream, but the inside of her mouth lacked any moisture, and all that was issued from her gape was a croak. "You keep struggling like that, it's only going to hurt worse!"

"No!" she yelled, kicking him in the jaw, and he loosened his grip but didn't let go. She hated this, being weak and utterly pathetic in comparison to him. She wasn't weak, she wasn't, she promised, but he was big, so big, towering over her like a man starved, and he was touching her.

His hands were big, too big, and she wanted them off. She remembered a spider — the poor thing — how it dangled over a bucket of water, tap-danced across a freckled boy's horrified face, and how it fell, writhing in pain. She wanted the caregiver to feel that pain, like the spider, she wanted him at her feet, crying, begging for the pain to stop. She wanted it more than anything.

"Crucio!"

And he fell, twisting violently as he clawed at his neck, back arching to the ceiling as he cried out. Holly stared at him, frozen in her stupor, unable to look away. He convulsed, flailing like a fish out of water, and then, all too soon, he stopped, panting and gasping for air. It worked...

He was trembling, a frightened child in his too-big raincoat. "You, you," he babbled, frothing at the mouth. "You freak!"

Freak, huh? Holly glanced to her left, taking one of her father's canes into her clammy hands. She caressed the snake-head handle affectionately, the tips of her lips twitching up, just barely.

"Are you proud of yourself?" she spat, pushing the butt of the cane into his stomach. "Do you think this is fun? I am a child, not even eight-years-old, and yet you want to push your rotten little prick into my body and destroy me, don't you?"

"I said," Holly pushed the cane down harder. "Don't you?"

The caregiver wheezed, a gargled cry leaving his bloodied lips. "Mercy! Please, I'm sorry—"

Holly laughed bitterly. "Mercy? You're a monster, you don't get mercy."

Do it, the thing hissed in her ear. Kill him.

She lifted the cane high above her head, something akin to pity in her green eyes. "Bye-bye," she whispered.

And she swung.

-X-

Fania cursed, fumbling with her keys, the myriad of bags in her pudgy arms slipping. She had rung the doorbell twice, lingering underneath the porch lights, waiting for the caregiver to come and open the door for her. No one answered.

Furrowing her brows, Fania pushed the door open with her hip, jostling the bags to one side as she squeezed into the house. She called out for the caregiver, once, twice, a frown playing on her lips. Still, no one answered.

Crouching, though she didn't know why, she stalked into the kitchen, setting her bags on the counter. There were cleaning supplies on the floor, a bottle of ammonia half-open, drowning the floor in its sticky mess. Her nose twitched at the pungent odour — it was like the hospital, with its magnolia walls and too clean and too white gowns.

Fania hated hospitals. Hated the stuffiness and too kind nurses. Hated the wires and horrible isolation. Hated the hard gravy and cold mashed potatoes. It was like those seven months again, when her little girl, barely old enough to spell her name, barely old enough to have even lived, had stayed.

Fania tipped her head back, cigarette already lit and in her hands. She didn't like smoking, she didn't, but Ilya wasn't home, and she needed it, needed something. Work was monotonous, she had a migraine, and she didn't know where the caregiver was. No, that wasn't right, she didn't know where her little girl was.

She could've been anywhere, but only the worse places came to mind. It was ridiculous, but Fania worried, she always did. Holly had a knack for finding trouble, or rather, trouble had a knack for finding her.

Like when she was four, and she took it in her head to chase an alley cat into the road. Ilya ran after her, and Fania would be damned if she couldn't hear one of those sleeper cabs coming. Either Ilya caught her and pulled her down, or Holly tripped on her own; Fania didn't know, but when you're really scared, your memory often blanks.

All Fania knew for sure was that her little girl was okay and in her husband's arms. The cat, though, was not so lucky. Holly was furious and beautiful in her grief, but Fania couldn't bring herself to pity the thing. Her daughter was safe, and that's all that mattered. She couldn't imagine what she'd do if the roles were reversed.

The little brat was going to send her to an early grave. Holly wasn't the type to run and cry to mommy; rather, she bottled everything up until she could no longer hide it. Like when she was three and still potty training, and Fania heard yelling in the bathroom and asked if everything was okay, the brat had lied to her.

She didn't want to admit she tried to climb onto the counter but fell and broke her ankle. She didn't want to cry in front of mommy, and she didn't want to make her worry. And while it was touching, the stunt only made Fania worry more.

"Mama?"

Fania jumped. "Holly?"

Turning to look at her, something like a spark of relief erupted in her chest before burgeoning annoyance won her over. "Where the hell have you been?"

Holly didn't answer right away. "I thought you didn't like smoking."

"I don't, but as your father says, a smoke a day keeps the stress away." Fania stole a drag, smothering a sigh. Holly was hiding something; she always was. "And you, young lady, are stressing me out."

Holly frowned. "Oh."

"Yeah, oh," Fania said and then added with a certain hopefulness: "Do you know where your caregiver is?"

Holly bounced on her heels. "I know where he isn't."

Fania sighed. "I'm never going to get a straight answer out of you, am I?"

The brat had the nerve to look smug. "No, but you tried."

"Barely," Fania said and then frowned, looking pointedly at the half-empty bottle of ammonia on the title floor. "Can you at least tell me why you or the caregiver didn't bother to clean this mess up?"

"I forgot."

"And the caregiver?"

"He also forgot."

Fania wanted to scream, but she restrained herself. The brat was talking to her in circles, but Fania expected this, where her little girl was smart, she wasn't. "Holly," Fania said tiredly, displaying both disapproval and approval in the same breath. "What are you hiding?"

Holly looked up at her, bright green eyes shining something dark, but it left as quickly as it came. Instead, she smiled widely, pulling something out of her sock. "Don't tell dad," she giggled, and in her hands was a melted, half-eaten chocolate bar.

Fania felt like crying.

-X-

It was never good news when a police officer came to your doorstep at three in the morning. It was even worse when they removed their service cap and requested politely to come inside. At that moment, they'd try their hardest to be human, but all you can see is the dark blue uniform and the shiny shoes, come to pull your world apart with their soft-spoken words.

The caregiver had been murdered, found by his girlfriend, Millie. Allegedly, when she had arrived at their shared apartment, the boy was already dead, his torso flopped over their bed like the body of a rag doll as blood poured out of his mouth and soaked his shirt. An hour later, Millie was being sedated by county police, her hysterical wailing waking up half of the building.

When police brought her into the interrogation room, the girl — if you wanted to call her that — was wearing faded jeans, a grease-smeared tee-shirt, and a stupid paper top-hat that she refused to take off because it was the caregiver who got it for her. It was easy to recognize her grief, but at the same time, impossible to take her seriously.

"How many times do I have to tell you idiots?" she was still screaming. "They killed him! That stupid family, the Nikolaevs, they did it! They bashed his head in! They took him away from me! They killed him!"

Funny enough, no one at the police station believed her, but they couldn't discount her either. So, they calmed her down and told her they would check out the house to see if they could find anything.

"I doubt you did it," Officer Clark Abner told Fania and Ilya. "You loved that boy like he was your own son, but you're still suspects. I'm just going to ask a few questions and do a quick sweep of the house, and then I'll be out of your hair."

No one noticed Holly was awake, sitting at the top of the stairs.

-X-

"Well, that should be about it," Abner said, already out the door. "You both have a good night, and stay safe, won't you? Who knows if whoever killed that poor boy will strike again."

Ilya smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "We will," he said and then closed the door.

The officer had asked about Holly, and instead of the truth, they told him that they were both at work, but when they got home there was only Holly. The caregiver had never shown up, and Abner believed it. Fania couldn't allow him to question their little girl — she was a child, only seven-years-old. She didn't need to get involved.

And if, when Fania was back in bed, Ilya was downstairs and checking the house twice-over, no one had to know. He couldn't sleep knowing that a killer was out there, wherever they may be. They could hurt his family, and he couldn't sleep not knowing if they'd be okay when he woke up.

He was in the living room, looking through old pictures when it caught his eye: the cane with the silver snake-headed handle. It wasn't his favorite (he preferred the pretty, hand-carved one his late father had gifted him), but he knew it like he knew the back of his hand. And there, on the handle next to gleaming yellow eyes, was a speck of blood.

Ilya felt like he wanted to throw up, but he steeled himself. He didn't see it, he told himself, he didn't see anything, but he did. And no one had to know.

-X-

Holly was nine when she realized her father was afraid of her. It wasn't an obvious thing, no, but it was there, buried deep behind bright, dancing blue eyes. However, grief or no grief, pain or no pain, he still loved her. But, it cut, knowing that no matter how much he loved her, there was always going to be some underlying level of fear ingrained in him.

Except, he didn't fear her magic as the Dursleys did — rather, he feared her. And that hurt worse than anything the Dursleys ever did, and she slept in the cupboard under the stairs that was small and dirty, with lots of spiders.

He knows, the thing had said, when she was eight and getting ready for her birthday party. No one was invited, of course, she didn't have friends — kids didn't like freaks — but her mama was making her a strawberry cheesecake, and her father was helping with decorations. He saw the cane, saw the blood, he connected the dots, and he knows.

Holly didn't want to believe the thing at the time, but she couldn't stop thinking about what if? Would he turn her in? Would he tell Fania? Would he think of her as a monster, a freak? Would he hate her?

Did he already hate her?

But, when she came down, pretty in her black mary janes, he took her by her waist and hung her upside down until she laughed herself hoarse. Fania yelled at him to put her down, her face red from worry, and when he did, he just smiled warmly. He didn't look like he knew, and he didn't act as if he knew, he was just that, her father.

He wasn't the Dursleys. He didn't make her cook breakfast, lunch, and dinner, mow the lawn in the sweltering sun or play Holly Hunting. He loved her, and even now, when she saw the fear, the apprehension, he still loved her.

Holly wondered if James (was that her real father's name?) would have loved her as much as Ilya did. Would Lily have been as protective as Fania? Somehow, it didn't matter, because while Lily was her mother, and James was her father, they weren't Fania and Ilya. Holly always wanted parents, always wanted a family she could call hers, and now she had that.

She had a family.