Many grow up to feel unwanted, so we search and try and test to find someone who really thinks that we are worth a sacrifice. Some of us truly were not loved-well as children, our parents did not know it, they loved us as they were loved- not well.
It is up to us, right now, to love those in our sphere, whether they are our own children, or the friends and nephews and aunties that we gather around ourselves. Love them more than you were, love them as much as you needed to be.
That love will change the world for generations
An ordinary street, on an ordinary summer night, even if the light posts flickered oddly in the rain on the windscreen. Gooseflesh erupted on the back of Hope's neck and arms as she steered the little Ford around the tight corner and past another row of identical houses, their front gardens shadowy and strange.
"Pull yourself together woman," Hope muttered to herself, "There's nothing to be afraid of. It's just a nice, clean, empty, street."
One wheel dropped into a pothole and when the headlights bounced back up the street was no longer empty.
"My-goodness." It came out as a strangled gasp as Hope pounded the brake, wrestled the car into a standstill, put it in park and sat, staring at the hunched figure, trying to make sense of what she saw.
Another sheet of rain blurred her view and she moved on instinct. Dashing out and slamming the door, she approached the forlorn figure. Unable to see much in the pounding rain, she gathered the child in her arms, looking down the street for an open door or a porch light on. Looking for a sign that someone, somewhere was waiting or looking for them.
But no. The only light was the streetlight, flickering still more intemperately overhead.
Thin arms wrapped around her neck as she grappled with the slick handle of the passenger seat and though she tried to lower the bundle, a whimper and the tightening stranglehold made her choice. Sliding in, with the child still in her arms, closing the door against the invasive wet.
Hope cranked the dial on the heater, praying it would work. A warm breeze answered her supplication and the bundle shivered. Flicking on the overhead light, Hope finally allowed herself to believe what she was seeing.
"My dear. Are you alright?"
The child wasn't alright, not a bit.
Teeth chattered in the gaunt grey face, sunken eyes squeezed tight shut, the boney cheek pressed into her shoulder, arms too thin. A ragged shirt several sizes too large hung in wet folds, dripping in little puddles on her raincoat, and running in rivulets onto the seat and floor mat.
"I need to warm you up, ok?"
A shiver answered.
"I can't take my coat off if you don't let go."
The hands clasped tighter, catching a few strands of hair on the nape of her neck. She flinched at the sharp tug.
The arms withdrew. The child, a boy, hugged himself and leaned away from her. Hope unbuttoned the heavy jacket and pulled the left sleeve until there was nothing between her good sweater and the wet seat back. Raised an arm to wrap the boy, but he shrunk away from her violently, squeezing his eyes shut again until the warmth enveloped him and no blow fell.
A soft whimper escaped and Hope sighed.
"I'm not going to hurt you."
Green eyes regarded her doubtfully from the collar of her own coat. The mouth remained hidden and the boy made no sign that he would, or could speak to her. Oh dear, that might complicate things.
"I'm Hope. What's your name?"
A blink.
"Are you hurt?"
Nothing.
"Do you know where you live?"
A slow blink and a slower shake of the head. No.
"Parents?"
Another, quicker shake- No.
"Who looks after you?"
The boy looked confused.
"Who do you live with?"
No.
"Do you think you could spot your house if I drove around a bit?"
No.
"Surely somebody will be out looking for you, maybe we'll see them?"
A vehement shake that sent water everywhere.
"Ok, it's going to be okay… I need a name for you, can I call you George?" no response so Hope kept talking, to calm herself as much as him. "Alright George, it's going to be ok. We're going to go to the police station and figure out where you belong…"
He shook his head at the word police, shivering more fiercely and crumpling in on himself.
The clock on the dash showed quarter past eleven. She was exhausted, the boy was wet and cold, perhaps a hospital would be better. But the boy wasn't speaking, and she recognized the way he flinched.
"Okay, so here are the options, George. one: We find the nearest police station and see if they can find your home," Hope ticked off the options as she spoke, "two: we go to a hospital and they will keep you safe while the police find your home."
"NO." The boy's attempt at a shout croaked instead from a dry throat, hiding his face and curling deeper into the recesses of the coat. His whole body trembled and the light in the car began to flicker to the time of the streetlight outside.
"Ok, George. Ok. no police tonight." Hope sighed, running a hand over her forehead and rubbing at tired eyes. "But we can't stay here, and I don't know what to do…would it-? no. but what other choice is there… Is it alright if I take you to my flat?"
The curved back shrugged.
"I take it that means ok, George?"
Another shrug and the green eyes reappeared, studying her before mumbling something she couldn't quite make out.
"Pardon?" Hope asked gently, unable to the lashing rain and the huffing heater.
"m' not George." Not-George said in a rough whisper, coughing a little for the effort it cost him. "Harry."
Hope smiled warmly, ignoring the wetness about her own eyes. "Well then, hello Harry."
The rain was letting up as she settled Harry in the passenger seat, though drops still trickled down her back and settling into the wet folds of her skirt. The streetlight had ceased flickering and now cast a warm glow on the road ahead. The drive was uneventful, Hope stewing on what to do next and Harry staring mutely out the window as the houses turned into grocers and shops and apartment buildings too high to see the tops of in the rain.
The car finally stopped in a carpark surrounded by slowly rusting chain link next to a grimy looking building, not as tall as the brightly lit ones they had passed. Harry hopped out of the car before Hope could assist him and she allowed him to follow just behind her, not objecting when a slight pressure indicated he'd grabbed a fold of her skirt.
No doorman with their highly pressed uniforms greeted them, the elevator wore a faded "under construction" sign, the tape holding it up curling and yellow.
Harry refused to be carried up the first flight of stairs, but when they'd gotten to the landing he was panting and sweating, his arms tired from trying to lift the heavy coat high enough not to drag on the dirty steps.
"We've got two more floors to go Harry. Do you want to rest here or can I carry you the rest of the way?"
Harry's hands curled in little fists, one still clutching her skirt. A sniffle and he lifted his arms with a resigned sigh.
Hope picked him up easily, too easily. The old wool coat, carefully mended and lovingly brushed weighed more than the child within. How old was he? When had he last eaten? Why did he think no one was looking for him? One thing at a time Hope, lets get dry and warm first.
She unlocked the door to 3-G with some difficulty, Harry still in her arms. Lights flicked on, and Hope set Harry down at the door to untie her shoes and set the coat on a hook to dry, noticing as she lifted it that Harry was barefoot. Fighting back the urge to cry, she turned the anger into action.
"We've got to get you dry Harry, or you'll catch cold," Hope said, moving past him into the small kitchen and turning the dial on the heater up. "Wonder is how you've not got one already, dressed like this in all that cold and damp."
Past the couch and coffee table that served as a living space there were only two doors in the short hallway, a bathroom and her own bedroom. She emerged from this second with a small stack of folded things. A warm bath would be best, but this wasn't Tyler, this was a boy named Harry who didn't know her from a stranger, and she didn't want to overstep. This was all odd enough as it was.
"I've not got any underthings for you, but these old clothes of mine might fit alright, do you think you can dry off and dress yourself?"
Harry shrugged and excepted the pj's and the fluffy towel she handed him and walked into the bathroom, waiting for the door to close. It didn't and he turned to look at her in confusion.
"I need a change myself, then I'll be in the kitchen, come find me when you're done." Hope pulled her bedroom door closed, leaned against it in the dark and took three long, deep breaths. One thing at a time, just the next step.
And so, she stripped off the wet clothes, dried herself and pulled on the fleecy pajamas Lydia had gifted her as a joke last year. Woodland animals frolicking over a field of pastel flowers, childish as the fabric may look, the soft warmth of it outweighed any argument in Hope's mind. She went through the motions of filling the kettle, setting it on the hob and lighting the flame. The best two of her odd collection of mugs set next to a small teapot. Much as she needed a cuppa just then, there were other concerns for the boy.
She couldn't simply feed him the leftovers in her fridge if he'd been without for as long as she suspected. Curry wouldn't sit well, rice might be alright, but he'd need fluids first. Decided, she pulled the tin out of the cupboard, spooning a bit of cup-a-soup into each mug and tapping her fingers on the counter waiting for the kettle to hum.
She'd just poured the water when the floorboards creaked in the living room. Harry, newly dry, wearing some sleep shorts and holding the tangled long-sleeved shirt with a frustrated expression, one sleeve half on and the other seemingly tied in a knot.
Hope moved quickly to him, dropping to her knees as she saw his eyes squeeze shut again. "It's ok Harry, I just want to help you."
He blinked and his arms went limp, which she took as a sign that he would tolerate her assistance. Gently untangling the tucked-in sleeve, Hope noticed the bony shoulders, the too-bare ribs. Yellow mottling discoloured his upper arms and a greenish blush showed through the pale skin of his abdomen on the left side.
"Does anything hurt Harry?"
A furious shake of the head and defiance sparked in the dull green eyes.
Hope lowered her voice, half whispering, and looking directly at him so he could see her honesty, "I think that I would hurt if it were me. You won't be in trouble; I just want to help you feel better. Ok Harry?"
Harry looked down at his arms, now covered in soft blue. And shrugged.
"let's get some soup in you first, ok? Then, if you're feeling up-to it, you can tell me what hurts."
His look was equal parts doubtful and hungry.
Hope pulled out the chair for him, and set the mug and spoon in front of him. "I don't know what you're used to, but I just want you to eat slow, ok Harry?" but Harry had already wrapped desperate hands around the mug and lifted it to his lips. She allowed him one long sip before gently directing the cup back to the table, holding it there against his straining arms. "Use the spoon Harry, and take it slow, I don't want you to be sick."
The arms ceased their struggle but didn't release the mug.
"It won't do you any good if it all comes back up. You can have more in a bit if you can keep this down, ok?"
Harry nodded solemnly, finally relaxing his right hand. He watched her as she took her own mug and spoon and sat down across from him, mimicked her as she took a spoonful, blew gently to cool it and put the spoon in her mouth. He matched her slow movements spoon for spoon, though his stomach growled painfully after each swallow.
When the mugs were finally empty and there was no sign of the boy turning green, Hope picked up the pen and flipped the page of the notepad to a fresh page.
"Do you think you can tell me a little more now Harry?" Hope asked, writing his name on the top line as he raised his shoulders in an uncertain shrug. "How about we start with some simple questions, and I'll make you some more soup?"
Harry's eyebrows rose in surprise but he lifted his mug eagerly and nodded.
Hope took the cup and turned away from him, asking short questions and fiddling with the kettle and the cupboards as he thought about the answers, taking breaks to jot down details.
Harry
Last name- Potter
Six years old, birthdate July 31st 1980
Attended reception and grade one.
The conversation stalled when she asked for the name of the school. He froze, and set the mug down, pushing it away with a sad look.
"You're going to make me go back, aren't you?"
"I'm not making you do anything Harry, but its not up-to me. Your guardians make those sorts of decisions."
"I don't have guardians." He said flatly, refusing to meet her eyes.
She'd heard those words before. Hope slowed the steam train in her mind, forcing herself back to the present, to the boy whose problems were not yet in the past.
"Is there somebody who is supposed to be your guardian Harry?"
"I'm not going back. I'm not. I'll run away, I can live on the streets, I'll-"
"How did you get those bruises Harry?" Hope asked softly, blowing a curl of steam of her fresh cup of tea and waiting for the answer she knew.
Harry stared at the table, stared at the mug, fidgeted. Grabbed the mug. Sipped. Sighed and finally, with his eyes resolutely on the rim, answered. "Dudley, mostly. And Uncle Vernon, and… and Aunt Petunia."
Hope made a note, waited for more, but none came. "Who is Dudley?"
"Cousin."
"Ok. Can you tell me their last name?"
"I don't want to go back." He was shrinking again, curling in on himself like an armadillo.
"I know Harry, I don't want you to go back there either."
"You don't?"
"No, I don't, and the more you can tell me about them, the better chance we have of making sure of it, so do you think you can answer a few more questions before bed?"
Harry agreed, still stumbling over bits of the story, the frying pan his aunt had thrown at him for sneaking a bit of bacon, how Dudley pushed him down the stairs, how strange things sometimes happened, though he refused to say what they were, and how Uncle Vernon would rage and lock him in the cupboard. He even allowed Hope to take a few photos of the bruises with the old polaroid camera.
"It looks worse than it is, really." Harry said sagely, letting the blue shirt drop back over the sickly green colour on his side.
"So you've said," Hope replied unhappily, "and you're sure it doesn't hurt when you bend or breathe?"
"It did a bit, at first, but it hasn't twinged since I left."
"Is that the reason you ran away?" Hope asked, keeping her tone light, inconsequential.
"No, I didn't, I never ran away." Harry muttered, looking ashamed. "I wanted to. Tried sometimes, but I never… no."
"So when you say, you left…?"
"They kicked me out, and I went."
"Oh."
"It's alright though," Harry continued quickly, putting one small hand on her arm comfortingly, "I was better off, loads better then that place. I can do whatever I'd like now, and sometimes I find food that's still warm, just set out like it was made for me. I don't know how or why, but I just knew I needed to go somewhere, like someone else was steering me, and I'd find what I needed."
Hope's eyebrows bunched together as she tried to sort through his anxious retelling.
"That's how I found you. I was looking for a jacket, and I just followed that feeling until I found you."
Her eyebrows shot straight up at that admission, "really?"
"Just like magic." Harry finished softly, daring to smile at the floor.
"Just like magic…"