I must have slept solidly, because I wake up in that same position, curled on my side. I feel old and sluggish, like I could sleep the night through again.
I blink. Twice. My eyes settle on the window. There's a wasp. Right there. Perched on the edge of the glass. It looks busy. It looks angry. It is bobbing, sinister and slow. My fear spreads like a dollop of molasses. Dazedly, I seem content to observe it. And then I suddenly leap from my bed like I've just had volts of electricity shot through my body. I have never moved faster. Nobody has ever moved faster. I am a mass of limbs and my mouth blurts a series of vowels. I grope my night stand and throw a book at it. The novel misses the wasp entirely. But it hits the window, almost breaking it. I snatch my towel and flee. I'm not sure if I just locked the wasp in or out of my room. My panicked mind tells me inside. And, it whispers ominously behind the back my eye, You just pissed it off. My heart is thrumming like a speed bag.
In the bathroom, I splash my face with warm tap water and try to calm down. Rather than risking encounter in my room, I take some clothes from the washing basket and throw them on. Of course, I'm assailed as soon as I walk into the kitchen. My mother doesn't even turn around. It is as though she can sense the wrinkles and rumples.
"Hermione, take those off. I haven't washed them yet," my mother says, setting a cup of coffee in front of me and tugging at my striped cotton shirt.
I tiredly rub my eyes. "But it's not even dirty. It's fine," I say, and sip my coffee.
"No, it is not fine, Hermione. I won't ask you again." She fixes me with a glare that could swipe a swathe through an iceberg, but this morning I just don't give a shit. I keep quiet, which I'm sure she translates into grudging assent. I chew at the toast she presents and uninterestedly flick through one of the papers my dad isn't reading. He is especially quiet this morning. He's usually a little distant in a distracted sort of way, but this morning he's like a ghost.
My mother pretends to busy herself, wiping down her immaculate kitchen. She talks sternly at me while looking out the window. "Hermione, if you are going to Neville's today, I'd like you to stay there. Or out on the street where we can see you, please."
I pause and frown. "Why?"
"Because I said so, that's why."
I look to my dad, but like always, he offers no opinion from the other side of the table. I may as well be sitting with a well-fed bloodhound. I hold my hands up like I'm holding an invisible bowl full of questions.
'How can that possibly be a reason?"
"I'm your mother. You live under my roof. I don't need a reason."
"That doesn't even make sense," I blurt out and she spins around. I am in it now. The glare returns. Those eyes could make a eunuch out of Errol Flynn. You have to squint and look away. It's like trying to look into the sun.
"Are you going to continue to talk back at me or are you going to do what you're told?"
I hate this rhetorical standoff. I can't win. There is never any winning. I can't even forge a stalemate. I have three red doors with three labels: Silence, Affirmation and Fatal Beating. Opening any of them hands her the victory. At the minute, I hate them both. Like I hate wasps. My father, for being bewildered and useless, and my mother for flying the red flag. I open the door labelled Silence, the least painful loss.
"Good," my mother mutters, and wipes her already clean kitchen bench. Quietly fuming, I finish my toast bide my time with the occasional betrayed glance towards my father. I skim over the newspaper headlines and read about how Americans are saving people in Iraq and how more British troops might be sent there soon. It's confusing, because my dad hates the war. He hates war of any kind. He wanted to drive into the city, into London, to join the protest. But my mother wouldn't let him. She said it was a waste of time and money to drive out there just to take a stroll with a crowd. I wanted my dad to be defiant. To drive over there anyway. I would have gone with him, but he stayed.
Eventually my mother leaves the kitchen, speaking loudly about doing a load of washing. I listen to see how busy she is. Then I quickly escape, shutting the front door quietly behind me. This is the second time I've snuck out in as many days. I walk quickly over to Neville's intermittently looking over my shoulder as I imagine that my mother has swung open my bedroom door to find a rapacious swarm of insects, so thick that they coat her entire body like chainmail and buzz louder than a sawmill.
Fear of retribution propels me through Augusta Longbottom's death-garden without pause. I knock on Neville's door with some urgency. To my surprise, he answers it. This hass never happened. His face is a caricature of disappointment.
"Hello, sir," I say to him. "I've come to talk to you about Jesus Christ. A moment of your time, sir, I beg you. For Jesus Christ, our Lord and Saviyarrrrr!"
Neville's head snaps back. He sighs upwards. "None shall pass, Hermione."
"But sir, the Jesus."
"No, really," Neville says, his hand still on the door. "You can't come in and I can't come out."
"You don't have to. Everyone already knows you're queer." I smirk and move to go inside.
"Shut up. I mean, I'm grounded."
"Really?" I stiffen.
"Really."
"How? What did you do? I saw your grandmother yelling at you last night."
"Well," Neville sniggers softly and whispers: "Yesterday Mrs Hart came over to borrow something. And just as my Gran answers the door, Chairman Wow whistles and goes Gran! We're going into town to play some fucking Quidditch. We're going into town to play some fucking Quidditch! And so, of course, she blushes and tells my Gran what it means and how rude it is. The stupid bird ratted me out."
I die laughing.
Neville holds a finger in front of his grinning lips. "I know, it's hilarious. But she went crazy. She was like a tornado, Hermione. A tornado of fury. It's fucked. She won't even let me listen to the Quidditch on the radio. I'm going mental in here! Do you know the score? Do you know which players are on?"
"I have no idea."
"Fuck," he mutters, and clicks his fingers in the jerky movement like a thwarted villain. You're useless, Hermione."
"I'm useless? What am I supposed to do now?"
"I don't know," Neville smiles. "Go find Primrose Parkinson. Go tell her to come over here and profess her undying love to me."
"I think I would rather give you a vivisection with my hands."
"Queer."
"How is that remotely queer?"
"I don't know, it just is."
Behind him, Augusta Longbottom shrieks something. I don't understand the words. But that tone translates clearly.
"I have to go Hermione," Neville says sullenly.
I smile and wave as he shuts the door
Our quiet and clean street belies its weight of oppression. Augusta's garden, the creeping heat, my waspy bedroom, the brickk in my belly, the she-devil awaiting my demise at home. I start walking aimlessly towards town. Maybe I'll go to the library or the bookstore.
As I walk by the park, I watch some Muggle kids trying to get a kite started. It looks like they fashioned it themselves from a stick and some newspaper. I don't like its chances. The air is static as an oven and just as hot. Still, they are sprinting in straight lines with kite scuttling and scraping behind. It looks like it's chasing them.
I arrive at the library. Save for Mrs. Romanof, the librarian, it is empty. After beginning school at Hogwarts, I spent less and less time here, so it feels a little like I'm visiting an elderly aunt. It has a familiar spicy smell. I feel instantly at home. I spend some time browsing the general fiction aisle, but my eyes glaze over the spines. I amble on. It's only when I reached the crime section at my heart kickstarts and I stop and peer. My finger hooks out titles and I begin to bundle books in my arm. When they get too heavy, I carry them to a small desk in the corner. I put them down and switch on the banker's lamp. I suddenly feel excited and full of purpose. They are all true crime books, the covers featuring grainy mug shots of creepy urban scenes. The word chilling appears in most of the blurbs. I check to see who has borrowed these books before me, whether there are any names that repeat themselves. They are indistinct and mostly illegible. No Mad Marius. Nobody that I recognise.
It's compelling reading. I pore over the misdeeds of famous and infamous killers. Fascinated by their stories. I learn that Jack the Ripper was never caught. I read about Burke and Hare, who killed for money and sold the corpses to medical colleges. I suck in the words furiously. It all seems so gothic and surreal. Then I read about Albert Fish, the man they called the Brooklyn Vampire. Whose written confessions make me so queasy I can't even finish reading them. I slap the book shut. I look left and right. I am galled and enthralled. I open it back up.
His picture stuns me. The face of a child-eating monster. His hawkish, asymmetrical face and sinister eyes. I have to look away. It's everything I would imagine Mad Marius to be. That bleak expression, sharp and volatile. Like he could snarl and bite at any moment. I skim through other titles. They are intriguing and harrowing. I bow close to the pages, but something seems slightly unsatisfying. New York, Miami, Paris, Tokyo. They all seem so far away and so long ago. The cases feel a little too much like fiction, like too much is left to the imagination.
There are stories etched into their faces of all of these killers, but what I'm really searching for is why. Why would someone stab a woman in her own bed? Why would someone shoot a man between his eyes as he answered the door? Why? Why do these killers kill all of these people? I need to know why they wanted whole cities to close in on themselves. I shake my head slowly and read on and on. I am no longer interested in the crimes themselves. I find it strange that even after these people were caught and caged, even after they were revealed to be small and ordinary, the panic in the articles doesn't relax. People still rattle.
I finally begin to piece together the portrait. The life and childhood of most of the killers. I read about them being ruthlessly bullied. About their loneliness. Their abandonment by everyone except their pitying mothers. About their abusive, drunk fathers who beat them ferociously with their fists. Sometimes with canes and belts. Parents who spent their wages on alcohol and left their families to go hungry. Which meant that most of the time, the adolescent killers had to steal for their livelihoods. It is horrifying and sad, but I still don't understand.
Is this really why? Are these the ingredients of a murderer? I hold my head in my hands and I think about Draco Malfoy. An orphan or as good as one. Whose father hits the drink as hard as he hits his only son. He also has a steal to eat. And I can't begin to imagine what has happened under roof of that manor. I think about Neville Longbottom. I think about all the kids at Hogwarts who were picked on. And I think of Mad Marius. I imagine him as a composite of Albert Fish and an assortment of Azkabanian criminals. I think of him alone on his porch, in the still of the night. His crooked face, his evil eyes. Surveying his moonlit property. Watching a girl in a nightdress hastily making her way towards the river.
It occurs to me that people can do this to each other. People really can. And I wonder, how is this possible? Is it something we all have in us? Is it just a matter of friction and pressure? Is it just shitty luck? Is it time and chance? Maybe Mark Twain knows.
To my surprise, the next volume holds an answer. The paper is dry and it crackles away as I navigate through it. It smells musty. I turn to the right page. There is a small tear in the bottom corner and my spine sparks cold. The thought of someone else being privy to this is harrowing. There is a distant picture of a killer. He looks pathetic, almost resigned. I read hungrily. Finally, at last, a reporter asks him: Why. Why did you do this?
He replies, I just wanted to hurt somebody. I sigh and rest my cheek on my fist. I glance out of the window for a time. This can't be it. It can't be all of it.
I scan a newspaper and I'm drawn to a headline that stops me cold. I pause to wipe my brow with my sleeve. I hold my breath as I pore over the box of text beneath it. I read about a girl from America, called Samantha Lee. The police found her dead on a dirty mattress. She was the same age as Pansy Parkinson. The same age as me. And I feel myself lured down a path that I'm not sure I should be treading. The outline of this story seemed so black and obscene. I'm ill and cold and empty, but hungry for more. So much so that I'm driven back to the newspaper stand, and I take every edition since October back to my table. Mrs. Romanof eyes me over the rim of a spectacle. I sit down heavily. I read on, patching together the story of Samantha Lee.
Her parents were carnival workers and often moved from city to city. A few months ago, in July, they were due to leave for another stint. They couldn't afford to bring all of their children with them. So her father called on a recent acquaintance of his – a woman called Gertrude Bane, and offered her a sum of money as board for Samantha and all of her sisters. Bane, who is described as a sickly and severe woman, accepted the offer despite having seven children of her own and an estranged husband. It seems that as soon as the door was closed on Samantha Lee, the nightmare began.
Gertrude Bane was initially bitter and suspicious. Then she became jealous and sinister. She took an immediately disliking to the Lee children, particularly Samantha, and often falsely accused her of stealing so that she could punish her. After the first week, the money promised by Mr. Lee did not come. Enraged, Bane thrashed Samantha with a wooden rod. This became the first of many beatings. The violence became routine and grew in intensity. Bane was vile and vindictive. She was convinced that Samantha was somehow unclean. Samantha must have been terrified. After a few weeks she started wetting the bed. But it wasn't just Bane. As the abuse escalated, Bane somehow enlisted her own children and others from the surrounding neighbourhood, inviting them to exact awful cruelties upon the girl. It's hard for me to read. Harder to believe to be true.
They tied her up. Up to a dozen of these children. And they did unthinkable things. They extinguished cigarettes on her skin. They cut her with knives and beat her. They pulled her hair and spat on her. They made her strip her clothes. They made her dance in front of them. They made her put things inside of her.
I had to look away when I read that. I stare out of the window and suck my lips between my teeth as I try to wince away my imagination. But I still turn back to the pages. Something in me is compelled to read on, even though I know I shouldn't.
Samantha's torment got worse. Every day she was kicked and punched and hit and burned. The boys practised judo with her frail body. She was just a grisly game for them. They tortured her methodically, all at Bane's bidding. They began lowering Samantha into baths filled with scalding water, holding her down as a means of cleansing her of sin. Then they rubbed salt into her open wounds. Eventually, Samantha tried to escape. She was caught on the landing. She didn't even make it to the front door. They dragged her deeper inside. Bane locked her in the basement. From then on, she was made to live in a cellar with the dogs. Bane treated her like one of her animals, or worse. They began tying her up at night. They starved her, feeding her nothing but crackers. They wouldn't allow her to wear clothes. They wouldn't let her go to the bathroom. They made her eat her own shit and piss and vomit.
Just days before she died, they tied her down flat while Bane heated a sewing needle. Then she began branding her. Tattooing letters onto her belly. She had to stop because of the smell of Samantha's burning flesh. It was making her ill. Instead, she handed the needle to one of the older boys from the neighbourhood. She told him to burn the words, I am a prostitute and proud of it into Samantha's belly. He had to pause to ask how to spell it. Bane wrote it down for him and he finished the job.
Samantha had told her younger sister that she was going to die soon. She said she just knew it. She must have been so afraid. It sounds as though she was giving up. She'd suffered too much. She was letting go. Samantha's final act of defiance was to spend a night banging a shovel against the walls of the cellar. But nobody came. Nobody heard her. She died in the bath of hunger and shock. She just slipped away.
When they made the discovery, Bane and her daughters carried Samantha's body and dumped it onto a filthy mattress across the hall. They folded her arms across her chest. And then she made the same boy who branded her call the police. What they found was a tiny body scratched and bruised and beaten and burned. She had open sores on her scalp. She was covered with cigarette burns. She had teeth missing. Two black eyes. Her nails were broken. She had bitten right through her bottom lip.
Before the police left. Jenny Lee quietly tugged at the shirt of an officer. And she said, If you get me out of here, I will tell you everything. Later that day Bane was arrested. I stop reading.
One of the hardest things for me to understand is why Jenny waited until then to speak out. She'd watched on for all of those months. She'd been there for every savage act. She had the chance. Hadn't she been at school while Samantha was housebound? She could have told somebody there.
But it's not just Jenny, it's a whole choir of muted voices that puts the lump in my throat. Why didn't anybody help her? The whole neighbourhood knew. Of course they knew. The people next door, they heard her and saw the extent of her injuries. They listened the screams and commotion, to the thump of the shovel, but not a sound came from their side. They let it happen. Did they not care?
Whole blocks of people, whole towns, whole cities, a whole cluster of families. Not one of them uttered a word. And how was it that Gertrude Bane could seduce so many children into something so awful? How could they turn up, day after day, to do the unspeakable? And how could they return home in the evening, no words of shame or remorse tumbling out of their mouths? What did Samantha Lee do to deserve this? Was it just shit luck and chance? Everything bubbles up in me. I have to snatch it and squash it before it boils over.
I've read too much. I've seen too much. I'm in a strange daze, angry and bewildered. I don't know what to do with myself. I want to wash my shaking hands of all of this. I want to clear my head. I wish I could unknow all that I've learned. Exorcise my memory of all of these killers. I want to wring my heart dry of Samantha Lee. And Pansy Parkinson. Right now, I would tear it all out of me in a second. I would choose to forget. I would sleep in my safe and settled snowdome and I would close my window to Draco Malfoy.
I leave the library feeling exhausted, abandoning the messy stack on the desk. I squint in the sunlight and wonder where to go. After a whole morning of reading, I've collected more questions than answers. I decided to head back home by way of the bookstore. I look at my feet as I walk, my head circling and cycling dizzily through many avenues of thought. I feel like swimming. I want to dive straight into the river and ripple my body and have the heat of the afternoon sun on my skin. I imagine scrubbing myself with sand from the bottom. Then laying on the surface and floating downstream like a raft. Or a corpse.
As my mind wonders, I trip and stumble on a raised slab of pavement. I don't fall, but my recovery is not spectacular. I stumble like a duckling on ice. When I stabilise myself, I look up and see Primrose Parkinson outside the bookstore. She looks amused and concerned.
"Are you okay, Hermione?" My toe is throbbing but I stop and put my hands on my hips. I force a smile and hold out my hand, which must have ended up looking like some sort of strange leery wince, like I'm swallowing glass and I'm recommending it.
"Yeah, I'm fine. That didn't hurt at all, really. But those slabs are dangerous." Oh my God, I'm afraid to look down. I must have stubbed my foot clean off my leg. I hold my breath. I want to either die or cry or take to this footpath with a jackhammer. But she smiles. She looks a little bit like Audrey Hepburn.
"Well, you know, I'll let my father know. I'll make sure it's the first thing on the agenda at the Ministry's next meeting."
"Oh, no, it's fine. It's not a big deal at all," I blabber nervously.
"I'm joking, Hermione. Where is Neville? Is he playing Quidditch?"
"No, he got grounded. He's stuck at home."
Her eyes widen. "Really? What did he do? Is he in a lot of trouble?"
"It's just general stupidity, nothing bad." This conversation is clearly dying and I want to leave.
"What have you been doing in town?" She asks.
"Oh, nothing much," I say. "I was just at the library. Reading."
She nods. "At the library?"
I am momentarily confused. Primrose smiles. She's outwitting me. I need to lift my game. I can feel myself blush. I scuffed my heel. "Yeah, well, it's less suspicious than pretending to browse outside of a bookstore."
"What's that supposed to mean?" She shifts her weight onto one leg and tilts her head.
"Well, you know, it appears as though you're casually looking, but I know you're just reading for free. The jig is up."
She smiles and rolls her eyes. "Yeah, you caught me. Red-handed. You would make a fine detective, Hermione."
That comment catches me off guard. My head whirls and my toe throbs. I smile weakly, trying to stem my nausea. A dragonfly jets past my waist and I recoil like I've been shot. She raises her eyebrows.
"I have to get home, Hermione. I had to sneak out as it is."
"Okay," I nod excessively like a pigeon.
Primrose waves the short novel in her hands as she smooths her dress. "I just have to get this," she says quickly, and then she pauses and opens the door. "Would you like to walk home with me?" My mouth is open, I shrug and keep nodding. The small bell on the door chimes, shutting behind her. There is certainly not enough time for me to compose myself. I inwardly curse my decision to wear dirty clothes today.
I watch as Primrose walks back out her book in a brown paper bag. We set off. I'm shitting myself. What am I supposed to talk about? This is so awkward. My palms are sweating profusely. How do I make small talk with Primrose when her sister is missing and I know where she is because I hid her dead body in a forest pond? I'm panicking. I should be making small talk. I should be squaring my shoulders like Draco Malfoy. I scour my stupid empty head for witticisms and topics to discuss.
"What book did you buy?" I ask, nodding towards the brown paper bag.
Primrose proudly holds it up with two hands. "Breakfast at Tiffany's. I've seen the movie four times, but I've never read the book. I can't wait to read it. I wish I lived in Manhattan."
"So do I. Or maybe Brooklyn," I say.
"Well, I'll live in Manhattan and you can live in Brooklyn and we'll meet at the Plaza Hotel for high tea. And I'll wear a fox fur coat and penny loafers. And you can have a bright red dress and tall black high heels."
"Sounds like a dream."
We make our way down the pea gravel road towards her house. This is the older part of town, where enormous estates with manicured lawns and large trees out front are common. It is where old money, pureblood families live. It is eerily quiet today, though. Despite the fair weather, there are no kids playing in the street. There is no one around at all.
"Do you like Audrey Hepburn?" I ask.
"Oh yes, absolutely!" Primrose seems excited. "I think she's brilliant. And pretty. She's so dignified. Do you like her?"
"Are you joking? She's beautiful. Really beautiful, stunning. She's my favourite actress."
Primrose smiles, but the conversation fades quickly. We go quiet for a time. We round into Sullivan Street, which seems significantly busier. This street is home to the wealthiest of the wealthy. Malfoy Manor looms in the distance, colossal as ever, but its lawns are slightly less luscious than those of the neighbouring mansions.
"So you've probably heard, then," she says softly.
My stomach crunches and my body tenses. I'm not sure what to say. My breath stalls and that familiar dizziness returns. I want to run away.
"No, what?"
"My sister, she's gone missing. Since yesterday. We don't know where she is."
I stay quiet. We stop and duck under a tree a few houses away from the Parkinson estate. Primrose looks very small in the shade.
"My parents are going crazy. Well, my mother is. She hasn't stopped shaking and crying. My dad is just trying to be normal, which means stinking of alcohol and yelling a lot."
I can't speak. My mouth is too dry.
"People from the Ministry have been at my house all morning. That's why I had to sneak out. I hate them being."
"Do they…" I clear my throat. "Do they have any idea where she might be?" I ask.
"No," she says, and her tone is strange like she's describing someone else's family. There's no sign of panic. Neither of us can look at each other in the eyes. Primrose looks down. I look over her shoulder. "No, they don't have any idea, really. They're going to start searching soon. Sometime this afternoon. I think they're organising some people from the town to help as well, and there are special aurors coming from London."
"I'm so sorry, Primrose. This is terrible. You must be... Are you alright? Do you know where she might be?" I should place my hand on her shoulder or rub her back or say something comforting. But it would feel trite and stupid and dishonest because I know exactly where her sister is. Because Primrose Parkinson is hurting and I'm trying to cover my arse. I feel like such a phoney.
Before she can reply, a loud shriek cuts the street. It is Mrs. Parkinson, coursing this way, not quite running. Her face is red and her eyes are pink and puffy. She looks haggard and furious. I step back.
"What are you doing? She screams at Primrose and ducks into our umbrella of foliage. Her mouth is turned down sharply at the corner. Primrose remains passive and calm as her mother shakes her roughly by the shoulders, which has her head rocking wildly back and forth. Primrose looks so brittle, as though she might snap, but stands firm.
"What are you doing, you stupid girl? Where have you been? Why on earth would you leave the house without telling anyone? We've been looking everywhere for you, you stupid, stupid girl! What are you trying to do to me?" Primrose's mother is trembling with feeling and clearly attempting to smother her sobs. She keeps a grip on her daughter's shoulders. Primrose looks engulfed, like a sparrow caught by a bird of prey. Her voice is soft.
"I just came down the street for a while to see Hermione. I wasn't far away. I've been right here. I told Dad before I left."
"Don't tell me lies."
"I'm not," Primrose says plainly with a shrug. Her mother slaps her hard, just once, across the face. I feel ashamed and awkward. Primrose seems unmoved.
"Where did you get this then?" Mrs. Parkinson snatches the book from her hands and holds it close to her face. Primrose's composure is impressive.
"Hermione bought it for me. That's why we met up, because she wanted to give me a gift. That's all."
Primrose's mother glances at me for the first time, seething and suspicious. It's clear she thinks this is bullshit. My face is a mix of fear and earnest corroboration. "Well, I should think it's time for you to head home now, if you don't mind," she says to me tersely before grabbing Primrose by the arm and tugging sharply. I wait for her to sneer and call me Mudblood. Primrose turns and smiles thinly as she is led away.
"Bye, Hermione. Thank you for the book."
I watch Mrs. Parkinson huddle over and shake as they walk towards their home, sobbing into her hand. I notice the balance has shifted. Primrose is now leading her back. Her arm around her waist, leaning in.
I think about Primrose's manner. So dry and centred. So matter-of-fact amidst the panic. I watch them climbing the garden steps to their enormous front door. Someone is there to meet them with an outstretched hand and a look of concern. I shrink behind the branches and then, swift as a knife, it occurs to me. A rash of sparks cover my skin and my heart almost leaps from my chest. The brick slides
Primrose Parkinson knows something.
…
Before I can close the front door, my mother has slapped me. Hard and sharp, much like Mrs. Parkinson, but with considerably more venom. It stings for a long time. I touch my face, shocked. My mother calls out to my father. "It's her, Henry! It's okay." It is rare for my mother to slap me. It is even rarer for her to call my father Henry. I can only assume this means I am in trouble. As I walked down our deserted street, I hoped she might have forgotten my stealthy exit this morning. When she slaps me again, harder, I cry out in protest. The interrogation begins.
"What do you think you're doing? Where have you been?"
"At Neville's!" I yell at her and look away, scowling. I hope my eyes aren't glossy.
"Bullshit, Hermione. Don't lie to me." She slaps me again and shakes me by the shoulders.
"It's true! Stop!" It obviously isn't. I am a terrible liar.
"I was over there three hours ago looking for you. You're lying. Where did you go? Where have you been?"
"I just went to the library. Calm down. I'm sorry."
"I told you not to leave this street. I told you not to leave this house. It's dangerous out there, Hermione! Do you know that there is a kidnapper on the streets and you're walking out like you're Lady of the Manor? Who do you think you are?" She's in for a shock if she ever finds out about Voldemort.
"What?"
"A girl is missing, Hermione. Pansy Parkinson. She has gone missing. Do you understand that?"
"Missing or abducted?" I ask. I want to know what she's heard.
"Don't answer back!" She snarls. "Go to your room and stay there."
"I can't!" I protest.
"What?"
"I can't! There's a wasp in there! That's why I didn't get changed before."
"I don't care."
"Yes, well, that is becoming increasingly more apparent."
"Excuse me?"
I march off before she can reply and close my bedroom door behind me. I don't know what's wrong with me. I just swore in front of my mother. That is as close to hara kiri is you can get without a sword. I slammed the door and chock it with a thin Penguin paperback before she can burst in and thrash me to death. She's hollering from the other side. My immediate concern is the wasp that may or may not be trapped in here. I scan the walls and the ceiling. I snatch a book from my bed and retreat into a corner. I wonder what Draco Malfoy would think of me right now. He would probably smack me and shake his head and call me a fucking coward. I'm hot with anger and shame.
The yelling ends. Book poised; I searched every inch of my bedroom. It seems, miraculously, that the wasp is gone for now, but elsewhere I have shaken up a whole hive of problems. My mother bursts through the door like she's the Gestapo. The little paperback skids across the floor. She glares at me and issues a beckoning finger like an angry coat hook. She's holding a shovel. I don't know why. I hope it is not a weapon.
"Come with me," she says. I don't argue.
I follow her outside. It's the middle of the afternoon and it is unbearably hot. I squint through the glare. I stand motionless as she aims and stamps the spade tip repeatedly into the ground with purpose, like she's chasing something she wants to kill. I cock my head when she stops.
She's poked the outline of a circle into the ground, roughly the diameter of my arm span. I frown. My mother thrusts the shovel at me. I take it.
"What's this?" I ask.
"A shovel," she says shortly. I can't place her tone. I can't tell if she's hurt or angry or pleased with herself. Maybe she's all three.
"I know that," I say.
"Well, start digging, then. Right here," she thrusts a finger at her circular markings.
"What? Why?" I ask. I'm genuinely confused.
"You will find out later. When it's deep enough, you can stop."
I shake my head. "Absolutely not. It's too hot out here."
Her nostrils flare. Her finger lifts and jabs at my chest. "Hermione, I'm not going to tell you again. You will keep digging this hole until it is deep enough. If you do not, you will spend the rest of the summer in your bedroom. Wasps or no wasps, do you understand? And I will take your books away. Every single one of them. Those are your choices."
"How is that fair? This is ridiculous."
"I'm not here to be fair, I'm here to teach you how to do what you're told." She starts to move back towards the house. She knows she's one. She always wins.
I grip the shovel limply and stare at this patch of ground like it has betrayed me. Like it's the portal to hell itself. I'm slicing clean through her neck. I'm sweating already. Flies are hovering around me like I'm the Holy Grail, and I spasm in fright when I feel them land on me. I stab, lever, and lift. I am cursing my mother in the dirtiest language I can think of. This is a whole new degree of vindictiveness. Maybe when I finish this hole I can throw her in it. The work is made a little easier by my anger, if anything. It's cathartic for a short while, but this only lasts until the sandy top layer of the earth melts into a dense clay and a blister forms on the webbing of my palm. I remove my sweaty flannel overshirt and discard it on the ground. I kick some clay on top of it, knowing who is going to wash it. I am thirsty. I am dying. I'm so bloody hot I feel like I'm digging my own grave.
I try to think of what purpose this hole could possibly serve. I am hoping, maybe because I am roasting out here, that it is to accommodate some breed of shady tree. Like an oak tree or an enormous mulberry tree. Something to read underneath, that would be nice. I think of Draco and I standing in the shade. His pleasantly musky smell. His sad grey eyes. The strange, absent way he looks at the ground when he talks about things that upset him. I wish I could have held his hand or brushed his cheek. I wish I could have told him everything was going to be okay.
But Pansy Parkinson is dead. I know that. We cut her down, then we threw her in the water. And now they're looking for her, and when they find her, they'll come for us. I wish I had asked Primrose more. I have so many questions. She may not know what I know, but I think she has something up her sleeve. Does she suspect anybody? Does she know about Pansy and Draco? How close they were? Does she know about Draco's grove? Does she know Pansy used steal away there in the dark? Surely not, but maybe.
Primrose Parkinson holds the pages of the book that lead to that horrible end. Or at least some of them. But how do I pry them out of our fingers? I have to see her again, and soon. So I can get something to Draco when he comes to my window. So that we can clean up this mess. My blister bursts. I suck in air through my teeth and I look down to see a copper coloured centipede close to my foot. It is huge. It is big as a python, surely. Does it eat bats? It could devour a cat easily. Maybe even a small child. I gasp and drop the spade and run to the fence.
Of course it's at this point when my mother emerges from the house again, like an angry outlaw exiting a saloon. Our door collapses against the side of the house, then slams back into place. She looks sharply from the hole to me.
"I don't remember telling you to stop. Keep digging," she says sternly.
"I have a blister."
"And I have a lazy daughter who doesn't listen to me. Both of them are painful. I'll give you some of that Dittany stuff when you're done. Come on, dig. Is that your shirt? Get it out of the dirt. Now! Show some respect for your things."
Walking back to the whole, I smirk inwardly at having pissed her off, but it's a fleeting comfort. I take up the shovel and hold it aloft like a spear, but the centipede has disappeared. It's worse when I can't see it, and I know it's there. It's probably lurking underground, waiting to strike like some maniacal alien tentacle. My spine is tingling.
"Dig!" my mother yells, and so I do.
My mother has become so hard. It is perplexing. She's always been a curt and impatient woman. But there used to be warmth beneath it all. Maybe she's finally fed up. It's crystal clear to everyone except my father that she hates Wiltshire. I suspect she always has. Of course, I can only speculate, but the fact that my parents were married and moved here six months before I was born suggests that maybe they were shamed into eloping and alighting someplace far from the city. Maybe this is the only place my father could set up his practice. Maybe it was a sense of adventure. A fresh start in a rural town. It seems unlikely.
See, my mother comes from old money. And I've gathered from overhearing various snide comments that she was expected to marry into more of it. But my father comes from no money at all. My grandfather was a labourer who died early. From what I've pieced together, my dad's older brothers were forced to leave school to keep them in food and clothes. As the youngest by far, it was easy for my dad. He was able to stay in school where he excelled. They were all convinced he would become a successful businessman. They wanted him to have opportunities that they never had. And so I think it kind of disappointed everybody when he announced he was going to become a dentist.
My parents met at university. It's hard to think of them as young people with healthy hair and shiny skin. It's even harder to imagine them in love on the banks of the river, excited to be with each other. I wonder if my dad had intended to be a dentist back then, and if that's what drew my mother to him. I don't know. But he was a long way removed from what she had grown up with. When she fell pregnant with me, there was just enough time for them to elope and finish their degrees before the bump was too pronounced. And twenty-three years later, a full cave of bats could see that she is bitterly unhappy here. That she's dissatisfied with her lot in her plot. After my baby brother died, I think she gave up for a while. I think it was a sense of resignation that she played out a role for herself. She started working overtime at the dental clinic. She hosted fundraisers and charity events. She ticked all the community boxes but now she's just angry. The varnish is tarnished, she can't be bothered touching up the gloss. She's at the end of her tether.
Recently she's taken to visiting her family more and more often, particularly over this summer. Before, she might have gone to the city once or twice a year for an extended stay, but she has started taking more frequent weekend and overnight trips, and she rarely even announces that she's leaving. She just makes sure my father and I have meals in the fridge and leaves without fanfare, like she's off to the butcher.
And it used to be that she would go away and come back refreshed. She'd be lighter on her feet. She bring gifts and gossip. Her mood would have lifted and she'd be less stern with me and kinder to my father. But now when she arrives back home, she's still bitter irritable, as though she's being led back to her cell after foiled escape. And it occurred to me that one day she might not come back at all. She might simply refuse. I know her family pressures her. They coddle her with self-serving concern. They constantly remind her of all the things she's missing. The things they feel she deserves. I don't really blame her for being seduced by it. It's what she grew up with. It's right up here, the surface of who she is. The girl who always got what she wanted. But I do blame her for feeling ashamed of us. I get the feeling that every time she returns these days, she doesn't think we're good enough. And I can't accept that. My father is infuriating sometimes, but he's a good and honest person. I know how other fathers treat their children, and I know I've been lucky. And as for me coming along when I did, I had no choice. I was time and chance. I was shit luck. But I didn't do anything wrong.
I pause and wipe my brow and sweat lacquers my hand. I could lick it, I'm so thirsty. What is this bloody hole for? A koi pond? A bomb shelter? I am hot and filthy and fed up. The clay is hard and dense and heavy. The clumps of dirt to my right have attracted a brazen pair of crows who I welcome with relief. They sift through the mound of earth and feast on insects. I pause to watch one glug down an earthworm.
"You're welcome," I say. It holds its head, regarding me with what feels like pity. Its friend suddenly flutters away. It lands in a nearby tree and caws at my misfortune.
"Your friend is an ungrateful bastard," I growl. It looks at me shrewdly and then seems to shrug. I shake my head and keep levering up half spades of caramel clay. What strikes me is the silence of the street. Usually it would be humming, but it's quiet as a church out there. In a few hours I've dug to the depths of my thighs. My broken blister is beyond pain now. This surely can't go on for much longer. This is like Dickens or something. Surely the Geneva Convention protects me from having to dig anymore. I keep going.
I think about that killer I read about today. He just wanted to hurt somebody. It sounds so vengeful. Was that really it? Was he out there laying into some kind of version of his father? Was he fighting back through other means? Why would he prey on women then? Why would he make victims of the innocent, like his father had done to him? It makes no sense. So maybe he was looking for the power that he wanted. After a life being force-fed shit, of beatings and being neglected, he wanted to turn it all around. Maybe he wanted to become his father, to swap roles, to finally be on top. He wanted people at his mercy. He wanted to hurt them, just like he'd been hurt. Maybe he wanted a whole city to know that feeling. Could that really be it? Could that be the same as Mad Marius Stygian?
Pansy Parkinson is dead. Someone killed her. That's all I know for certain. I need to see Draco Malfoy. I need to see Primrose Parkinson. I need to know more about Mad Marius. I need to know more about Pansy, about Wiltshire. About the things that make people do what they do. I need to narrow things down. Until then, I'm a whirring zoetrope of half-thoughts and worries. Beset by bright dizzy flashes and harried by harpies.
I start to dig like it means something. I try to lose myself in the task. I don't want to think anymore. It feels like there's a torniquet it around my head. I never asked for this. It's twilight and I am up to my ribs and I feel as though I have acid coursing through my veins. As soon as I lay down my spade, I feel stiff and exhausted. I lean on the wall of the house and inspect my palm. My hands are grubby but I have nothing to clean them with.
As though she has sensed my lack of activity, I hear my mother burst out the back door in stride towards me. I don't turn around. She stands at the edge of the hole in front of me. She's grudgingly admiring my craftsmanship. I'm waiting to hear the reason for which I've been toiling in soil all afternoon. I look at the mountain of dirt to my right and can't help but feel a little proud of my work. There's a small blush of real achievement and there is another part of me that craves her approval. I want her to admit that this is a bloody excellent hole. I want her to recognise my effort. To tell me I'm doing a fine job, that it's perfect for its purpose. But I'm not going to ask what that is. I keep my head bowed, inspecting my palm. It probably looks insolent. I don't care.
"Right, Hermione," she says in a tone that is stone, "You can stop digging." I remain silent but look up as she points to the mound of dirt. "Now fill it in."
It takes me a moment. She starts to walk away. I look in horror at the dirt pile, then I wheel around.
"What?!"
"Fill it back in," she says with her back to me.
"What do you mean fill it back in?" I yell, and I feel a fullness in my throat and heat on my face. She turns around. I can see that she's pleased with herself. She suddenly looks like her father, like a haughty marmot.
"I mean, fill this whole back in with that dirt, Hermione. You're not leaving it like that. I don't want a dirty, great big hole in my backyard. It won't take long. Hose yourself down before you come inside, please."
I am furious. I shake my head. "No," I say firmly.
"Excuse me?" Her eyes widen. "What did you say?"
"I said no, this is ridiculous, I'm exhausted, I'm not filling it in. If you didn't want the hole, you shouldn't have asked for one."
"You want a purpose for this hole? Why don't you drop your attitude in there and bury it? What's it going to be? It's your choice, Hermione."
That's not a choice. That's like holding a turd in either hand and asking me to eat one on the right or the left. I turn my back on her. I don't want to give her satisfaction of an answer. Nor do I want her to look at the salt glaze filling my eyes. When I think she's gone, I clamber out slowly and sniff. With heavy cotton legs, I glower and scrape the earth back in. Cursing her under my breath, muttering that I might like to bury her in there.
Of course, the woman hasn't left yet. She has heard every word of vitriol. I realise this when she clamps a hand on the back of my neck and squeezes like she's trying to snatch one of my vertebrae. Her nails are like razors. She hisses into my ear, "Fill. It. In." and marches back into the house with the spade.
It's almost dark when my father slopes into our backyard. I've almost finished. I'm covered in dirt and so exhausted that I can't stifle a groan every time I doze more earth with my palm.
"Okay, that's enough, Hermione. Come on."
I don't look up. I keep working to display my anger.
"Hermione, did you hear me? Come on, I said stop. W will clear this up later."
I want to keep going but I can't. I rest on my knees.
"What on earth is going on with you?" he asks.
I am immediately defensive. "What? Nothing. I don't know, why?"
"Well," he says with endless patience, "because you're a smart and reasonable girl."
"Not really a girl. I'm twenty-three," I interrupt. I'm not sure why.
"Well, okay, exactly. Even so, I've never heard you swear. Least of all at your mother. You've never disobeyed a strict instruction. Hermione, it's unusual, isn't it?" I want him to keep talking to me like this. Like a contemporary, a colleague. Like I'm smart enough to keep up with him. "Listen Hermione," he goes on. "If you needed to go into town today, you should have just told us, okay? You would have saved a lot of grief. Particularly for you, by the looks." He gestures swords the damned hole.
"It's not that! I—", I stop myself. The urge is there to tell him everything. To let him take care of it. But I shake my head quickly. "Forget it."
"Your mother is worried, Hermione, and you can't blame her. We both are. Something very unsettling has happened. You heard about Pansy Parkinson. Nobody is quite sure what is going on here. So in the meantime, we're trying to do the right thing by keeping you as safe as we can. It's most likely nothing. I certainly hope so. But can you see why we might want to be careful just now?"
Why does he have to be so sensible? Why does he have to phrase things so well? He could have been a lawyer like Atticus Finch, but that would mean he'd need a backbone. I looked down. That's not all fair. I don't care. I'm angry and sour. He kneels and sighs.
"The world seems to be shifting, darling. It's different to when I grew up. It's really starting to change, even here. Even to magic people."
"You're right about that," I say bitterly.
"A lot of people are scared, especially right now with Pansy missing. There's a lot going on."
It's rare for him to talk to me like this. The last time was when he offered me the golden ticket to his library. I feel awkward and a little exhilarated. I'm not sure how I should respond, so I nod.
"Anyway," he says, hoisting himself up, his knees crying. "Your mother has just declared that you are to go without dinner this evening and she will be alerting you to this as soon as you get inside. But what I suggest you do instead of arguing, is to nod and take it on the chin, alright? It's her trivia night tonight so you can have something to eat when she leaves. I think you've been punished enough."
"You sure? I mean, I can build you a shed right here up on this mound if you want."
To my surprise, he laughs. "You're just like your mother, Hermione."
"Rubbish," I say. "Don't tell me that."
He chuckles again. "She does a lot for you, you know." I stand up and spank the dirt from my shorts. He breathes out through his nose and keeps his big doe eyes on me in a way that makes me feel childish and uncomfortable. "Listen, she just wants to feel as though she's respected. I know you've grown up, Hermione, but she's still your mother. She wants the best for you. But if you still have a problem with something, there are smarter ways around it. You just have to be a bit more canny. More diplomatic. Believe me, my girl, it will be foolish to try lock horns with her. Do you understand?"
"I guess," I admit sullenly.
"Concession doesn't necessarily mean defeat, Hermione."
"Who said that?"
He smiles. "I did."
We sit on the grass in the fading lilac light.
"Where have you been this afternoon, anyway?" I ask.
He raises his eyebrows. "Actually, I've been at the town hall helping organise the search. They started just after lunch." My chest tightens and I feel goosebumps bristle my neck. This is my first real opportunity to get some answers.
"Really? What do they think? Where is she? Do they know where are they looking? What are they doing?"
"Well, these things start small, darling. And then the arc widens. The longer she's missing, the harder they will search. For now though, the best thing to do is keep calm and look in the likely areas."
"What likely areas?" I ask.
"Like along the river, the immediate surrounds. And I'd imagine her family and friends being interviewed. Then they'll starter piece together an idea of what may have happened. I have a feeling she's probably turn up in the next few days. I hope so."
"What if she doesn't?" It feels dangerous to be asking these questions. There's a woodpecker tapping at my sternum. But my father feels my concern and interprets it as sincere worry for Pansy's wellbeing.
"Then the arc will widen. They have spotters on… brooms, on standby for tomorrow. Also, they have requested special aurors from the city to search the river, but I hope to Christ that won't be necessary. I'm not sure how this magic stuff works, but it seems intense. Volunteers, Muggles like me, will probably keep pressing further into the forest, and there will be town meetings to gather support and information. Every day that she is missing, the efforts will get more desperate."
But what if they still can't find her? What if she still missing? They can't look forever, can they? What if they find Draco's clearing and the pond? How clear are the clues? Would they send a diver to the murky bottom? Could they really find her? Well, no, of course they can't.
"There's only so long these resources are available."
"How long?"
"I really don't know, darling," he says. My interest has not around suspicion. He doesn't narrow his eyes. He doesn't ask me questions.
"Okay," I say. He places a hand on my shoulder and then thumbs my temple. He gives me a reassuring smile.
"Listen, as I say, it probably won't come to all that. She'll turn up soon. My guess is that she's staying with a friend or that she's run away from home. Something like that. Don't get too worked up, Hermione. People disappear, reappear all the time elsewhere. But in Wiltshire events like these get amplified simply because everybody knows everybody. Because the town is so small. Do you know Pansy well?" he asks.
"No, not really. I know her sister though. Primrose."
"Right, I don't know Primrose. But Pansy has been a patient of mine for a couple of years now. She's a quiet girl, very smart, very independent. But as I told these people today, there is something about her that seems troubled and volatile. I don't know her as well as I know some of my other patients. But packing up and getting out of here sounds like something she would do."
"Really?"
"It's what I suspect, Hermione. I'm not sure what their household is like. I don't pretend to know what happens under their roof. I mean, it's not fair for me to speculate as to why she would want to get up and leave. But I do feel like there's a streak in her character that could lead her to do something like that. To leave without telling anybody. They will probably pick her up someplace close, or she'll be in contact with her money runs out."
"You think so?" I ask.
"I really think it's most likely, yes."
"Is it just you who thinks this way?"
"Everyone has the same end in sight, Hermione. Everyone wants her home safe, but they have to be open to all of the possibilities."
"Like kidnapping? Or murder?" I blurt and then I freeze like I've been caught out, like I'm holding her under the arms and staring into a spotlight. I'm terrified. I hold my breath.
My father sighs and tilt his head. He speaks softly. "I suppose that is a possibility, love, but it's a very small one."
"Really? Then why would everyone be staying inside? Why aren't any kids playing on the street?"
His mouth opens and closes again. I've got him. "I said it's unlikely, but it's not impossible." He pauses, choosing his words carefully. With things like this, when people don't really understand what has happened, they will assume the worst long before they have to. It's a little like when people are afraid of the dark. Often it's not the darkness they are afraid of, it's the fact that they don't know what's in it, and because they can't see – because they're not sure – they start to imagine there are more sinister things afoot than there ordinarily would be."
That makes sense. I think so.
"I'm trying to show you how quickly reason can be put aside. Once things like panic and fear start to fester, especially in a town like this, where people gossip like they're spies. So for now, don't worry too much about Pansy, she'll turn up."
I look at my filthy feet. It's her turning up that worries me. I give a short involuntary shrug. I need to hide, to go soak in a cloak of furiously hot water. I want to scrub the skin off my body. I must look impatient, because my dad takes my arm and leads me inside.
"Remember," he says, "no dinner for now, and just take it on the chin. And tell her you're sorry. See how much easier life can be if you just give in to her a little."
Later, after our front door is closed behind my mother and her friend Beverly, who has come to pick her up for trivia night, my father oversees my construction of a sandwich.
"Make sure you leave everything as you found it," he warns. "And don't cut too much off that loaf, or she'll find out and I'll be the one digging a hole, for both of our bodies."
"It's a grave matter," I say, and shake my head slowly and theatrically. My mood is considerably less shitty since I've bathed and she's left.
"And I'm dead serious." He smiles. The kettle whistles on the stovetop, and he kisses his mug to it. He makes me a coffee with plenty of cream. I press my sandwich so hard that the red onion relish bleeds out the side. At least the work today has blessed me with hunger. As we both walk off to our rooms, I stop just before he heads into his office.
"Are you writing in there? I mean, a book."
He pauses, startled. He regards me quizzically. "Why do you ask?"
"I don't know. I just thought that maybe that's what you were doing in there."
He shifts his weight back as the answers turn in his head, surveying his library. "No, no. I mostly read in here, Hermione. I do all of my accounting for the practice as well. That's how I spend my time. Best leave the novel-writing to the novelists, I think."
"You're probably right," I say, looking away quietly. We both shuffle away and close our doors. I sigh heavily and set my plate down on my desk and think about the way he flinched and looked away when I asked, and I wonder why he lied.
…
Draco Malfoy has not come to my window. I've been waiting here for hours now, and even removed the screen from its frame for a quick exit. But all I've done is offered entry to a plethora of insects who busy themselves around my lamp. I tried to swat at them to no avail. Then I try to mash them between two books, which I clap together like cymbals.
Draco Malfoy is not here, and I need him to be. I wonder where he is. I wonder how he's doing. If he's laying low or if he's out investigating. I wonder how close he is to finding an answer. I hope he hasn't been back to his clearing. What if they followed him there? What if they were looking for him?
I reckon he's more cautious than that. I figured it's probably caution that has him kept out of my back yard. Things need to settle down before we meet again, before we really begin to sleuth for the truth. Even so, I could do with a reassuring dose of his company, so I don't feel so alone in this. I'm tired, but I'm restless. The night is breezeless and balmy.
I crawl out through my window just to see if Draco might be lying in wait for the rest of our lights to blink out. I stand in our backyard. It's absurdly quiet. I think of the search parties, whether they've retired for the night, or if they're pushing through the forests, wielding torches and wands, yelling out Pansy's name. I turn down the side of our house. My father's library light casts a hazy yellow rhombus. I feel a little piqued. Hurt, because he confided in me so recently and then drew a curtain across it.
A cruel part of me wants to sneak up to that window and peer in. To peel back the curtain like a magician unveiling a trick. I want to catch him in the act, reveal the lie. Maybe I should start another novel, a less ridiculous one. Prove to him that I'm smart enough. I could write about Draco Malfoy and it could stand alone as he does; shoulders squared, spine straight. And I could throw it on my father's desk one day after it's been published and he still has no idea. Casually, like it's nothing. And I'll tell him that life might be easy if you give in a little, but it's better if you hold on to something so hard you can't give it up.
A car pulls abruptly outside our house. I press myself against the bricks beneath my window. It's not Beverly's car. Perhaps it's the police. The Ministry. Maybe they're waiting for Draco. A stakeout. Maybe they have come to get me for questioning. The Ford sits and idles for an eternity, then finally my mother emerges, laughing. It's a strange sight. I think maybe she's drunk. She leans back in. It looks like she's rummaging for something. Then she slams the door and waves, retreating slowly. The car departs with her smile. When she turns to walk back inside, her face is as blank as when she left.
Back in my room my eyes are heavy and my body feels beaten. Despite the insects and the heat, and my desire to wait for Draco, I begin to slip away with Mark Twain spread on my chest. I don't protest. I let go of consciousness easily.
I am back in the dappled Mulberry shade with Draco Malfoy. With all the right words on the tip of my tongue. Saying all the things I could have said, doing all the things I should have done.