Chapter III
A Friend in Need
Rapunzel hadn't met with Mr. Lowe again for several weeks.
Neither had she been able to find a way of finding another owl to send her response of acceptance to her Hogwarts letter, for the letter had been found by her cousin. (All the times her relatives had invaded that space and missed that spot and now he had to go and find it.) Uncle Vernon had burnt the letter before her eyes, a sneering expression on his face.
She didn't cry, though (at least not over that.) Somehow she felt as though Mr. Lowe was looking out for her; that he'd be able to step in and help her. Although he didn't know her living conditions, her daily attire (and likely, in some ways, her demeanour) should have told him more than enough to get her away from Privet Drive.
For the last six weeks she had been confined to her cupboard. Perhaps 'imprisoned' was a better word, but, owing to the fact that she lived there, she preferred to think of it as 'confinement.'
Anything that had been in that cupboard had been removed, leaving only her; not even the family of spiders for company and, with it, the stories she had planned to write about them — Arachne in the UK, she might have called it.
Nothing to read, nothing to write and no school to attend, her listless days were endless. She'd even hoped her Aunt or Uncle might throw the door open and bark orders at her to clean something or pull the weeds up, but they didn't even do that. They'd clearly rather fulfil their household tasks themselves than permit their niece some leeway from her punishment.
There wasn't much concept of time or space in that cupboard and she hadn't left it since the Twenty-Third of June.
The Dursleys would unlock the door, yank it open, all but throw a slice of dry bread at her, along with a small glass of water, slam the door shut and lock it again; every day the same. Only once a week would they empty the tin bucket in the far corner Aunt Petunia had provided for use as a toilet.
So dark, damp, and utterly disgusting was her environment, Rapunzel felt as though she was starting to go crazy.
She spent most of her time crying, hoping for change; wanting Mr. Lowe to help, though he never came.
She'd wondered if he thought about her at all. Did he miss her? She should have been at school until everyone finished in mid-to-late July, but the Dursleys had made up some cock-and-bull story to get her out of attending her last couple of weeks of primary school education. They'd love to see the reactions from the school board when they discovered the child was so positively awful that she had barely scraped an education past Reception level.
"Where are you, Mr. Lowe?" she wept, through a hoarse throat. "Why won't you help me?"
It was mid-August by the time she was finally pulled from the cupboard and shoved through the front door. They clearly didn't want her living there, so why did they lock her in there for weeks on end only to toss her out with the rest of the rubbish? She doubted she'd ever know.
Of course, they expected her to be back by eight o'clock, if only to lock her back in the cupboard until morning.
She didn't know what day it was or whether it was even day in that cupboard. Her usual (as normal as could be expected) patterns and habits had been completely thrown off-kilter.
Wandering aimlessly down Privet Drive and Magnolia Crescent, without any comprehension of where she were heading (for she hadn't seen any semblance of natural light for the last seven weeks) she wound up on Wisteria Walk, which was probably just as well.
Standing on his front lawn watering his plants was her now-old Headteacher, Alan Lowe.
He didn't have the usual flowers and bushes his neighbours did, or any generic garden decorations, be they plastic pink flamingos or garden gnomes with fishing rods. No, some of his flowers and bushes tended to act a little strangely around certain types of people (though, more likely now, anyone who wasn't himself or Rapunzel Potter.)
Whistling a jovial tune, he looked up from an ordinary bed of tulips to survey the street, his eyes falling on poor Mr. Smethurst across the way, who had just been taken hostage by his own sun lounger. Guiltily, Alan allowed himself a chuckle, biting his bottom lip in a vain attempt to disguise his amusement.
Next to the Smethurst home, Mr. Golding was still organising his new rockery, though was evidently none-too-pleased with the current arrangement.
"A little to the left, Ben?" Alan suggested, pulling the hose away from his flowers.
At this, Mr. Golding (perhaps more appropriately named 'Ben') needed only to move one rock. "Cheers, Al! Maybe the wife'll stop complaining now."
"I heard that!" a female voice exclaimed, irate before she'd scarcely stepped over the threshold, brandishing one of the gaudy pink flamingos.
Alan looked on in horror. Surely she didn't plan to plague the lovely new rock garden with that.
To his great relief, she didn't, though she did bonk Ben on the head with it… before digging a small hole and standing it up in among the small pebbles. Its stance suggested she was planning to use it as some sort of burglar deterrent.
It was Ben's turn to adorn the expression of horror. "Well, you're not gonna leave it there, are you?" He looked positively mortified.
"Yes, I bloody well am!"
With that, she stalked into the house, and, standing on the doorstep, rapidly spun on her heel. "Oh, and while you're at it," she continued, pointing to Mr. Smethurst who was still sandwiched into his sun lounger, "do help Gerald, won't you? He'll be lucky if he gets out of there before Christmas." With a slam of the door, she was gone.
Pitifully, Ben looked down at the plastic bird, before returning his attention to Alan.
Even if Alan wasn't expecting an explanation, he'd be getting one anyway. "It was a gift from her mother. Beryl's got it into her head that they're breeding, so she's started giving them to anyone who'll have them."
"You can choose your friends," Alan sighed, stifling what appeared to be a laugh.
"But you can't choose your family," Ben finished. "I know, Alan. I've heard it all before." Pitifully looking down at his briefly-pleasant rockery, he sighed himself. (There was no way Angie would let him shift that obnoxious thing for love nor money.) "Anyway, see you later, Alan. Perhaps at the barbeque next Saturday? We'll go to the Legion in the morning. Make a day of it, eh?"
"'Course," Alan smiled, as he offered his dejected friend a cheery salute, before Ben abandoned the garden for his front door. Sometimes, despite the existence of magic within him, it was nice to just be considered 'normal' for once; do the same as those without such abilities — be 'one of the lads.'
So distracted had he been, he hadn't even realised his hosepipe (which was not planning to grow any of his plants) was trying to grow him. With wet feet, he winced, turned off his hose and squelched to his own doorstep.
"I always said shoes are overrated," he grumbled, removing them (and his socks) before returning to the task at hand.
He'd barely made a grab for his hosepipe before he heard a door slam and looked up to see Ben lying on his own garden path, sprawled out like a starfish. It looked like Ben had to help Gerald before he was allowed in the house.
Any smile Alan had on his face in that moment, however, faded when he saw the figure of a thin, unkempt being approaching; a being more like a street urchin than anything else.
Spindly limbs, threadbare clothes caked with all manner of things Alan would rather not have guessed what they were, tangled, matted hair, pale skin, sunken-in eyes darkened by shadows… the being's eyes were green — watery and somewhat reminiscent of death, but green nonetheless.
"Rapunzel?" he whispered, jogging over to the creature (obviously not a creature at all.) "Rapunzel?"
She wasn't very responsive.
"Rapunzel, can you hear me?" He was standing in front of her, though she didn't appear to have seen him; instead staring straight ahead. "What—?" Alan didn't know what to think.
Gently, he took her hand, expecting her to fight him off, though she gave no reaction, and led her into his own home.
Lying her down on the sofa and, snatching his wand from the coffee table, he conjured a glass and cast a rapid "Aguamenti. Drink it, Rapunzel."
She wasn't unconscious, though it may have been more of a blessing if she were, as Alan lifted her head as best as he could in an attempt to rehydrate her.
"What happened? Where have you been?" His voice was filled with concern. He'd tried contacting every doctors' surgery and local hospital he could think of, but she hadn't been reported as having been checked in or discharged from any of them (contrary to what the secretary had told him regarding the Dursleys' phone calls.)
"Why didn't you come?" she asked, weakly, her throat thick with unshed tears. "Why didn't you come?"
It was enough to break the man's heart. If it were any other child in her class, he might have assumed they'd been reading Goodnight, Mr. Tom too much, but not Rapunzel. It was evident to Alan that there had been something going on with that girl for years.
"Hey," he soothed, tenderly running his hand over her dirty head. "I'm sorry. I didn't know where you were. I'm here now. No one you can hurt you here."
Looking somewhat pale, Rapunzel shot up in shock, only to vomit all over herself… and Alan's tasteful sofa. "I'm so sorry," she wept.
"Oh, don't worry about that," he said, muttering a cleaning spell, as the undesirable substance vanished into thin air. "I'll get you back on your feet. You'll be as good as new by Wednesday."
He didn't like to leave her, but, after settling her, hopefully somewhat comfortably, he aimed for the stairs to run the bath.
Rapunzel was back in Mr. Lowe's living room, nursing a mug of hot chocolate and, thankfully, dressed a little more appropriately after the man in question had transfigured some of his own clothes into attire fit for a ten-year-old girl.
He sat at her side, gently untangling her matted curls with a plastic comb.
"You'd be a wonderful father," she said, still in a rather emotional state.
For a moment, he stopped as though he were a deer caught in the headlights. "Thank you," he said after a moment's hesitation, before resuming his task.
"What's the date, Mr. Lowe?"
"Twelfth of August, honey," he replied. Normally, he wouldn't use terms of endearment on his pupils, but Rapunzel was both different from the other children and also no longer his student.
"I'm not going to Hogwarts," she said, somewhat sadly.
"Of course you are," he said, attempting a laugh. "You were so excited last—"
But 'last' what? Not last week; not last month. Fifty days had passed since they last saw one another.
"I lost my list. I don't have the letter anymore."
It seemed unlikely that such a child might lose something. She was always so organised in the classroom. How could she lose her acceptance letter and supply list?
"Well," he said, followed by a sigh, "it's just as well I sent your response myself then, isn't it?"
Rapunzel was shocked, as she stared, wide-eyed at him. "You did?"
"I did. I said to Orela; I said 'Orela, kindly send this to Professor McGonagall and try not to bite her this time.'" With a smile, he continued with a whisper, as though such information was a precious secret never to be shared with anybody. "I also requested another supply list — just on the off-chance — and the key to your vault, which is in that drawer."
Mr. Lowe indicated to the drawer in question, though Rapunzel had lost herself along the way. "Vault?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mention that, did I? Your bank vault. The bank, Gringotts' — it's where all your valuables are stored."
Rapunzel couldn't imagine herself possessing any real valuables, not least of all a mass of them all in one place; whatever they happened to be.
So, all told, it didn't matter that the Dursleys had burned her acceptance letter or locked her in the cupboard. Mr. Lowe really was on her side, as she hoped he would be. He'd done what she hadn't been able to.
"Thank you, Mr. Lowe," she smiled, her thoroughly grateful expression marred by tears. With that, ever-so-cautiously, she reached out two shaking arms with the intent to embrace him, hoping among hope that he'd not push her away or yell and scream the way the Dursleys had done over the years when she'd begged for forgiveness, even for something she couldn't recall having done.
It was, perhaps, a little awkward (for both of them) but not altogether unpleasant. In fact, the child felt quite comfortable there, even if he had been her teacher. Still, he wasn't now, and somehow that thought was a little more comforting.
Neither party knew how long they had stayed there, but Rapunzel had fallen asleep; likely from exhaustion, though she did have to try and regain some form of routine once more if she was to attend Hogwarts after all.
As she slept, drooling a little onto his T-shirt, Alan simply stared out of the window, occasionally looking down at the child in his arms.
"I'm sorry I never came for you," he said, though she couldn't hear him. It wasn't something you ever expected to see — a child walking down the street in such a state.
Of course he was apologetic for his negligence, but he had still tried and was rather persistent about it.
"Merlin forgive me if I ignore you again," he whispered, running his fingers through her now-clean hair.
As he looked at the girl, a ripple of sorrow overcame him.
Whatever was really happening behind closed doors should never happen to anyone, let alone a child, but he couldn't bear the thought if it had been—
No, he'd just as soon not think of that if he could help it, for such memories were quite painful.
As the child stirred beside him, he dabbed at his left eye, and managed to crack a smile, if only for Rapunzel herself.
"Hi, sleepyhead."
"What time is it?" she asked, groggily.
"Seven-thirty, sweetheart."
"Seven-thirty," she repeated, fighting the urge to doze off once more. "Seven-thirty… Seven-thirty?" Realisation had finally struck, it seemed. "I have to go."
In a flash, she was on her feet and ready to bolt for the front door, though the coffee table soon put a stop to that.
"I'm not sure you meant to do that," Alan said, as she picked herself up off the floor.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Lowe. I really have to go," she said, almost pleadingly, as she backed out of his house, never taking her eyes off him.
"At least eat something, won't you, Rapunzel? I'll make you a sandwich."
"I'm fine, Mr. Lowe. Really. I just have to go. I'll see you again tomorrow?"
"I'll see you tomorrow. And, please, call me Alan. You're not one of my pupils anymore. You can call me Alan."
"Okay, Mr. Lowe." If she had been listening she hadn't been listening very well. "I'll see you tomorrow. Bye."
Before he could blink, she was gone.
Stepping out onto his front garden, he watched her hurry down the street. He hoped she made it home safely.
"Who's that little one, Al?" Ben asked from his own lawn.
"Hmm? Oh, just a friend. Sweet girl," he said, somewhat distantly.
"Whoever she was, she was in a hurry." He returned to his newspaper, propped up on his knees.
Alan observed his friend curiously. "Have you been out here all day?"
"Well, let me put it this way," the other man began, rather dejectedly, "I haven't moved from this spot since the Gerald Sarnie has been destroyed." Both his eyes, and Alan's, drifted over to Mr. Smethurst's garden. "As you can see, he's no longer there."
"Has Angie kicked you out?"
"It would appear that way," the sandy-haired man grumbled, though could still be heard across the road.
"WILL YOU SHUT UP?" It was Mrs. Yates at Number Fifteen, who had all but stormed from her own home brandishing a rather threatening tea-towel. "My son is trying to sleep!"
"I'm not surprised he can't sleep with you yelling all the time." Apparently the incident had also caught the attention of Mrs. Sumner at Number Two.
"Oh, go and boil your head, Gladys!" Mrs. Yates shouted, re-entering her house to tend to the now-crying baby, whacking her tea-towel against the brickwork in her irritation, before slamming the door.
Gladys shuffled back into her own home, slamming her own door and mumbling to herself about "Youth today."
With the beginnings of a migraine, Alan made his way across to Ben. "Come on, you. You can have my bed. No point in staying out here all night. She hasn't even provided you with a kennel," he joked.
Getting to his feet, Ben rolled his eyes. "I swear the dog lives better than I do."
A/N: Okay, so this sort of happened. Probably not very well-written, but I'd hope I can improve somewhat. I think I tried to add in an element of humour to take away from my poor attempts at writing Rapunzel's home life.
For non-British readers, 'Reception' could be likened to 'Kindergarten,' aside from the fact that children begin primary school (the equivalent of elementary school) at the age of four.