A/N: Hope you all had a lovely week, and I hope this little chappie can make it better! Enjoy.

Chapter 4 - Dreams & Visits

The bunk bed was small, with a blue frame that looked like the sky had been bleached onto it, and then chipped with a nail file. Harry sat on the mattress, and it creaked like it hated Harry as much as his relatives did. Because he was a freak, and there were no two ways about it. He deserved to be in the orphanage—he almost killed his uncle, after all, and Harry could have no complaints about that despite how much he despised it.

The bed smelt awful, like a rat had died and its skin was used to fill the pillows and duvet. The bedding was as thin as Harry himself, scrawny and scratched like chickens had been let loose, and Harry played with it in his fingers as he stared down at his knees.

He felt completely out of place. Thankfully, the early snow had stopped, reverting Britain back to its usual autumn greyness. As he let the blood-like sunset outside wash over his body through a grime-ridden bedside window, he let the first few days at the orphanage play out in his mind.

The first thing Harry thought of was the food. It wasn't much—butter on toast, with a glass of milk on the side for breakfast. Lunch was sandwiches, ham or cheese lining the insides, though the cheese played funny games with Harry's stomach. Dinner typically presented vegetables with a serving of meat, or tomato pasta like last night. Again, it wasn't much, but having been starved his entire life, and now in the place where the freaks were chucked, Harry would take anything he could get.

He'd met a few of the others sharing his room—Ed, Jackson, and Ajit. The orphanage shacked four per room, with two rooms sharing a single bathroom shoved down the hall way too far for a nighttime visit. Harry shivered as he remembered almost pissing himself the first day—he hadn't drunk so much water in his life, and Eliza was taking way too long since she had an upset stomach.

What struck Harry more than anything, though, was the yearning for everyone to get out of the place. Jackson constantly talked Harry's ear off about leaving the orphanage, about being adopted by a family that actually liked him. Ed was quiet, sulking off to the side, much like Harry did when someone wasn't directly addressing him, and gave glances as though anywhere in the world beat the orphanage. Ajit was a bookworm of sorts, face shoved in yet another novel from the orphanage library that was a few shelves to one side of the reception area—he sought the fantastical rather than the real.

Harry couldn't blame them. He wished, for his entire life, that a real family would look after him, would care for him like those kids in cartoons Dudley watched on the telly. But for freaks like Harry, that wasn't an option. He'd just have to live with it his entire life.

Harry breathed in deeply, mind returning to the present, let his fears brew his stomach like a fiery cauldron, and released the air back out again. He picked through his pocket and, making sure he was alone in the room and the door was closed, pulled the pocket watch out. Like before, he opened the lid with a toothpick and read the note from his parents.

At least Dudley hadn't torn that in half. At least Harry had something left.

He switched his attention to the picture ripped in four. His father's face, and his mother's, and his own giggle were frozen in time, in space, unmoving like gravestones in a cemetery behind a nearby church he'd seen on the way here. Harry let the picture's smoothness soothe his skin, felt his chest jerk at the possibility that he'd once been loved.

"What's that you got there?" a voice said.

Harry jumped up, noticing Jackson standing before him, head almost banging the frame of the bunk bed. The awful smell of the mattress turned ten times more torrid. Heart hammering, he swivelled to cover the picture, shoving it into the pocket watch and slamming the lid before ramming everything into his pocket.

He couldn't risk someone else seeing his secret, couldn't risk another Dudley spawning like the devil into his life.

"I saw it already," Jackson said, sitting on the bed beside Harry. He grinned, teeth splayed like spiky flowers, yellow sticking to them as much as white. "Might as well let me see the picture. Sad that it's ripped ain't it?"

Harry shook his head like he wanted to swing it off. He moved away, shuffling along the mattress until his shoulder was pinched by the cool metal frame of the bed.

"Relax," Jackson said with a laugh that was easy-going and Dudley-like at the same time. "I ain't gonna take it from you, you best believe that. Looked interesting, though—what is it a picture of, Har?"

Jackson had, in his quest to battle the other kids with nicknames dragged straight from hell, taken to calling Harry 'Har' for short. Harry, though it infuriated him, said not a word. Out of fear.

"Not…not saying," Harry squeezed out, before clamping down on his throat to prevent more words from releasing. The more he spoke, the greater the trouble grew. That was a lesson the Dursleys had taught him well, Uncle Vernon in particular.

"Shame, really," Jackson said, swinging off the bed and giving Harry a side-glance. "Wish there was some kinda magic power that could fix that. Heck, I wish there was magic for everything. Then we'd all get families and never-ending chocolate and get out of 'ere once and for all."

Harry nodded along, but magic wasn't real. There wasn't a chance in any universe, real or imaginary, that his picture repaired itself, that the love of his parents entered his life once more. Harry was sure of that fact, as sure of it as he was that the world itself was real.

He pushed himself flat on the mattress, head scratching the pillow, not bothered to wrap himself in the duvet. Dinner was in an hour, and Harry, for the first time, hadn't the stomach to eat. Back at the Dursleys, his cupboard had provided time to think, time for himself. Now though, faces constantly popped up to disturb him, whether Miss Cunningham or the other carer Harry forgot the name of, or the kids that thought silence just didn't exist.

"There's a few families coming next week," Jackson said, voice lowered and—Harry would swear to it—laced with a tremor. "Proper families, Mum and Dad and all—trying to find a kid to adopt."

Harry stared at him wordlessly, head lolled to one side. He didn't know why Jackson was sharing this particular tidbit with him, especially considering a freak like Harry hadn't a chance in hell of being adopted. Harry had resigned to that fact long ago, and in time the other kids at the orphanage would see the truth of it.

"I feel like it's gonna be me this time, you know," Jackson continued. "Need to get my best clothes and be on my best behaviour—like Cunningham said. What d'you reckon are your own chances?"

Harry shrugged, though lying on his back made the motion a little strange. Don't know, don't care, he answered internally, knowing he was merely lying to himself. Harry did care. How could he not care, when the secret of his life was yearning for that picture in his pocket watch to become reality, in one form or another?

Jackson, perhaps sensing Harry's disinterest for the first time in three days, spoke of dinner in less than an hour, and then left. The door swung shut, clicking slightly yet sounding like a knell, fading out the sounds of bounding footsteps in the hallway and shouting kids nearby.

Harry closed his eyes, willing sleep into himself despite the rancid smells and thudding floor and no duvet covering his body. But that familiar darkness with red tinges across the edges didn't lead to sleep. It led to memories and visions, of the Dursleys and their abuse, of his own freakish incidents over the years, and lastly of an idyllic life where his parents were alive, and where the torn picture was a reality.

Harry didn't realise that the last memory was, in fact, a dream.

"Hermione, my lovely daughter, the sparkle in the night sky, my absolute—"

"Yes Daddy, I have my coat on," Hermione said with a giggle. She zipped it up, right to the top, and the warmth engulfed her body like drinking hot chocolate under bed covers with a nice book in the other hand.

It was a week later, and through the small circular window at the top of the front door, Hermione spotted gusts of wind pushing leaves through the air like they were in a worldwide race to someplace that didn't exist.

The Grangers stood in the thin hall before the front door, Mummy checking her makeup in the mirror hung on the wall beside the shoe rack. Hermione grabbed her shoes and tugged them on, without the help of her parents, thank you very much.

"You look beautiful, Cathy," Daddy said, rubbing Mummy's arm and giving both her and Hermione a smile. "No need to check the makeup, and they're expecting us in a little while. We should get going."

Hermione understood Mummy's thoughts, at least a little. Mummy was nervous, which was when someone was scared of something that could happen in the future even if it wasn't very likely.

Hermione understood Mummy's thoughts because she was nervous as well, and didn't want to show it to her parents. She played with the zip of her coat, then shoved her hands in the pockets when they stepped outside the safe haven, into the harsh world. Her fingers played with each other—cold, despite the pocket being well insulated.

The car ride was smooth, a slight drizzle spitting down like the clouds were sneezing every so often. The engine's rumble was like her stomach—curdling with nerves that made a funny sensation she recognised only as the feeling before a swimming lesson at the local leisure centre.

They reached the orphanage two hours later. Daddy said that the orphanages in London were mostly on the east side, meaning they were better off driving to Surrey instead. Apparently, even though the distance was less, tackling the winding roads of the city centre just wasn't worth the hassle with a perfectly good orphanage in the other direction.

The orphanage was large, towering over Hermione as she got out of the car with her parents and braved the November chill again. Thankfully, the clouds decided to stop sneezing, leaving the roads mostly dry with only pockets of ice reminiscent of the snowfall the previous week.

The thick iron gate swung open with a creak, and Hermione shivered at the sound. The sensation in her stomach worsened, clenching every few seconds, and her fingers clamped onto Mummy's, as if strength was something that could pass through touch.

"It'll be fine," Mummy said, squeezing Hermione's hand lovingly, before pointing to the front entrance, where other couples milled about, conversing and inspecting the orphanage. "Look, there's other parents here looking to adopt someone."

Hermione nodded, remembering Daddy's words from the previous week. Mummy wanted to feel the joy of having a child again, but Hermione—she didn't want to risk someone else coming into the house. Didn't want to risk the bullying crashing into the only place Hermione felt safe.

But she was a big girl now, and that meant giving people chances, as Daddy had said.

As they stepped into the orphanage, she let her eyes roam the surroundings. The walls were all chipped, wallpaper fitted as though slapped on by the children themselves as opposed to at the hands of a professional. The receptionist's desk was cluttered with lots of different stationery, far untidier than Hermione's own desk. A light bulb swung from the ceiling as if urging them to leave whilst they had the chance, the light flickering every few seconds.

The damp smell, likely originating from the black spots in the reception's corners, and from the cushioned seats that had accommodated far too many people over the years, didn't exactly inspire Hermione with hope, either.

"Come on, sweetie," Mummy said, gently interlacing her fingers with Hermione's. Her voice was soft, soothing, like Hermione still had the fever and was buried in bed and wished for a bedtime story. "There's a play area inside, and the kids are playing there now. Why don't we go there now, eh? That's where the other parents are going, too."

Hermione noticed Daddy speaking with some of the other couples looking to adopt. Daddy was like that—able to blend in like play dough and mould himself to whatever those around him needed. A good husband, Hermione's Daddy, a dentist, a friend, someone who used far too many terms of endearment when only one or two were necessary.

Thinking of the last one caused Hermione to giggle, and she nodded at Mummy. They walked through blue double doors with shaved sides, as though the wood had been sheared with a knife. Winding hallways whose carpet released a musty scent akin to a steaming bath led them to the play area Mummy had been talking about.

And Hermione's fears rose like a tide, until it reached her throat, and water brimmed to her eyes. She tugged Mummy's arm just as they were about to enter the play area through the wooden door.

"Hermione, sweetie, what's wrong?" Mummy said with a concerned look. "It's just a…I'll stay with you, if you need."

Hermione shook her head. She was a big girl, and that meant not needing her parents when talking to other children. That was why she hadn't told them about the bullying, after all, because how embarrassing would it be for a big girl to be getting bullied at school?

And, though Daddy and Mummy might've guessed the bullying, Hermione would never let the full truth spill if she could help it.

"Let's go, then, sweetie," Mummy said with a smile. Hermione steeled her nerves, one hand in Mummy's palm, the other in the cold of her pocket.

The play area looked like the P.E hall in Hermione's primary school. Despite the shiny look, the wooden floor clung onto Hermione's shoes and almost prevented her from stepping forward with Mummy. Her head was down, eyes fixed to her red leather shoes with the strap not quite covering the entirety of the velcro.

A tap to her shoulder caused her to turn, hand slipping out of Mummy's as she walked ahead. Hermione came face to face with a boy who looked around her age. He gave her a toothy smile, hand outstretched. He looked like Niall a little, a round face and taller than her by a couple of inches, with eyes that shone with eagerness.

Whether for friendship, or to bring out Hermione's tears, she hadn't a clue.

But she couldn't just ignore him. That wouldn't be polite, and big girls were supposed to be polite.

"Hello, my name's Jackson," he said. "Jackson Carter, but you can call me Jax." A strange scent emanated from the boy's body, a cross between musk and something foul that Hermione didn't really want to know about. His clothing, too, was a little strange—a polo shirt mixed with grey tracksuit bottoms ripped along the leg cuffs. Hermione wasn't one to judge—they were living in an orphanage after all—but the boy made her uneasy.

"Lovely to meet you, Jackson," a voice said, saving Hermione from an awkward conversation. It was Daddy, thankfully, who scooted up beside her and placed his palm into that of Jackson's so Hermione didn't have to shake the boy's hand. "I see you've met my daughter Hermione."

"Hermione?" Jackson said, eyebrows shooting up. "That's a very fancy name, I can tell. I know, I should call you Hermi as a nickname. I got nicknames for everyone here, like AJ for Ajit, and Har for Harry." Jackson's eyes lit up. "Are you guys fancy? Do you shop at those big shops like Harrods and them in London?" Again, his smile looked forced, or perhaps far too joyous to seem real, and Hermione's gaze lowered to her red boots again, and burrowed into the crimson colour like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

They did shop at Harrods for holiday shopping—but Hermione didn't feel like telling Jackson that was a good idea.

"Not quite that fancy all the time," Daddy replied, and he continued the conversation whilst Hermione tuned out and turned around to find Mummy. But in the thrush of parents and children swarming around her, with no idea where Mummy even was in the first place, Hermione was well and truly lost.

The hustle and bustle surrounded her, and the tornado of bodies didn't cease to give her time to breathe and get her bearings.

Big girls need to think properly, she told herself, crossing to the edge of the hall. From there, she could walk along the sides and send glances inward to see if Mummy revealed herself, like a rabbit out of a hat. Always there, but only coming out when the time was right.

Instead, Hermione found herself staring at the far corner of the room, past the little multi-coloured bean bags and plastic cricket bats, where a small stool with no armrests (unlike Mummy's comfy chair in her study) sat idle as if abandoned years ago, with no one willing to pick it up and find a place for it to call home.

However, the stool itself was old and unremarkable, likely older than Hermione herself. The intriguing thing was the person sitting on the stool, scrawny and thin, feral eyes with something different held within, hands by his side like raising them was a sin.

Whilst the rest of the children sought parents to adopt them, milling around the hall with bright eyes and wide grins, this child couldn't care less, huddled in a corner on his own, staring wordlessly into the distance.

And that curiosity within Hermione brimmed once more.

Without even knowing what she was doing, her legs stepped across to that corner of the room. Her heart rate rose a notch, like thumps against her ribs. Just before she reached the stool, the boy's gaze rose, a little alarmed, and met her eyes head on.

A/N: So, let me know what you thought, and what do you think Hermione's going to say to Harry now that they're finally meeting? Also, sorry for the filthy cliffhanger lol, but it had to be done!