A/N: Hope you all enjoy this chappie. I've got a coursework deadline in about a week, so I'll get back to doing computer science!
Chapter 5 - Outliers & Insights
The adoption visit was in full swing. Noises of voices and laughter swirled around Harry, but they were muffled as though the orphanage had, at once, been submerged underwater. Miss Cunningham and another carer brought one of those foldable tables in and were spreading snacks and drinks across it, but Harry didn't bother going over.
He felt sick more than anything else, stomach acid churning like Aunt Petunia's washing machine on full blast. Harry would know—he had to wash Dudley's clothes one too many times.
Though the curtains were open with windows cleaned early that morning, the hall looked gloomy, dark, as if rain clouds were hovering just beneath the ceiling. Though Harry hated the cold, he loved the rain—gathering drops in his fingers felt fantastic, and Dudley didn't bully him when he risked the possibility of being sopping wet.
Instead of joining the throes of the party, with parents and other kids floating around like free spirits, Harry lingered back, opting for a stool in the far right corner of the hall. The stool was hidden behind a few boxes filled with equipment for the weekly sports session. Perfect—Harry wouldn't have to see anyone, nor would he be seen.
Harry hunched atop the stool, wishing he'd brought a book to read—Ajit would've been happy to share a recommendation or two, or three. Instead, Harry busied himself with staring at his own fingers, counting the lines on his right palm, then the left, and then looking to the cricket bats a metre away from him, and wondering if, in another life, he could've played cricket for England, and—
Someone was beside him. Being bullied at the hands of Dudley meant Harry's peripheral vision was sharp, and it caught a brown mass of hair a couple of metres to his right. Untamed and wild, despite the owner's best attempts at neatening the bush into curls. Harry's heart hammered, fingers clenching around each other.
Was there another Dudley in this place? Another bully who'd waited for Harry to be alone before striking out at the resident freak for the first time?
Harry gulped the lump in his throat, felt it slide down to his stomach, and then turned his head. And met the girl's eyes, and rather than Harry freezing, it was the girl who stilled, shocked.
Her eyes, even from this far, shone despite the dimness casting a ghoulish dark over the rest of the hall. She wore red leather boots, straps neatly attached, prim and proper—probably a posh one, Harry surmised, wondering where she'd come from. A thick purple coat and jeans without a scratch meant she certainly wasn't from the orphanage.
So why on earth was she here? Parents were supposed to visit to find a kid to adopt, not perfectly normal children who didn't belong with the freaks.
Harry placed his palms on his knees and rubbed to rid the clam—but the stickiness to his fingers wouldn't budge. He tried wiping his hands on each other, but still the dampness persisted.
Instead of walking away, the girl neared him, until she was beside him, all the while that curiosity in her eyes brimmed brighter than the rest of the room. That unnerved Harry—the attention was something Dudley was famous for, and was typically followed by a venomous insult and perhaps a shove.
"H—hello," the girl said, stuttering for a second. She breathed in, held the breath, and let it back out, as if steeling herself against something. Harry knew the feeling—he'd done it plenty of times, after all. "Sorry about that. My name's Hermione." Her hand was outstretched, though not fully, as if afraid Harry wouldn't wish to shake it.
Harry didn't know why the girl wanted to speak to him, and it was clear she didn't belong in the orphanage in the first place. But she was here, and Harry had never been impolite despite living with the Dursleys. Tentatively, his hand stretched out, arm bent at the elbows just like the girl's, and their palms touched.
A quick shake, and then Harry's hand snapped back to his side. Her palm was just as clammy as his, and he failed to wipe off the stickiness against his trousers once again.
"You haven't told me your name," the girl said, moving so she was in Harry's line of sight when he turned his head. "Let me guess—is it…Brian?"
Harry couldn't help it. He barked out a laugh at that, before reeling the noise back in, afraid that he'd done something wrong. In the Dursley household, laughter wasn't tolerated from freaks, and he was sure Hermione wouldn't appreciate it.
"It's not Brian," Harry said, voice shaking. "I'm Harry Potter."
"Well, Harry Potter, it's lovely to meet you."
Harry thought the girl would move to other, more interesting people in the hall, who pirouetted like performers around each set of parents. Instead, Hermione (which was pronounced very strangely, Harry thought) grabbed one of the errant chairs tucked to the side of the sports equipment and scraped it over to Harry's stool.
Sitting down, she said, "Mummy and Daddy brought me here, you know—I never really wanted to come…not to say you aren't interesting…that's not what I meant…"
Harry found her stammering rather endearing, not that he'd tell the girl that. That would be embarrassing, and though embarrassment was normal for freaks, that didn't mean Harry would lean into the feeling.
"It's okay," Harry said. "I didn't want to come too."
"Why not?"
Harry didn't like to talk much, especially not with people he didn't know. But something about Hermione—perhaps the way she sat or her innate curiosity bursting forth with questions—told him she wouldn't be another Dudley.
And for that, Harry was eternally grateful.
"I won't be adopted," Harry said with a shrug, eyes roaming across the kids trying to impress the groups of parents. "So no point of coming."
"But you could be adopted—look at them, they're talking and having a good time. If you did the same—"
"It won't happen," Harry was quick to interrupt. Jackson had already given him the annoying pep-talk, trying to draw Harry's hope out of its hiding place deep within himself. But Harry wasn't stupid. Freaks weren't adopted, and he had to live with that fact.
"It could," Hermione said, and Harry didn't know how she was so sure of the fact. But her twinkling chocolate-brown eyes couldn't be mistaken—she really believed it. "It could really—"
"I'm a freak," Harry said. Plain and simple, and something inside him shattered at the words leaving his mouth. As if it was admitting the fact to himself more than Hermione.
Hermione just stared at him, mouth agape, eyes wide with an unreadable expression inside. For a girl that spoke a lot, she was well and truly speechless, and Harry would've laughed at the sight under different circumstances.
Before she could regain her vocal chords, Harry continued.
"I do…weird things, okay. Weird things happen around me too. I can't control them, so I can't be adopted, because…because then it'll happen to them too. I'm a freak, and freaks don't get adopted."
"You're—you're not a freak, Harry. You're a normal child."
Harry shot her a glare. She cowered back a little, so Harry softened his gaze. He didn't want to turn into another Dudley, nor did he want the girl to view him that way.
"Do you have any friends, Harry?" Hermione asked, voice lowered.
Harry averted his gaze, face suddenly feeling hot, cheeks reddening by the millisecond. His fingers jittered by his side, so he clamped one palm to the other. "I—kind of…"
"Me neither," Hermione said, and then she stood up, dusted off her clothes, scraped the chair back over to the sports equipment, and left Harry festering on that ruddy stool in the hall's far right corner.
She looked back and gave him a sad glance, before turning to find her parents once more.
And Harry's chest filled with a sliver of hope.
Unlike the Dursleys, Hermione looked back.
And that had to mean something.
It just had to.
After the parents had spent some time with the children, a woman they referred to as Miss Cunningham escorted them to their rooms up a flight of stairs and down a hall, whilst the parents congregated in a meeting room of sorts.
The room itself had a low ceiling, barely enough head-room for Daddy to stand straight. Like everything else, it was musty with a thick smell of old carpet, and the windows at the back let in far too little light.
But Hermione held Mummy's hand the whole time, and that instilled within her at least a little safety amongst the sea of adults.
Hermione had never been picked on by adults, only children her own age and perhaps a year older. But still, crowds of people overwhelmed her more than a big girl would like to admit.
"Well, that was fun, wasn't it sweetheart?" Mummy said, squeezing Hermione's hand as they strolled to the row of chairs propped against one side of the room.
The chairs weren't comfy at all. Cushion too thin, seat too high so Hermione's legs dangled like they were made of spaghetti, and the backrest hit her head instead of protecting her spine.
"It was okay," Hermione said, staring at Daddy as he plopped himself down on her other side. He seemed to like the chair, settling in without a fuss and with a wide smile.
"I enjoyed that for one," Daddy said, giving Hermione a quick side hug. His light cologne masked the heaviness of the room's dust for a moment. "Some of the kids were really lively—it surprised me. I thought they would be, say, a little more shy."
"When you've suffered in life," Mummy said. "The only way is upwards. I guess they realised it too soon."
"The only way isn't up," Hermione said, staring at the plain, wooden door. Her eyes almost burned a hole into it, splintering the frame away from the handle and hinges.
"And why do you say that, Hermione?" Mummy asked.
Harry's face flashed in her mind. And his downcast green eyes. And the way he scooted to one side like he was hiding himself from the world. And his hunched shoulders and scrawny arms. And his hopelessness in everything in life. And the way—
A hand held Hermione's coat sleeve for a second. A comforting hand. Daddy's hand.
"Hermione, the coolness of my eyes, are you feeling okay? Can Daddy do anything to make his princess feel better?"
What Daddy didn't know was that his mere voice could light the sun if it ever blew out, such was the comfort it brought Hermione.
She nodded, staring down at the floor. She'd never made a friend before, and Harry wasn't a friend, but he was just like her. In so many more ways than she wished to think about.
And that was why she'd looked back at him when leaving the playground's corner to find her parents. Because, for all the hopelessness in his eyes, she possessed the hope that could replace it.
If only he'd let them try. If only he wasn't so closed off to everything like a turtle who'd never left his shell.
"Hermione, is there something you wish to tell us?" Mummy asked. Her voice hardened, just a tad, barely noticeable. "Did one of them say anything to you, sweetie? Because if they did…"
Hermione understood what Mummy meant, so she shook her head. "There's…there's one of them that's…they're just like me," Hermione said. "They were alone in one corner. I found him sitting on a stool, and he didn't care about being adopted. Everyone else really—really—wanted to. But he didn't care about any of it."
Daddy leaned closer, Hermione the entire scope of his attention. "Do you know why he didn't want to be adopted, princess? Did he tell you the reason?"
Hermione shook her head. "He never gave a proper reason. He just…well, he said he was a—a freak that did weird things, and—and that weird things happened around him." She turned to Daddy, question in her gaze. "Why would he call himself a freak?"
"I don't know," Daddy said slowly. "Maybe he was…hurt by someone before, someone who called him that name."
"Maybe he was bullied," Hermione said in a low tone so no one could hear besides her parents. "I—he said he never had any friends before. And he didn't look like he wanted to make any friends. Maybe…maybe they did something to him."
Daddy shared a look with Mummy, and Hermione couldn't decipher the message sent between their minds. Her parents often communicated off touches and looks, and it was maddening for Hermione since she didn't exactly have a dictionary to know what each signal meant.
"What's the boy's name?" Mummy asked. "Maybe we can talk to him a little and understand what these…weird things are."
"He said his name is Harry," Hermione said, but her gaze dropped to her red leather boots, swinging with her dangled legs. "Harry Potter, he said. But he doesn't want to be adopted. He doesn't care, which is sad."
"Because everyone deserves a loving family, right princess?" Daddy said.
Hermione didn't need to reply. They all knew the answer to that. That was why they were here, in the orphanage, after all. To add to their loving family, to grow love's infinite capabilities a stretch more. To find Hermione a sibling she could grow up with and love.
"I'll have a chat with this Harry," Mummy said, patting Hermione on the arm. She kissed Hermione's bushy hair, right on the temple, transferring a motherly warmth through her skin, before stroking a lock of Hermione's hair back. "You stay here with Daddy, okay? And Mummy will go have a talk with Harry."
Hermione nodded, and watched Mummy leave the meeting room to find Miss Cunningham and speak with Harry. And Hermione's fingers began playing with each other, legs shaking due to nerves, and not even Daddy's voice and laughter and jokes and too-many adjectives could calm her down.
Because, if Harry really didn't want to be adopted, then Hermione had no chance at making a friend. He was the only one that seemed the same as her, outcast even amongst the outcasts.
But if he wouldn't join their family—that, truly, would be a sad state of affairs.
Catherine Granger managed to find Miss Cunningham in short order. Being a dentist with her own practice, Catherine understood the need for immaculate organisation, though she often ignored it. Papers and pens neatly laid out, filing cabinets labelled to prescription, and a clutter-free environment for clear thinking were all part of a successful dentist's repertoire.
Of course, her study at home reflected the inner messy nature of perhaps everything medical professional bounding out and having its way. In some ways, each of the Grangers were untamed—Catherine with her cluttered mess at home, Hermione's hair was certainly formidable for even the strongest of brushes to tame, and Mark's penchant for using an entire thesaurus of adjectives and phrases when complimenting someone.
It seemed this orphanage, for lack of a better term, was disorganised as anything Catherine had ever seen. Hallways were confusing, some leading nowhere, others going around in circles, whilst others gave way to empty rooms that, from the looks of it, had not been used since the sixties.
Thankfully, Miss Cunningham hadn't gone far from the meeting room after escorting the children upstairs. Catherine, otherwise, would have been well and truly done for.
Miss Cunningham was in the reception, rifling through some papers with glasses precariously balanced on the bridge of her nose. She glanced up, gaze filtering through the dusty scent of the reception area to find Catherine, and an easy smile was the greeting she gave.
"How may I help you, Mrs Granger?" Cunningham asked.
Catherine stepped forwards a little, shut the reception door behind her. The room delved into a heavy silence.
"There was a boy I wished to enquire about," Catherine said.
"Looking to adopt already?" Cunningham asked, returning to her papers again. She adjusted her spectacles, though they remained teetering on the edge, and collated the papers. Shoving them all into a drawer under the desk, she swivelled on the chair and faced Catherine fully. "Usually parents take a week or so to ponder a decision. Whilst your interest this early may be unusual, I am happy to facilitate earlier adoptions. Is that the case here?"
"Maybe," Catherine said. In her head, she merely wished to speak to this mysterious Harry character Hermione had encountered. When the heck had it turned to a maybe?
She shook her head, swiping away the thoughts like cobwebs hanging off her mind. "Perhaps we'll adopt him, given the right information. I'm sure you have history on the boy, maybe some medical files."
Cunningham raised an eyebrow. "Now, Mrs Granger, these children are under our custody. We cannot reveal confidential information—"
"I'm a dentist, so I understand the limitations here." Catherine bit her lip, wondering what the best way to go about this was. "Are there any strange instances around the boy? Unexplained occurrences, maybe things move around him for no reason?"
Miss Cunningham gave her a blank look. "Not that I am aware of. Although, if any of the other children have noticed anything, they have not brought it to me." Cunningham leaned in, meeting Catherine's gaze head on. "Did you notice something, Mrs Granger?"
"Not me, my daughter Hermione told me about the boy—about Harry, I mean."
"Hermione? The young one that arrived with you, no doubt?"
Catherine nodded. "We wanted to adopt someone she'd get along with, and we think Harry might be the best option—at least, I'd like to talk to him to see if it's a possibility. Do you think I could do that?"
Miss Cunningham merely stared at Catherine, and the dentist didn't fail to catch the small smile lingering at the corner of the carer's lips. Despite the lack of funding in the orphanage, and despite the mustiness and general disorganisation and lack of infrastructure, Cunningham cared about her charges. Cared about the children here, and Catherine could respect that trait in anyone.
Cunningham stood up, walked around the desk whilst straightening her skirt and smart blazer, before directing Catherine to the door. "Come with me, I'll take you to where young Harry is staying." Now she did let out a smile, albeit small. "Although, I daresay he will spill the beans to you, if there are beans to spill. He barely speaks as it is, and the young tyke is not likely to be receptive."
"I understand," Catherine said, thinking back to a younger Hermione, and how she'd been closed off for many years until Catherine and Mark, in their own way, managed to open her defences and slip their comfort inside. The boisterous Hermione at home had certainly not always been that way.
Cunningham led Catherine up a flight of stairs as dusty as the rest of the orphanage, with her nose congested at the sheer amount of it. She was sure the carers hoovered the building multiple times a week, but perhaps the number of children caused chaos to roam regardless of how many carers were present.
The bannisters on the stairs were splintered, the walls cracked with damp lurking in the corners, black and bleak like they represented the pasts of the children themselves.
Catherine switched her attention to the door Cunningham was striding to. The carer knocked on the door, sharp and direct.
"Is everyone in there decent?" she called.
A murmur of affirmations sounded, from three distinct voices Catherine recalled hearing in the play area. The fourth voice, Harry's, she hadn't heard give a reply.
Pleased with the response, Cunningham turned the handle and led Catherine inside. The door shut behind them, far louder than Catherine had imagined, as if it wished to trap her inside here.
Was this how the children felt? Was this how Harry felt? Trapped with no place to go, the orphanage resembling more a prison, forced upon them with no choice, with parents like Catherine and her husband the only lease on life they had remaining?
Catherine didn't wish to ponder on it, so drank in the room's sights as Cunningham ordered the children other than Harry to go down to the play area with another carer. As they left, Catherine noticed the bunk beds lodged on either side of the room like mere afterthoughts. The frames were rusting, chipped away from years and years of use, of children scraping at them with nails and stationery, of jumping on mattresses and crying whilst clutching at the edge of the bed and the edge of life.
Windows opposite her featured more grime than those downstairs. The grime blocked out the outside world, only letting shafts of light into the room. As if a testament to the unavailability of freedom from the shackles of the orphanage.
Catherine felt her chest thump one time too many, heart skipping a beat, and compassion flooded her at the plight of these children. These children that didn't deserve the start they had in life, orphaned or thrown in here, unwanted and largely unloved.
She couldn't imagine the turmoil in their lives…the bravery they exhibited stirred an admiration in her heart beyond anything else.
"Harry is sitting in the far corner," Cunningham said once the others had left. She turned to the boy, and said, "Harry, come and speak to Mrs Granger. She wants to ask you some questions. Is that all right?"
The boy didn't nod, he merely swung his legs over the side of the bed and stared at the carpet, as if wishing to burn holes in the fabric. His movement, however, was taken as a yes by Cunningham.
If it was anyone else, even Hermione, Catherine would class Harry's actions as disrespect. But knowing what her daughter mentioned of Harry, it was likely defeat and hopelessness that forced his gaze to the ground, that forced his shoulders to hunch like he held the bunk bed up and not the other way around.
"Let me know when you are finished," Cunningham said. Before she left, she whispered in Catherine's ear, "He is fragile. I—I know you wish to ask him questions, but please, do not break him. He, least of all the children here, deserves that kind of fate."
A/N: So, another Saturday, another chapter. How did you find this one? Did you like it? Not like it? I know the interaction between Harry and Hermione was brief, but I hope it tickled your feathers regardless. Catherine Granger is also an interesting character here in my opinion. Though she's not part of the main duo, she does get her own arc in the story, and I thought it would add an interesting more mature dynamic as opposed to having two children as MCs (although, because of their life experiences, both Harry and Hermione are incredibly mature for their age, but in different ways).
Anyway, hope you all had a lovely week, and wishing you all a lovely next week heading into the new year. See you next Saturday!
