A/N: Just wanted to say I hope you all had a lovely week. I had the most debilitating 24hr exam of my life on Tuesday, but it went okay-ish and here we are on the other side. Just wanted to thank everyone who reviewed/commented. One person on FFN even said that they believed my writing to be professional grade, which is just…wow, thank you so much, seriously. Makes me smile now just thinking about it. Hope this chappie is just as good!

Without further ado, enjoy!

Chapter 7 - Darkness & Light

Harry never knew the cupboard he crouched in existed within the orphanage, but he was certainly glad for it. Upon bumping into Hermione and knocking her down, a level of fear unlike anything else had trapped itself in his heart, refusing to let go, and kicking out at his ribs with a viciousness he'd never felt. He'd panicked, blurting out anything and everything all at once, with tears welling in his eyes.

And then Hermione's mother appeared behind him, and Harry needed to run. Run and hide. Lock himself away someplace, like the Dursley's cupboard under the stairs, where no one would find him. The end of a hallway bashed a dead end into him, halting his sprint. But the little handle in the wall almost glowed, appearing out of the blue, presenting a reprieve from the fright, where he could find comfort in darkness and his own company.

After all, freaks were meant to be alone, weren't they? Tucked out of sight where none would find them.

But Hermione's parents had found him. Tried to speak to him, until they, too, left. Only Hermione remained, and Harry stupidly, foolishly, idiotically let her into the cupboard to talk. In all honesty, even he didn't know why he leaned into the impulse. That image of her kept flashing in his mind, like a visual mantra, of her looking back when walking away.

And Harry couldn't rid his thoughts of that scene. Perhaps that was why his mouth blurted out and let her inside.

So here they were, darkness shrouding them in the comfort of secrecy, like their own little club existed away from the rest of the world, with the two of them the sole participants for the rest of time. Harry felt the dark ebb and flow, as though it held a mind of its own, and the dust coating every surface in a thick, grey layer soothed his nose and mouth.

Paradoxically, he felt the most free in the most confined space imaginable.

Hermione sat a few inches away from him, one foot leaning out of the cupboard. Her breathing almost misted the space between them, and she spoke first.

"What did you want to speak about, Harry?"

Harry's voice dried in a heartbeat, words jumbled in his mind, and the puzzle of how to arrange them proved too hard to solve.

"Because…" But Harry's voice jammed again, like the radio in Aunt Petunia's kitchen when it played a song she didn't like and she smacked it against the counter. He gulped the lump in his throat. "You…you looked back."

In the murkiness, Harry couldn't spot Hermione's eyes. Couldn't see what she thought, but her emotions shone through the hand she placed on his arm. He flinched, stiffened, then loosened. All in the space of a few skipped heartbeats.

The last time someone had touched him in comfort—primary school, year three, Miss Skinner with the soft hands and red-like-roses painted nails, smile that seemed to light up the class as opposed to the light bulbs.

Harry wouldn't forget that moment, ever, and he wouldn't let this one slip either.

"What do you mean I 'looked back'?" Hermione asked.

"I—no one ever looks back." Not Dudley, not his aunt and uncle when leaving him at the orphanage. No one, but Harry couldn't let those details escape the verbal shackles he placed on himself. "But you…did. You looked back at me, and that..." That means you don't hate me, Harry finished.

Hermione stayed silent, and Harry grew uncomfortable with the lack of speaking. The cupboard exhibited a stifling heat now, no longer the sanctuary Harry had found when running from the Grangers.

"You said you had no friends?" Hermione finally asked, and Harry almost sighed at the noise. "Even in this place—in the orphanage?"

Harry nodded. Then, realising she couldn't see him in the dimness, he said, "They're all too…loud. And they don't want to be friends with a freak—"

"If you're a freak then I'm a freak too." Hermione's voice was fierce, as if stretched taut like a bow, with her words the arrows flinging at him.

Harry flinched, as though the arrows' tips pierced not his heart but his soul. "But you're not—"

"And you're not. Don't call yourself that, ever. No one…no one's a freak, and…everyone deserves a friend."

Hermione sounded unsure of the last statement, as if convincing herself more than Harry. Harry placed a hand on top of hers, which still rested on his arm. Hopefully, when his words weren't enough, his hands could send the message.

"You don't have friends?" Harry asked. He knew Hermione had mentioned it before, but Harry didn't believe it at the time. He assumed she was merely lying—a way to get him, the quiet freak in the corner—to speak, and Harry didn't want to fall into the trap.

But now he realised, as Hermione inched closer to him in the cupboard, that the girl was speaking from the heart, where lies couldn't exist. Only the rawest of truth.

"I don't have any friends," Hermione said. "Not in school or anywhere else…but we can be friends. If only you'll let Mummy and Daddy speak with you. If you…don't run away from them, and let them deal with this Harry. You're only a child…you should let them help you."

"Really?" Harry asked, heart thudding against his chest, threatening to break out, speeding up like a supercar with no brakes. Hope spread his lungs to the point of bursting, and he let out a deep breath that whispered dust across the cupboard, his cold palm atop Hermione's warm hand. "Are you…are you sure this isn't a tri—"

Hermione swiftly removed her hand, then launched herself at him. She wrapped her arms around his shoulder, pulling him so close Harry could feel her heartbeat against his own. Bushy hair flung itself into his mouth, but Harry couldn't care, for a feeling deep within his heart masked all his senses.

The darkness of the cupboard seemed to originate with a light, the brightness of which Harry had never witnessed. He didn't wrap his arms around Hermione, not used to the type of hugs Dudley received from Aunt Petunia.

But it felt nice. Warm. Comforting. Soothing. Evoked a million and one emotions that Harry's mind was far too primitive to process all at once.

And then Hermione pulled away, wiped her eyes glistening with what Harry thought were tears. And she tugged at his arm, and Harry's eyes widened as he realised what she wanted. And Harry tensed for a second, before Hermione squeezed comfort into him.

"Ready to make a friend?" Hermione asked, and it was only then that Harry realised her foot was no longer outside the cupboard, but inside. Red leather boots tucked under her as she sat, and Harry nodded. He nodded and nodded, scarcely believing the good fortune he'd been blessed with.

"I'm—I'm ready," he said, fear still prickling his mind, but persevering despite it, and Hermione led him out of the cupboard by the hand.

From the darkness, to the light.

Mummy was the one getting all the papers sorted at the reception desk. Miss Cunningham seemed surprised when Mummy and Daddy first expressed their intentions in adopting Harry, but the thin smile across her face was a testament to how much the carer valued every child at the orphanage.

The procedure was seamless, it seemed, with Mummy signing a few forms at the front desk, speaking to Cunningham in low tones as she explained the fostering procedure. Hermione stood beside Daddy, paces away from the front desk, watching the range of emotions cross Harry's face as he sat on a chair to the right of the room.

Harry had been, undoubtedly, flung into the gauntlet of emotions head on. First, fear would break out in his expression, lip trembling a little like a quivering bow after the arrow was fired. Then, it would morph to a kind of wonder, a look of awe as he gazed at Mummy and Daddy and Hermione, before reverting to a lowered gaze down at the carpet, as if he wished to hide within the folds of fabric.

Still, through the too-musty dust tickling her nostrils, Hermione could almost smell the sweet scent of Harry's glee. The bounce of his legs revealed an eagerness that Hermione hadn't sensed within the boy, not in the cupboard and not in the play hall.

"He's like a child at Christmas," Daddy said, leaning down to whisper in Hermione's ear. "Imagine…he's never had a present before in his life. He's never had someone say words of love to him, never had someone to hold him."

"I'll hold him," Hermione said, voice strong as nails being hammered into wood. "He'll never be left alone again."

"And we'll make sure of that," Daddy said, glancing over at Harry. Whilst staring at the boy's eyes flit from wall to door to wall to door, he asked, "Do you know why we wanted Harry more than the others? Some of the other children were perfectly fine, marvellous to talk to. But Harry stood out—do you know why?"

Hermione shook her head.

"Because you liked Harry, that's why. As much as we're adopting for us, we're adopting for you, princess. We wanted you to have a friend to call your own, and you know Harry won't do anything to you."

Hermione stared at Harry's scrawny body—likely from undereating at the hands of whoever told him he was a freak in the first place. Harry kept his cards close to his chest—a phrase Daddy often said when describing someone with tightly held secrets. Hermione would unpack those secrets and help Harry deal with them, whatever way she could. Because he was family now, and Hermione was his big sister, ten years old to Harry's nine, though they were in the same year at primary school.

Now that she inspected Harry a little closer, she noticed the way his posture hunched, as though a weight of magnificent proportions sat atop his shoulders. His arms were little more than skin and bones, jutting out at almost impossible angles, and though a single rucksack held all his belongings in the world, his coat was far too thin to shield him from the cold outside.

Then Harry's gaze swivelled to meet Hermione's, and he let out a radiant smile that glowed through the space separating them. A smile that lit his face, as though he was a lamp lighting the room. And his eyes—emerald green, and swirling like Mummy's freshly roasted morning coffee—were like shooting stars in a clear night sky.

"I think we're almost done," Daddy said, gesturing to where Mummy stood with Miss Cunningham, discussing proceedings in low tones. "Like we said before, princess, it's going to be temporary at first. I think the agreement is six months, options to extend, with an inspector coming every couple of weeks or so to make sure things are okay. And then—"

"Then he's ours forever," Hermione breathed out, basking in the possibility of a permanent friend, someone her age she could truly, truly call a brother. "And we're his forever, too."

"You always see something we missed," Daddy said, smiling at her. "That's why you're a big girl Hermione. And our princess—our little princess whose smile is like a thousand neutron stars—"

"What's a neutron star?" Hermione asked. She'd read a few science reference books that talked about stars and comets and asteroids, but nothing about neutron stars. Were they like normal stars, but much smaller like neutrons?

Daddy was about to explain, but at that moment a shuffling snagged Hermione's attention. Mummy was finished sorting through all the papers, and turned to Harry. Hermione noticed Mummy's smile, gentle and soft and motherly, and Harry stood on shaky legs, as though in a daze, as though unsure of what happened next, such was the uncharted territory into which he was treading.

Miss Cunningham spoke to Harry for a few seconds, shaking his hand with a teary smile, and wishing him the very best with his new family. Harry, still, appeared as though wading through a dream, wishing his visions were reality and blinking constantly to ensure he was truly awake.

"Hold my hand, Harry," Hermione said, waving to him.

Harry looked relieved, rushing to Hermione and slipping his palm into hers. "Thank you, for everything," he muttered beneath his breath, so low that Mummy and Daddy couldn't hear.

"Not a problem," Hermione said. Mummy spoke to Daddy for a few seconds, words inaudible to Hermione, and she watched as an array of emotions crossed Daddy's face. A normal expression turned to sadness, then to an unbridled anger Hermione had only ever seen on one occasion, and then tight-lipped restraint. The restraint of Daddy's rage, no doubt.

Hermione understood the emotion, despite her young age—on the subject of Harry's past treatment at the hands of his relatives, parents or otherwise, she had to restrain her fury too.

"Come on, you two," Mummy said, waving Harry and Hermione over to the front door.

Hermione walked with Harry to the door left open by Daddy. The cold hit her first, November's air threatening to stifle them with chills, smells of metallic rust from old play equipment joining in the attack. But Hermione's euphoria, erupting in her chest like a volcano filled with nectar, washed away all forms of discomfort.

The warmth transferred between Harry's hand and hers was more than enough to battle the cold. And, with his ridged callouses cushioning her soft palm, they followed Mummy and Daddy to the family car, leaving the orphanage behind forever.

Hermione glanced back at the haunted-looking building, but now it didn't seem so scary. Only sad, weighed down, like the sorrow-filled lives of those within it had affected the infrastructure itself.

And, though she turned and gazed, she realised Harry didn't look back.

Not for a second.

Though on the surface appearing normal and rather stoically conserved, Catherine Granger seethed with a rage she barely managed to contain. The engine of the Ford Focus grated in the background, its rumble mimicking the revving of her heart, firing up bursts of anger rather than of acceleration. The family car, despite the vanilla air freshener dangling from the rear-view mirror like a climber off a cliff, was riddled with the smell of burning, as though the engine wasn't combusting, but every sense within Catherine instead.

She breathed in, letting the air diffuse into her lungs. Oxygen was meant to be fresh, after all, the life of the cell. But it felt like, for every ounce of carbon dioxide she exhaled, she inhaled it all right back in.

Glancing in the rear-view mirror whilst Mark drove them home, she noticed Harry and Hermione conversing in low tones, unconsciously leaning towards each other. Conversing might have been the wrong word, however, for they entailed two active participants.

As Catherine had suspected, her daughter was talking the boy's ears off, chattering away as she was prone to at times.

Harry was, understandably, excited. And yet when Catherine had turned to him in the orphanage after signing the foster papers, the boy's lips trembled, his legs shook, and his gaze was fixed to the ground.

Fear didn't begin to describe what the boy felt, for Miss Cunningham told Catherine everything she could glean regarding the boy's past, and after a quick visit to the relatives herself.

What she told Catherine chilled her blood and ignited that maternal rage all mothers held when children were abused.

For Harry was the worst case the orphanage had received in their long history. And Cunningham ensured to leave no fact out during Catherine's questioning.

Catherine glanced at the boy in the car again as the first detail skimmed her mind, of the abuse at the hands of his aunt and uncle. Starvation, sometimes for days on end, rendered his bones thin and lacking vital nutrients. His skin looked thinner than wisps of his black hair, and Catherine didn't need to look under Harry's shirt to know every single rib was painfully obvious to see.

"His relatives locked him in a cupboard, you see," Cunningham had said, leaning forwards in the reception so neither Harry, nor Mark and Hermione standing a few metres away, could hear. "The poor boy was trapped there for days on end at times. Only when I inquired further, the relatives held no stops about showing me the cupboard. They seemed almost proud—the worst sort of people, no doubt."

Catherine could do nothing but agree. A cupboard for a bedroom was atrocious. The cramped space, filled with dust and dirt and the creepy-crawlies all children were afraid of, would induce nightmares within any child. It was a miracle Harry hadn't already developed a severe case of claustrophobia, and was calmly sitting in the back of a locked car.

"Any kind of…inappropriate touching?" Catherine had asked. "Physical abuse or…even…"

Cunningham understood what Catherine meant. "From what I have observed, Harry does not exhibit signs of…sexual abuse." Even for a carer, squeezing the words out looked painful. "Though I suspect from his demeanour that physical discipline was employed on occasion."

No wonder he clammed up when I sat beside him, Catherine had thought. Especially since we were alone and I was a stranger to him—of course he wouldn't feel comfortable.

"Hermione mentioned something," Catherine told Cunningham. "That Harry doesn't have any friends—either from this orphanage or his time before. Is it merely shyness or…"

Cunningham flitted a glance to the boy, then returned to Catherine. "It is certainly possible that he is merely shy. Though, an aversion to even free play is strange for our children, to say the least. I know his cousin, of the same age, bullied him at home. Perhaps that fate extended to his school as well, since they both attended the same."

Catherine nodded, mulling the details over. Hermione was bullied at school herself—Catherine didn't know the full details, but mentions of Hermione's large front two teeth and her love of reading were common insults. For Harry to have suffered at school, and then face worse at home—the pain must have been crippling.

Hermione, at the very least, had a happy home life to retreat to. A sanctuary away from the jibes and comments and insults. A place of comfort, of peace, with those who loved her.

Harry—he had nowhere and no one.

Catherine gazed at him again, at the quiet curiosity in the boy's eyes, at the strange lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, at the way he clutched his rucksack close to his chest. She vowed to help him, for Harry deserved it perhaps more than anyone alive. Catherine had, at one point, felt as though Hermione was slipping away from her. But she supported Hermione to relieve her pain.

And now Harry would have the same support, from both Catherine and Mark.

Hopefully, Catherine prayed, it was enough.

A/N: Hope everyone enjoyed, and wishing you a wonderful week. Just a note to say that this is officially the end of the setup sequence for this fic, and the pace should pick up from now on, and chapters should begin to lengthen a bit as the story deepens. Oh, and lots more Harry and Hermione interaction to look forward to. So yay, and thanks again for reading.