A/N: New week, new chapter. Hope you all enjoy, and wishing you the best wherever you are.

Chapter 6 - Questions & Answers

Harry didn't know what to make of the woman in front of him. He hadn't seen her in the play area before, and hadn't a clue why she'd sought him out of all people. The other children in the orphanage were far more interesting, backgrounds filled with hilarious stories to tell, personalities more fleshed out as opposed to the contours Harry clutched onto. He wasn't a person, merely a silhouette, a kind of shadow that lived in the corners of the world.

And most of all, he was a freak.

So why was this woman trying to talk to him, a freak, instead of one of the others?

Harry didn't know, but he wasn't an impolite person. Ignoring the dampness of the mattress tickling his nostrils, and the nervous heat racing across his arms and legs, he stooged at the edge of the bunk bed, not raising his head to look at the woman.

"Harry, is that your name?" the woman asked.

Harry didn't say a word, as if some otherworldly force had clamped a hand over his throat. A force that resembled, rather closely, Uncle Vernon's beady fingers with more fat than the beef Harry cooked for him. The virtual noose tightened, stopping his words from releasing.

The woman's body cast off a shadow, fluttering and flitting and floating ominously, as though a monster in the dark waiting to grab him. He clamped his fingers onto the edge of the bed. Even Miss Cunningham's presence caused a sweat to break out on his forehead, let alone a random woman he'd never met before.

"Harry, can you look at me please? I just want to—to talk to you, and ask a few questions if that's okay with you?"

The mattress made his fingers even more clammy, and his entire body felt frozen, but he managed to jerk a nod. His neck cricked from the motion, and it took every bit of willpower the boy had not to nurse the pain shooting up to his right ear and into his brain like Aunt Petunia was hitting his skull with an icepick.

Ignoring the pain, Harry glanced up at the woman. Brown curls cascaded down to her shoulders like they were holding them in comfort. Her skin shone far more than the light coming in through the stained window, and her eyes were alight with something Harry thought was curiosity, or maybe pity. He couldn't tell clearly. And that unsettled him more than anything else—not knowing.

He lowered his gaze, past the puffed jacket the woman wore, and the flowing blue dress beneath it, back to the crimson carpet. And burrowed his gaze inside the fabric, wishing he never had to look up again.

"Or maybe I could look down," the woman muttered. She crouched before him, bending her knees, and waited. Patiently. Not saying a word, and the room suddenly became stifling. Far too hot. Clammy and unnerving. Heady smell of strangeness almost intoxicating. And overwhelming. And the silence turned to claws digging into Harry's skin.

"My name is Harry," he breathed out, and the words seemed to cool the world by a thousand degrees. He sucked in another breath, before letting it out. "I—Harry Potter."

The woman extended a hand. "Hello, Harry Potter. My name's Catherine Granger. Lovely to meet you."

Harry shook her hand, ignoring the pulse of warmth that travelled from her fingers into every corner of his body. He knew what loving parents were—Dudley felt that from Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, after all. And Harry knew that the warmth was a reminder of what he couldn't grasp, what he could never grasp, because he was a freak through and through.

"Why are you…here?" Harry asked, lowering his hand back to the mattress and gripping it hard.

"My daughter told me about you, and I wanted to get to know you better." Catherine Granger was still crouched, and Harry wondered how badly her legs were hurting. Whenever he had bent his legs like that, typically doing chores like sweeping and mopping for the Dursleys, his knees and hips burned like Dudley had lit a match and thrown it at him.

"You can sit here," Harry said, scooting to one side of the bed and giving Catherine space. Catherine plopped herself beside him, bowing her head so as not to bump it against the bed frame.

"Thank you very much, Harry," Catherine said, voice as velvety as the fabrics in arts and crafts class back at Privet Primary School. Her smile was just as radiant.

Harry's cheeks reddened, because he'd very rarely received thanks in his life. He didn't deserve it, since he was abnormal and odd, and so whenever someone gave it to him he didn't know how to handle it.

"Umm…questions?" Harry asked, returning his gaze to the floor. Catherine wore leather boots, too, except instead of the red Hermione was wearing, the colour was jet black.

She's Hermione's mother, Harry realised with a start, recalling Catherine's last name, and he barely restrained the surprise from appearing on his face.

"I know you talked to Hermione," Catherine said. "Do you remember her?"

Harry nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He didn't trust himself in anything, if he was being honest.

"She said that…you called yourself a freak." Catherine's voice was gentle, soothing as a lullaby sent down from some heaven above that Harry couldn't reach yet. "Why would you say that about yourself?"

Harry glanced at her. It must've been some kind of trick question. Wasn't it obvious? Harry was a freak because he was unloved, unwanted, and had strange occurrences around him. But a woman like Catherine would never understand, because she was normal like the Dursleys. Perfectly normal, thank you very much. She was like the rest of the world, distanced from the freaks of life like Harry Potter.

"Hermione told me that strange things happen around you. What kind of things, Harry?" Catherine leaned closer to him, and Harry unconsciously tugged himself to the edge of the bed frame, as if its chilling metal provided more comfort than Hermione's mother's warmth.

"It's true," Harry said, and that was all he wished to say on the matter.

Unfortunately, it wasn't all Catherine wanted to hear.

"But children aren't freaks for no reason," Catherine said. "Everyone deserves a loving family. Do you believe that, Harry?"

Harry didn't move for a second, thinking it was another trick. Something else to sway him into an answer before shoving it back in his face.

"No," Harry muttered when it was clear Catherine wouldn't continue without receiving an answer from him.

"Why not? Who doesn't deserve a family?"

"Freaks," Harry said, back now flush against the frame of the bunk bed. He averted his gaze from Catherine's eyes to the cracked wall. Ajit told him the wall had cracked from the room's previous occupant, who'd gotten so angry one day he slammed a cricket bat—a real one, not the plastic ones they used now—right into the wall. Some of the wallpaper shavings still rooted themselves in the carpet, right on the borders of the room—

"Freaks that do strange things?" Catherine asked, breaking into Harry's thoughts like her words were a hammer. "Strange things like moving objects, or making random things pop, or changing other people's hair colour?"

Harry's eyes snapped back to Catherine's, and his heart jumped to his throat, blocking him from saying anything. From letting anything slip.

It was just like the Dursleys. When they pretended to understand him, and understand his freakishness, before shoving him back into the cupboard with a sinful grin and hatred bubbling in their eyes.

"You're good," Harry muttered, calming his breathing again. He gulped air down like a fish out of water. "Good at pretending."

Catherine didn't let the ruse up, eyes still shining, mouth still upturned in what looked like a false smile to Harry. "But I'm not pretending. Not at all, actually. Should I let you in on a secret?" She leaned in, closer, until her head was almost touching Harry's, and whispered, "Hermione has the same strange things happening around her. Do you think she's a freak, too?"

Harry's eyes widened, and he jumped from the bed. Panic seized his chest, his throat, his stomach acid flying up to join the panic. Nausea crippled him as he hit the ground dizzy. Feet almost slipping on carpet, he ran to the door and tugged it open.

"Harry," he heard behind him, but his senses, perhaps seeking to protect him, warped the call out. Only the rushing of blood sounded in his mind, as well as thoughts louder than drums and gongs smacked together and enhanced by speakers.

Harry spotted Miss Cunningham in the hall, staring at him with shock on her features, but he turned the other way. He needed to be alone, needed somewhere to hide, a cupboard like the one the Dursleys shoved him into. He bounded towards the stairs, walls turning into a mesh of grunge around him, danger of a kind he couldn't fathom snaring his senses.

Climbing down two steps at a time, he didn't see the streak of bushy brown right around the corner.

"Daddy, isn't Mummy taking a bit too long?" Hermione asked. Her legs still jittered, as they had done the second Mummy left the meeting room. Turning to Daddy, she tilted her head in questioning.

Light from the window bounced off Daddy's face when he answered, making his skin resemble an angel's. "What if they're just having one of those long conversations, princess? You know the ones Mummy has sometimes when she wants to talk far too much."

"But Harry doesn't talk much," Hermione countered, shaking her head so much a lock of hair flew into her mouth. Daddy, with his warm touch and soft fingers, quickly pulled the strands back. "When I talked to him…he didn't say much at all," Hermione continued. "Just looked at the floor the whole time."

"Did he ever mention why he thinks he's a freak?" Daddy asked in a low tone, so none of the other parents could hear. "It's not normal, at least from my life experiences, to hear a child call themselves that. Usually…someone has to tell them that for them to believe it. Someone has to tell them that…repeatedly."

Hermione gasped, the implications dawning on her, and her limbs shook even more—this time with anger. Face heating up from the rage bubbling in her heart, she asked, "Do you think Harry's old parents told him he's a freak? Is that why he always says that?"

"I don't think it was his parents, princess," Daddy said. "Parents, good parents, would never do that. I guess…we can never truly know until Harry himself tells us."

"So let's find out," Hermione said, jumping from the chair and landing on firm carpet. She implored Daddy with her classic doe eyes—like usual, Daddy relented.

"Mummy is taking a little long," Daddy said, interlacing his fingers with Hermione's. They walked to the door and inched it open, before slipping through to the silent-as-a-graveyard hall. "Let's see what Mummy's up to then, shall we, my lovely daughter who is more cute than—"

"It's cuter, Daddy," Hermione corrected with a giggle, pulling him along the thin stretch of carpet to the staircase propped on the other side.

Her smile faded as, all throughout, her thoughts flitted to Harry, and the pain he must've suffered in life to call himself a freak. Hermione's Daddy always let her bask in an almost heavenly praise, sometimes going so overboard that Hermione's cheeks would burn redder than a tomato in the Sahara Desert. Aside from the occasional telling off, the thought of her parents branding her a name, let alone one so disgusting and insulting, was…unthinkable.

And yet Harry had referred to himself as a freak, and fully believed it, asserted the notion as though it was the only truth in the universe. The only thing he truly believed in.

So lost was Hermione in her thoughts that she didn't realise her fingers had slipped from Daddy's hand, nor did she see the body rushing down the staircase two steps at a time like some feverish hound from a horror movie.

The body smacked right into her, knocking the breath out of her and flinging her backwards, off the first step, and right onto the floo—

Daddy's arms caught her, cradling her in a softness that was far better than the hard and crusty carpet.

Bushy hair blinded her for a second, but a quick swipe cleared her vision. Harry looked down at her, mouth agape, apology and guilt written in his eyes like spilling pages waiting to be read.

Daddy set her on unsteady feet, arm around her in case she decided to topple once again. Hermione had never had the best of balance, after all.

"I'm sorry," Harry blurted, switching gaze from Hermione to Daddy and back to her. "I—I didn't mean…I swear I didn't…" He glanced back, arms shaking and legs jittery, moments from combusting with nervous energy, swivelling around like an animal being preyed on. "I…I'm sorry, Hermione...I didn't—"

"Harry?" Daddy asked, voice cushioned to the extent that Hermione almost missed it.

"That's Harry," Hermione confirmed.

When Mummy came around the corner of the stairs, huffing and puffing rather comically, Harry broke into a run again, flashing past Hermione and Daddy, legs more like pistons firing him to the other end of the hallway.

He disappeared around a corner, and a loud bang raced towards them from the other side. Where on earth had he gone?

"I don't know why he ran," Mummy said, voice hoarse as she stared after him. "I just…asked him a few questions, and he panicked and ran off."

Behind Mummy stood Miss Cunningham, as Hermione learned her name was. She looked sorrowful more than anything, and muttered an apology to Mummy and Daddy over Harry's behaviour, and assured that the other children weren't so boisterous.

Murmuring beneath her breath, Cunningham went off to grab another carer capable of retrieving Harry, leaving the Grangers alone in the hallway.

Hermione stared after where Harry had sprinted, wondering what had turned him so…worried about everything. Wondering what had…changed him from a quiet and reserved child to the panic-stricken victim who appeared wracked with guilt. Without thinking, she slipped out from Daddy's arms and sprinted to where Harry had disappeared. She reached the other side quickly enough, Mummy and Daddy on her tail, but all that met her was a dead end that mimicked an alcove, curved off from the rest of the orphanage.

Where on earth had Harry gone? He'd all but disappeared into thin air, from the looks of it.

The brick wall staring at her presented nothing of note. Cream in colour, dried paint with flings of dust streaking down like tears after a funeral—and the smell was awful, wrinkling Hermione's nose like she was in a skunk's backyard.

But something odd struck her about the wall. The tear tracks of paint stopped in the middle, for a few centimetres, a little strangely to Hermione's eye. Mummy and Daddy must've caught it as well, since Mummy marched forwards and stroked a hand over the wall. Her fingers caught in a little crevice, and she gasped in surprise.

"There's a latch here," she muttered. "Harry must be hiding insi—"

"Go away," the voice came from inside. Then, "I'm sorry…I didn't mean—Hermione's not a freak, but I am. I didn't mean to say…"

The boy was blubbering from inside, blurting whatever came to mind, and Hermione knew the spiral in Harry's mind mirrored the spiral in hers, as if they shared one conscience.

"Did he call me a freak?" Hermione said, grasping onto the odd detail. That didn't seem like the Harry she'd met. Then again, the Harry she'd spoken to called himself a freak, so who knew what else he deemed as freakish?

Mummy shook her head. "Not at all. In fact…I think he's confused more than anything. A confused, confused child."

"Can I speak to Harry?" Hermione asked, ignoring that Mummy had said 'confused' twice. "I…he talked to me before, maybe he can talk to me again." She leaned in, voice a whisper that carried across the alcove they stood in. "And…I think he's scared of adults."

"That is the impression I got, too," Mummy said. She shared one of her looks with Daddy, and they stepped back together, to the door leading towards the rest of the orphanage. "We'll wait outside and tell the carers when they arrive," Mummy said, a sad look in her eyes. "Let us know when you're done, sweetie. And don't worry, we'll be right here if anything happens, okay."

Hermione nodded, then turned to where Mummy found the little handle to open the cupboard door. She breathed deeply, letting confidence fill her lungs. She was a big girl now, and that meant helping other people the way Mummy helped them. That meant shelving her judgements and her preconceived notions, like dentists did, and solving problems with a patient's best interest in mind.

Hermione leaned in, but Harry was the first to speak.

"Whoever it is, go away," Harry said. "Miss Cunningham…leave me alone, please. I need…my cupboard."

"Your cupboard?" Hermione asked before she even knew the words left her mind through her mouth. "You have a cupboard?"

"Is that you, Hermione?" Harry asked. Something rattled inside, but Harry gave no indication of opening the cupboard door. A silence pervaded, thick with a heaviness that weighed Hermione down, as if seeking to crush her against the carpet. "Do you want to come inside?" Harry finally asked, words eking out like a massive squeeze was required to release them. "There's space in here. And…there's no one out there that can hear us."

Hermione glanced back at her parents. She wished to help Harry, to speak with him on his own terms and understand his problems. Understand just why the boy called himself a freak when no one in the world, especially not a child her own age, deserved to be called such a horrible name.

"Only if we can keep the door a bit open," Hermione said, after seeing Mummy and Daddy's encouraging smiles. "I don't want my parents to be worried, after all, and they wouldn't want me to be alone with a boy in a cupboard."

Harry seemed happy with that. A rattle seized Hermione's ears, louder than a gong going off at a festival, and then the hatch opened. Harry stared at her, then dropped his gaze as if it burned him, and then waved her inside without a word.

Catherine Granger stood outside the door leading to the section where Harry had run off to in his panic-stricken sprint. She squeezed in a musty breath, let it collect with the fears and trepidation in her lungs, before releasing it back out. Mark's hand gathered in hers, and she knew the comfort she sought from her husband matched the comfort he sought from her.

That had been the tale of their relationship, after all. Borne from a sense of longing that resulted in a give and take which defined their interactions even now. They weren't concerned with receiving, only giving as much as possible. And that caused a bond stronger than perhaps the fabric of space and time itself.

And now Harry, the little boy so broken inside it seemed almost unbelievable, was making that first step right before her eyes. The step that Catherine had been so afraid of—opening up to someone else, coming out of her shell, extending a hand when her own was bruised and battered from failed attempts before.

The bond of love—whether between spouses or siblings or friends—was something everyone deserved. Especially children with nothing left to lose. Especially those on the ragged edges of life, seeking something so alien its arrival felt less likely than an asteroid carrying the holy grail.

"You know, I should be a lot more worried about my daughter going into a cupboard alone with a boy," Mark said into her ear.

"Oh hush, you," Catherine said with a chuckle, resisting the urge to swat her husband's shoulder. Instead, she pushed her free hand into her coat pocket, revelling in the warmth that met her.

And she stared at the slightly ajar cupboard door, through which Hermione's red leather boot was visible. Catherine knew, somewhere deep inside her, that the conversation to take place would change all their lives eternally.

Change their lives in a way she had never, ever imagined.

A/N: Soooo, what do you think of the chappie? Liked it? (I like it, but I'm biased of course.) Hated the cliffie at the end? (what are they going to talk about in the cupboard, I wonder?) Wished I would drop the entire rest of the fic tomorrow as a special present? (sorry guys, but my sanity would break down if I tried to proofread 80k in a day.) Just to assure you guys, the pace of the story will definitely pick up, don't worry I'm not spending twenty chapters at the orphanage. The setup for this story just takes some time, and when we reach near the ending you'll understand how everything culminates together. Symbolism and all that good stuff!

In any case, wishing you the best of the coming week, and see you next Saturday!