A/N: Hope you all had a lovely week, and here's the next chappie. Someone complained about me using the word chappie a few weeks ago, and said it sounded juvenile. Well…considering I pretty much still am a juvenile, I shall progressively adhere to utilising vernacular befitting of my near-adolescent station.

Thanks, and enjoy!

Also FFN is being weird with formatting, so keep that in mind. Very strange website this is.

Chapter 9 - Cradle & Cherish

The Granger house was too big for Harry. Too large. Too scary. With tall ceilings like that haunted orphanage, hardwood floor that felt like it could crack any of his bones at will, and a staircase with edges hell-bent on hitting him, he was positively shaking the first moment he'd entered the house.

Hermione had tried to calm him, her soft voice whispering soothing words. But as much as Harry trusted his only friend in the world—if she even let him call her a friend—he didn't trust Hermione's parents. He recalled his uncle and aunt, and the way they smacked him upside the head for even thinking he had the same privilege as their real child.

How was Harry meant to know the same wouldn't happen now? For all Hermione spoke, she wasn't in the mind of her parents, and couldn't tell their true intentions in adopting Harry. She was a kid just like him.

What if they needed a child to do all the chores around the house? The sweeping and mopping and cleaning dirty filth they couldn't be bothered to deal with. Why pay for a cleaner when someone like Harry was around, willing to do it anyway, all for a cupboard to stay in?

Harry had tried to enter the cupboard, opening the door and stashing his rucksack inside before any of them could see. He'd moved to close the door, but Hermione realised quickly enough—the girl was far too perceptive for her own good—and grabbed the bag back out.

Harry had been shocked, and clutched his bag to himself, as tight as he could. His only prized possession in the world, the pocket watch from his parents holding his biggest secret, was hiding inside. A somewhat hidden compartment was in the rucksack, tucked beneath another little pouch, where his pocket watch sat comfortable and safe.

Even during dinner, Harry had slipped his rucksack beneath the table, perched against his legs. Those legs kept shaking, however, from the fear of eating with the rest of the family. The Dursleys had played that trick on him once—inviting him to sit with them at their spacious dining set, before throwing him off the table the first time he reached for a sandwich.

The words that followed were etched into his mind, burning themselves in like a permanent brand. Freak, you don't eat with normal people like us. Not someone like you. And you better remember that, boy.

Harry did remember. He remembered far too clearly, far too vividly, and that incident replayed across his mind and eyes as the pasta wafted its heavenly scent up towards him. He'd ignored the food for long enough, stomach feeling utterly empty but not rumbling—rumbling wasn't allowed, and the sensation had been beaten out of Harry long ago.

Mrs Granger had asked him to eat, and Harry almost shed tears at the dilemma. Either listen to Mrs Granger and face receiving a punishment worse than anything he'd ever felt. Or not listening, and bringing that punishment upon himself anyway far sooner than he expected.

He'd glanced at Hermione, and she gave a slow nod. Harry ate a forkful of pasta, and it inched its way down his throat, to his stomach. If anything, he grew even hungrier, but didn't dare sneak another mouthful whilst Mr and Mrs Granger were right there. Hermione was happy to chirp along beside him, telling him all sorts of details Harry could only half listen to for fear of what Mr and Mrs Granger would do to him if he let his guard down.

Mrs Granger kept smiling at him. She'd smiled at him when claiming that children didn't sleep in cupboards, but Harry knew that was merely a trick. Merely a game she was playing, toying with Harry a little before the real punishments were sent down. Mrs Granger's smiles at Hermione were radiant and wonderful—the ones at Harry conveyed a coyness to them, both giver and receiver knowing that working to the death would commence from the next day.

With the Dursleys, Harry found a sense of comfort—at least he knew the habits of his relatives, knew the pain they could cause when provoked, knew the methods they would use when dishing out what freaks deserved. And that meant skirting around them proved easier, since Harry knew what to expect.

But here, in the Granger household, Harry didn't know the customs, didn't know the temperaments of Mr and Mrs Granger, didn't know the methods they used for punishing. And that sunk horror deep into his bones, such that by the end of dinner he felt like a blubbering mess ready to explode from fright. And the look Mrs Granger was giving him didn't help—that same smile as before plastered itself across her face like a creepy clown's permanent grin.

Harry stood to clear the table, grabbing everyone's plates—two on his right arm, two on his left, balanced with an ease punished into him—and striding to where he'd noticed the kitchen before. He heard a voice behind him, likely Mr or Mrs Granger telling him to get a move on, so quickened his pace.

He couldn't quite reach the sink properly just yet, so he glanced around the shining too-bright white tiles and faint smell of disinfectant that pressed into his nostrils as if trying to clean him. A little stool had shoved itself into a corner behind the sleek, black fridge. Harry grabbed it, after placing the dirty dishes on the marble counter, and dragged it over to the sink. Its scrape sounded like nails across a classroom chalkboard, and Harry winced at the noise.

He was about to step onto it and begin cleaning, as he had done all the time in his relative's house, but a cough from the door stilled his body. And Harry Potter knew he'd made a mistake somewhere, knew that the cough was a prelude to his first punishment in the Granger house, despite the hopes Hermione had filled him with in the car through her nice words.

Harry didn't turn at first, instead climbing onto the stool whilst his legs shook as if an erupting volcano. That was the rule, after all—just because someone was present, that didn't excuse him from carrying out the chores. He shot a glance at the dirty dishes, and reached over to touch the first one.

But a hand on his arm stopped him. A hand that pinched his skin and, through it, his bones. A hand that was about to hurt him beyond anything he'd ever experienced.

Harry recoiled backwards, falling off the stool as his balance toppled as though a stack of cards collapsing in on itself. He yelped, involuntarily, despite the fact that the sound would only worsen the incoming punishment. Harry had learnt that from experience—a terrifying experience.

He'd survived for about an hour or two in his new house, managed to avoid the Grangers' wrath for a little while longer than he'd expected. But the pain was imminent, was inevitable, and Harry had been foolish for risking to think otherwise.

He braced himself for impact on the tiled floor, knowing that the tensing of his stomach could only do so much to soften the blow. He hoped a bone didn't break, for the last time his arm broke, Uncle Vernon had almost broken the other one, and loathed compulsory trips to the hospital for concerns that Harry, a freak doing the work around the house, would be inspected by the authorities.

But the pain never ruptured his spine, his back, never filtered down right to the tips of his toes. Rather, a soft cradle leaned against Harry, or perhaps he was leaning against it, and he almost recoiled again had it not been for the cradle's softness. The cradle had stopped his fall, and righted him on still trembling legs.

Harry's eyes had closed, and the blackness of his eyelids swirled as though attempting to hypnotise him. He clamped his eyes harder shut, waiting for the inevitable smack to come, waiting for the first of the blows to rain down.

It was sure to happen, wasn't it? As sure as the fact that Harry was a freak, the fact that he didn't belong in any family, let alone one with as nice a house as the Grangers.

But another surprise was in store for him, for the blows never arrived. The pain never crushed his body and soul in one hit.

Instead, a soft voice caused Harry's eyes to inch open again. A voice that Harry knew wouldn't hurt him.

Hermione's voice.

"It's okay, Harry," Hermione said, staring right into his eyes when he opened them.

Harry glanced around, the feeling of softness still flush against this back. He turned to find Mrs Granger holding onto him, and Harry jumped forwards, shame flooding his cheeks in red, legs almost giving away again had he not clutched onto the chilled marble counter.

Mrs Granger's arm was still outstretched, her eyes wide as the plates Harry had wished to wash—that he was supposed to wash, had he not failed in his chore.

"Harry, you don't have to wash anything," Hermione said, just as Harry reached for the plate again. "You don't have to do any of that." She stepped closer, and Harry noticed Mr Granger lurking in the background, no doubt to watch the beating with glee and, if possible, join in himself. "You don't have to do any of that. You never have to do that whilst you're here, okay, unless I do it as well."

Harry wanted to believe her words, wanted so badly to let that dream shoved into the back of his mind come to fruition. But he was a freak, and freaks didn't get happy endings. The ugly characters in classroom movies were always left on the side—like Cinderella's sisters. And Harry was just another ugly character, destined for festering at the bottom of the world, under the boot of families like the Grangers, whilst the Cinderellas like Hermione would flourish as was always supposed to be.

"Harry, what are you afraid of?" Mrs Granger asked. She kept her hands behind her back, likely clasped together for easy tension when striking Harry, as she crept forwards. She plastered that smile on her face again, and Harry shivered upon seeing it. "You mentioned rules before. What kind of rules were you speaking of?"

Harry burrowed his gaze into the white tiles on the floor. But all they did was reflect the light right back into his eyes, as if attempting to blind him. He glanced outside instead, but all that served was to highlight the darkness of the world as the sun had set. A deep and deadly darkness waiting to swallow Harry whole should he dare to step outside.

He was, in the Grangers lair, well and truly trapped. With not a shred of escape. Meaning he'd have to answer every question of their interrogation.

"The rules are…" Harry's voice trailed off, face growing ever hotter from not just embarrassment, but fear too. As though a hot furnace was right behind him instead of the sink, and it was threatening to overtake his body with flames.

"The rules are what, Harry?" Hermione asked, stepping closer to him. She didn't attempt to touch him, and Harry was thankful for that. His reaction wouldn't be pretty, given the jitters taking over his senses. He needed as much distance as possible from the rest of them. He needed a cupboard he could hide in.

But with Mr Granger blocking the exit of the kitchen, Harry hadn't a way out at all. And, from the look on his face, all serious with narrowed eyebrows, he didn't plan on budging any time soon.

"Freaks aren't allowed to eat with everyone else," Harry said, letting out a breath. "That's…one of the rules." There were more, far more, but Harry didn't want to let them spill. He ducked his head, anticipating the swing to come from Mrs Granger, who stood not one metre from him.

But only rushing air met his head, blowing in from an ajar window to his right. Mrs Granger stood stock still, eyes growing wider than Harry imagined was possible.

"Harry, you aren't a freak," she said, and now she was as close as Hermione, trapping Harry near the sink. They were advancing on him, like lions in those documentaries hunting their prey. And Harry couldn't stand it, not at all.

He wished the ground would just open up and swallow him whole. And then he could escape in the darkness therein, and not have to worry about those seeking to hurt him.

"Harry, no one's a freak. Not you, or anyone else," Mrs Granger continued. Her smile fell for a different expression that Harry barely caught as his gaze dropped for what seemed the thousandth time that day. "Miss Cunningham…she told me what happened, Harry. She told me what…what they used to do to you, and it's not right. None of it's right. And that…those horrible things won't happen here, okay. They will never happen. You have my oath, as well as Mark's, and Hermione's. It's a promise, Harry. A promise from us, to you."

Harry raised his eyes for just a second, and spied something in Mrs Granger's eyes that he'd never thought was possible. They were watery—watery with tears unshed.

Tears…for him?

No, they couldn't be for him. That wasn't real, wasn't supposed to happen. He was a freak, through and through, and that meant anyone meeting him would hate him. Would bully him. Would think of him as the scum under their feet, as the Dursleys had done.

But Mrs Granger was crying for him, it seemed. He didn't wish to believe it…

But if it meant she wouldn't smack him upside the head, or lock him in that cupboard for days on end…then Harry was willing to go along with it.

For now, Harry was willing to persevere. To believe what he knew were lies, for his own safety. At least for the time being.

The threat would always be over his head. The threat, despite the Grangers' promises, of pain and suffering far worse than anything Harry had experienced before.

But Harry had a way to delay it. And if that meant acting like everything was okay, then he would snatch the chance.

Despite how much it could hurt him, in the end.

That evening had been wrought with technicalities, in Hermione Granger's eyes. Actually, technicalities was the wrong word. Perhaps complications would be a better description of Hermione's tumultuous thoughts regarding her new friend, and brother, Harry Potter.

Hermione had been bullied before, sometimes viciously, to the point of thick, hot tears dribbling down her face, as though her skin was a football pitch and those footballers Daddy watched were wearing boots of fire. But never had she reacted as Harry had in the kitchen. Never had she thought such a reaction was even possible.

The boy had been positively shaken, trapped, lip trembling and eyes downcast, hands stuck to his sides as though a single movement would cause the earth to destruct.

And all throughout, as Hermione and Mummy tried to coax answers from Harry, Daddy behind them to allow them space, pity thundered her chest with every heartbeat.

And Mummy had spoken of what Harry's old relatives had done to him, and Hermione's mind whirled as to just how bad it could have been. Just how many times had Harry suffered over the years?

And then, almost inexplicably, Harry's chest loosened, and he shyly picked up the black stool—which Hermione hadn't used in months—and placed it in its perch beside the fridge.

He then wordlessly stood in front of Daddy and Mummy, waiting for them to tell him what to do. Waiting as if the events of the last ten minutes had vanished from history.

Mummy calmed after that, taking Harry to his bedroom, whilst Daddy stayed and spoke to Hermione in the kitchen.

Daddy carried that musky scent about him, as always, but the too-bright white tiles and ebbing darkness outside overloaded her senses. Daddy's scent was being well and truly masked.

"What just happened?" Daddy asked, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "I felt like things were good in the car right, princess. And then…something changed." He switched his gaze to where Hermione stood leaning against the marble counter which had sequins squinting inside. "Any ideas what that could've been about?"

"I don't know, Daddy," Hermione replied. "I—Harry seemed so normal in the car. Like a normal friend. But then he—when we were coming inside, he looked so scared. He looked like he didn't…didn't want to come inside ever." Hermione's eyes, like Mummy's had done earlier, sprouted fresh tears. "Does that mean Harry has to go back, because he doesn't like it here? Do we have to take him back to the orphanage?"

Daddy hugged her close to his warm chest as she let those tears out. As she soaked his shirt, he whispered sweet words to her, telling her that everything was going to be all right, that Harry would be fine with them as his new family, that Hermione and Harry would grow to be as thick as thieves but without the crime.

And when Hermione broke the hug and stared up with watery eyes, he said the most important words of the entire ordeal.

"Harry's our family now, princess. And that means, regardless of the problems we face, we don't run away from them. We work through them and come out stronger on the other side. That's what being family is, after all."

Now, after reminiscing the events of the day whilst lying under the soft covers of her bed, those last words were all Hermione could think about. They replayed like a chant in her head, reinforcing the responsibility she now had as Harry's older sibling, and as a big girl like Mummy.

Hermione swivelled her head to the windows spanning the far side of her bedroom. Usually, even at night, those windows would sparkle with reflections of moonlight. But today, it was only a stilted darkness that met her. A darkness that wanted to swallow her up rather than comfort her.

She'd spent the evening trying to bury herself in a book, rereading The Hobbit. But she couldn't sink into the descriptions, couldn't let Tolkien's wonderful world gobble her attention up. None of it worked, and as she placed the tome back on her shelf, her thoughts returned to Harry just like usual.

Mummy told him to take an early night, after the drama of the day. She never used that word, though—drama. She said Harry needed his rest because tomorrow was a special day, and that every day after that would also be special. A series of special days for a child that had never experienced anything special.

Harry had walked off to his room, with that same empty look in his eyes, hand clenched around his rucksack but face devoid of any sort of emotion. He wasn't smiling, wasn't as bright as Hermione had seen in the car. But he wasn't crying, and he wasn't fearful, or tearful, and that was an improvement.

And as Mummy said many times, improvement was better than staying exactly the same.

Hermione smelled a mustiness in the air, as though the orphanage's dust had travelled to their home along with Harry. Turning over, Hermione gave a sigh, tucked her head against her pillow. Warmth enveloped her, but cold stained her feet. As though, no matter how comfortable she felt, a little of Harry's discomfort would extend to her.

And, as she attempted to sleep, her mind went to that boy in another room across the hall, on the opposite side to Mummy's study, who was finally, for the first time in his life, spending the night where he was wanted, not hated.

In the opposite corner of the house from Hermione's room, Catherine Granger sat on the edge of her king's size bed, mind engulfed by the same darkness that the rest of the family saw, Harry included. Her room was typically warm from the comfort her husband provided, his very presence like a miniature sun, but today had presented a different sort of trouble for Catherine, far from the squabbles of a dentist practice and an argument in the street.

"What's on your mind?" Mark asked, sitting next to her and lifting a hand to hers. The warmth passing through pulsed straight to Catherine's heart. "You look like…"

"Like I've just gone through the wringer?" Catherine said with a laugh. She sniffed Mark's musky scent, a scent Hermione had also commented on one time, a scent that seemed to embrace her and hold on. "Yes, I guess you could put it that way. It's just…I feel for that boy."

"You told me earlier he was abused by his relatives rather extensively," Mark said. "I didn't believe it would be that bad. We've all heard horror stories of children being abused in the paper…but seeing it in person was…was another experience entirely."

"That boy has a lot of healing to go through," Catherine said, clutching the duvet in her free hand. It felt like a chicken's feet as opposed to soft velvet. "A lot of healing and…we're his family now. We made that promise to him, to help him become the best version of himself."

"He's as much ours as Hermione is," Mark said with a nod. He squeezed Catherine's hand, another pulse of warmth travelling to Catherine's chest. "And we have to do right by him. All of us, including Hermione. That's what he deserves, least of all."

Catherine stared out of the window, then lowered her gaze to the bed they both perched on the edge of. "This is…new for me, too," Catherine said. "It's one thing to notify authorities as a medical professional, it's another thing entirely to…actually look after that child on a full time basis."

"You have help," Mark said. "Anytime I have I'll come back from the practice and do what's needed. And the social worker can give us insights too, as well as Harry. And then there's Hermione. If the car ride was any indication, I daresay she's rather attached to her new brother. "

"That she is," Catherine chuckled, an image of them speaking in the rear of the car flashing to mind. Then her voice died, cut as instantly as a television's severed wire blinking the screen. "I always used to think children like Harry couldn't heal…that they'd always have that scar on their heart. I—I used to believe that they would live with the horrors for the rest of their life and never get over it. I…now it's strange, because I don't just want to disbelieve in what I first thought—I have to."

"That may be what we first think, that they are irreparable," Mark said. "There's no way for us to know…but scars aren't always negative. They are proof of what the person has overcome…and that's something to cherish, too. And Harry…he's a fighter, I can see in his eyes. If anyone can get over what he has suffered, it's Harry."

Catherine's feet wrapped itself in a cloak of coldness. She shivered, and then turned to Mark, their hands still transferring warmth between each other. "We'll cherish him, won't we?" she whispered, unsure despite the conviction in her heart towards her new boy.

"For the rest of our lives," Mark said, voice strong, and Catherine found comfort in that, no matter how long it took, they would help Harry heal. "Harry won't be alone, without a family, no more."

A/N: The story is definitely heating up, at least in my opinion (not that I'm biased, no no no). Hope you all enjoyed, and see you next Saturday, where we'll pretty much approach the halfway point of this story. Nice little milestone that I just made up right now to feel better about myself haha. Take care this next week, wherever you are!