A/N: FFN is being a lil weird with the formatting, so be aware that italics might not be put as italics. If it's fine, then just ignore this A/N please. Enjoy!

Chapter 8 - Discoveries and Promises

Usually, when Harry Potter's neck ached, it was for a number of reasons. Three of them he thought about now.

Firstly, if Aunt Petunia had smacked his ear with those palms of hers that were more akin to two fly swatters attached to her body. Despite the skinny frame on his aunt, her slaps carried a velocity that, upon impact, hurt ten times worse than imagined. Harry, after the first time, learned to steer clear, although that wasn't always possible.

Secondly, if Harry slept in an odd position. Given his cupboard under the stairs back at his aunt and uncle's house, a neck crick after an uncomfortable sleep was a regular occurrence. It would take hours for the pain to subside, and the throbbing took hours more.

Thirdly, if Dudley decided to go Harry Hunting at school again with Piers and Morgan. Dudley would, when the teacher wasn't looking or had averted their gaze, grab Harry by the scruff of his shirt and pull him to the ground. Harry's neck, naturally, absorbed the brunt of the damage. The teachers, either willfully ignorant or unaware, did nothing to help him.

A reason he hadn't factored in, however, was from the sheer amount of nodding Hermione was subjecting him to in the backseat of their family car. Nodding, specifically, at the stream of words flowing from the girl's mouth.

Whilst the Dursley's car was old, half-broken down, and with an odd stench about it as though his uncle used it as a personal bathroom, the Granger's car put Harry immediately at ease.

Though he didn't let himself completely sink into the soft leather seats, he could admire the cushion against his spine. A vanilla scent meandered through the vehicle, as though showing off its subtle smell. And Harry felt, for the first time, that November's clouds had parted to reveal a shining sun beaming directly into the airy Ford Focus.

"So, then Miss Peregrine told me that my essay was the best of the class," Hermione was saying, to which Harry nodded. "I got almost full marks, just under a hundred percent. She told me—and don't tell anyone else at school this—that no one else got above eighty. I was ever so pleased, let me tell you. And then I went and researched more on hippopotamus eating habits, at the library near our house." Her eyes lit up. "That's right, you haven't been there yet. I can't wait to take you. It's huge with so many shelves that Mr Winks, the librarian, needs a ladder to reach them. And he's like so tall, and—"

"That's all right, Hermione," Mr Granger said, popping the virtual bubble that had insulated Harry and Hermione from the world it seemed. They both turned to face him, though Harry noted Hermione's slightly irritated smile at being interrupted. "There will be time to take Harry to the library later, princess. And every other attraction London has to offer, of course. We can't be reading all the time, can we?"

Hermione grumbled something suspiciously close to "Who said we couldn't?" before falling silent and looking out of the window, where trees and countryside flicked past as meshes of green and lighter green, with animals sprinkled in between like chocolate chips on cookies.

Harry had barely been in the orphanage for a week, and he'd already been adopted—it was still surreal to think about. Some of the other children there had been stuck for years without finding foster parents. Some, like Jackson, tried ever so hard to impress—and yet Harry wasn't sure whether Jackson had found a couple willing to take him in.

Heck, Harry hadn't even been signed up for the local primary school near the orphanage—he'd been assigned pockets of work to do whilst the registration process wore on. But that wouldn't be needed now—not when Harry had a family willing to register him in Hermione's school, where Harry would, at the very least, have one friend.

Despite his short stay at the orphanage, though, the others mostly seemed happy for him. Jackson's face fell when Harry broke the news, but Ajit and a few of the other boys and girls congratulated him and wished him the best. But all Harry could focus on was Jackson, and how that boy deserved a family so much more than freaks like Harry.

"...are you listening, Harry?" a voice said from beside him.

He jumped up, seatbelt saving him from smacking his head into the roof. He turned to Hermione, who sported a lopsided grin.

"And here I was," Hermione said, "talking my lungs off and you didn't even hear me." She sighed. "Well, I guess I have been talking a bit too much. I'm just so excited, that's all." She leaned in, staring him right in the eyes. Hers were filled with excitement—Harry hoped he could mirror that just as convincingly. "And we're going school together, isn't that amazing?"

"We are," Harry repeated, not knowing what else to say. He rubbed a clammy hand against his jeans, oversized since they were passed down from Dudley, and Hermione touched his jacket with a hand, turned the pocket over.

"It's thin there, Harry," Hermione said, concern lacing her voice. She peered closer, and Harry knew her eyes found the rips in the fabric that let the chills in. "You can't wear things like this in the cold. You're going to freeze to death before we even get home."

Harry didn't know what to say—speechlessness was becoming a regular occurrence in his interactions with Hermione, it seemed. Luckily, Mr Granger saved him from having to say anything.

"That's enough, princess," he said, glancing at them in the mirror. "Give Harry some space to breathe, and let him calm down a bit. We know his clothes aren't the best. It may take a few days for us to register Harry with the school. Mummy will help Harry with schoolwork in the meantime, as will I, and we'll take him for shopping as well."

Shopping? Why would they go shopping? And with him of all people?

Harry clutched his rucksack right against his chest. It held all his belongings in the world, including the pocket watch he prized so much. Harry wouldn't let that secret be held by anyone else—it was his and his alone, ever since the day he'd discovered it.

That special day, which was etched into Harry's mind for the rest of time, Aunt Petunia had wanted Harry to sweep the floor close to the attic, including the creaky wooden stairs. Dust, the kind which littered Harry's cupboard in abundance, collected near the attic entrance. It gathered in grey tufts like ashen candy floss, and Harry swept it dutifully.

In the meantime, his aunt had ventured downstairs to cook dinner for his uncle and Dudley, which Harry would get a chance to eat only if he did his work to perfection. Harry couldn't hold the broom properly, as if the entire thing was made from solid lead, and the bristles pricked his skin. But he swept as much dust as possible, until the broom smacked the attic door.

And the door opened.

Harry had stared at the space open to him, curiosity brimming. Glancing back to ensure Aunt Petunia wasn't watching him, he slinked inside the attic and shut the door with careful fingers. The attic was bare, and dark, much like his cupboard, except without the crampedness. He explored the shelves to his right, riddled with more dust than even his cupboard, and found a box therein.

Contents of Lily Potter, the box read, in black felt tip pressed into fading cardboard. The box was light, and when Harry pulled it out, he realised nothing was inside. Nothing except a smaller box, right in the centre, sitting there untouched, as if waiting for Harry to arrive and pick it up.

As if it wasn't Harry who'd found the box, but the box that had found Harry.

Heart racing like Hot Wheels cars, Harry snatched at the box quickly, since Lily was his mother's name. The box was velvety, and red—though Harry couldn't tell its colour well in the dimness. He opened the box, and found the pocket watch perched inside, shining like a golden star.

At the time, Harry had thought of it as his secret. The only possession he had of his mother—her pocket watch. The last memoir Harry could grasp onto, proof that his parents weren't really just drunkards who drove too fast. That they left something behind other than a freakish son.

It was only later, when Harry discovered the watch's secret, that he realised the pocket watch was meant for him all along. That it wasn't his mother's, but a present for him to treasure for the rest of his life.

He'd put the box back to make it seem like he hadn't stolen a thing. Then, hearing Aunt Petunia's footsteps thundering like rain lashing the windows, Harry bid farewell to the attic and ran back down to the second floor.

He hadn't eaten that day—"Not enough dust swept, freak."—but it was worth it. Completely, and utterly, worth it.

"We're here," Hermione said, tugging on his arm. Harry jumped, for what felt like the hundredth time, and the present rushed back to him.

Hermione. Adoption. The Grangers. Their home.

The car had stopped, engine's rumble ceasing for a quiet hum, before it snapped to silence. Harry glanced out of the window, and a gasp escaped his lungs without him even noticing.

The Granger home was as picturesque as Harry could have imagined. Set on an otherwise quiet road, the two-story house filled Harry's entire field of view from the car window.

A small driveway, gravel lighting the path, meandered its way to a front garden decorated with brown flower pots. Despite the onset of winter, where nature furled its wings and hibernated for at least a few months, the arrays of red and green and purple stood tall, as if welcoming the Grangers back home.

The house itself was spectacular. Windows, polished to a shine unlike those of the orphanage, lined the front, reflecting a radiance right into Harry's eyes. His gaze was agape, drinking in the wondrous sight of something even the Dursleys would be jealous of.

"You might want to breathe, Harry," Hermione whispered from beside him. She reached over, since Harry was stock-still from brute shock, and opened the car door.

Which only served to clarify the image, sharpen the fuzzy edges to show Harry the reality of the brilliant home he was moving into.

He almost forgot to breathe again, but sucked in air just in time to not choke. Hermione nudged his back gently, and Harry stepped out of the car.

The sweet smells of those flowers tickled him, playing with him, and Harry smiled wide. His first genuine smile in what felt like years.

"It's amazing," he breathed out, eyes fixed on the home as the Grangers lightly chuckled around him. Hermione clutched his hand once again as they followed Mr and Mrs Granger up the gravel path to the French-style front door.

And it was amazing, Harry repeated in his mind like a nursery rhyme to be chanted. Perhaps for the first time in his life, Harry Potter felt the cradle of joy cuddle him close.

And it was a feeling he wished never let go.

Hermione knew she possessed the tendency—although Daddy would call it a habit of sorts, though she viewed its description as a technicality—of speaking way too much. A girl that read was a girl who knew a lot, and a girl who knew a lot, especially if she was a big girl like Hermione, reserved the right to speak a lot, too.

And the excitement only made Hermione's words flood out like a torrent of information, spiralling towards Harry who'd sat beside her. He'd listened attentively, nodding at virtually everything, hands clasped around the rucksack which contained everything the boy could call his.

It was only when, in the heat of their rather one-sided conversation, Daddy interrupted her to give Harry space to breathe that she realised how much she'd spoken. The same verbose nature pervaded her school life, and the bullies—Niall in particular—had no qualms about branding her a know-it-all bookworm with verbal diarrhoea.

Harry, though, sweet as that butterfly floating onto a windowsill whilst Mummy cooked, didn't judge her, didn't say a word. Only nodded, hanging off her every word as though they could save his life.

Hermione watched him as they had spoken. Despite her zeal to speak, she recognised the enormity of what was occurring in Harry's life. His entire existence was being uprooted far more than Hermione's, and that required space to adjust, to absorb the new reality.

"I can't wait to show you Mummy's study," Hermione had said, hands thrown about animatedly. "She has these massive shelves filled with big girl books, and we can read them together." Hermione tilted her head—if Harry was below ten, then he might not be allowed to read the big girl books. "How old are you, Harry?"

"I'm nine," Harry replied in that low, quiet, restrained voice of his.

"When is your birthday?"

Harry scrunched his eyebrows, as if his birthday lingered at the back of his memories, locked away, rather than at the forefront.

"July thirty-first," he finally said. "So it's a long way to go."

"We'll make it the best birthday ever," Hermione had said, and the smile beaming across from her made the words totally worth it. "We'll get you a massive cake. Like this big—" Hermione signalled with her hands spreading as wide as they could— "and it'll be made of…what's your favourite flavour?"

"I don't know," Harry said, looking down. "I've never…never had cake before."

"Then we'll make it all the flavours. Mummy knows how to bake, and she can put vanilla and chocolate and Victoria sponge all into one big cake. And guess what we'll write on the cake?"

Harry merely nodded, allowing her to continue.

"We'll put in big letters: 'Happy Birthday Harry Potter'. And then you can blow out all the candles after making a wish."

Harry then looked out of the window, and Hermione could sense the wish already in his mind—for a family to call his own, for people to love him and care for him like every child deserved.

And she promised herself, and would make Mummy and Daddy promise as well, to grant Harry's wish in the best way imaginable. Cakes and otherwise.

Now, though, a trembling in Hermione's fingers pulled her mind to the present. Her house materialised before her, with its lovely cream painted exterior and windows that let light flow in like air.

As the smells of roses and peonies embraced her back home, she reminisced sitting by the windowsill, as a six year old girl, and reading books meant for those twice her age as the summer sun massaged her back.

But why would Harry, as Hermione's parents let them into the Granger home, be shaking all over, trembling as if suddenly struck by fever?

Hermione glanced over at him, eyebrows cinched in the middle, forehead resembling the creased spine of a book. His eyes darted left and right, as though searching for escape routes.

"Harry are you okay?" she asked, leaning towards him as they stepped into the glowing front entrance. "You look ill. Do you want Mummy to take a look?"

Mummy always helped Hermione on the rare occasions that illness plagued her—as was the case the previous week with her fever. But Harry, it seemed, dreaded such help, for the shake of his head caused Hermione to think his skull would fly off.

"That's okay," she said, squeezing Harry's hand the way Mummy comforted hers. And Harry's pale, sickly expression seemed to ease. Only a little, but as Mummy said, improvement was better than nothing at all.

Hermione shut the door behind her, pulled the handle up so it clicked like a spaceship's airlock, and tugged her shoes off. Placing them on the rack, she realised Harry wasn't holding her hand anymore. She turned to him, and spotted the crunch of his eyebrows and the increased trembling in his arms.

He grasped the rucksack to his chest as though it would protect him against the big and bad Grangers. The earlier excitement had vanished, popped by the pricks of fear.

"Harry, what's wrong?" Hermione said.

But Harry didn't hear her. Instead, his eyes flitted to the stairs, then the ground, then the hallway through which Mummy and Daddy had disappeared. Hermione stepped to him, touched his arm.

And Harry recoiled, as though poisoned by her fingers, as though her nails were teeth and sunk venom into his blood.

"It's okay," he said. He shuffled away from her as she took her coat off and, like a big girl, jumped to hook it on the coat hanger.

When she turned, the sight that met her almost caused her to faint from shock. Because Harry Potter was by the cupboard under the stairs, which Mummy used as a storeroom of sorts, and opened it. Since he was so small and mousy, he easily walked inside without having to duck like Mummy and Daddy, and placed his rucksack within.

"Harry, what are you doing?" Hermione asked, rushing across the hardwood floor towards him. Her socks almost slipped, but she grasped the bannister just in time. "Why would you put your bag in there? That's where all the ingredients go for lunch and dinner. You can't put anything in a cupboard."

Harry glanced at her, eyes scrunched in confusion. "This is…where I sleep, isn't it?"

Heart thudding like a thousand hammers were smacking her ribs, she grabbed Harry's bag from inside the cupboard and handed it to him. Then she shut the cupboard door with a resounding bang and faced Harry head on, blocking the cupboard door with her body.

"You are not sleeping there." Her arms crossed of their own accord, eerily similar to how Mummy's did when she was cross. "No way. I won't let that happen, you hear me."

Harry sent a glance back to the living room, where Mummy and Daddy were speaking to each other. He played with the strap of his bag with fingers little more than skin and bones. "But what if they…they want me to. That's my bedroom, isn't it? It's always—always been that way."

It was the most he'd spoken since their car ride, and Hermione couldn't believe what he was saying. She couldn't fathom the idea of sleeping in a cupboard under the stairs—the dust, the creepy spiders and insects, the constant thuds of anyone running down the stairs.

It was an absolute nightmare. A nightmare she never wanted, in a million years, to experience. But it seemed Harry, the poor boy swaying and shaking with terror before her, possessed an entire childhood of nightmares.

"Mummy, come here please," Hermione called, knowing there was only one thing for it. "It's urgent." That was the first time Hermione had used the 'urgent' word on Mummy. Mummy told her that, if Hermione ever said anything was urgent, Mummy would rush to see what the issue was.

And Harry believing a cupboard of all places was his bedroom certainly met the requirement for an urgent matter.

Mummy strode through the hallway and stopped a metre or so from where Hermione and Harry stood. "We were just about to call you in," Mummy said, smiling at them both. "We're thinking about having a takeaway today, since it's been a long and tiring day for all of us. But that can wait for now—what's so urgent, sweetie?"

Hermione jabbed a finger at the cupboard. "Harry thinks that's his bedroom. He was trying to go in there and sleep." From the corner of her eye, she spotted Harry shivering, fright snatching every sense in his body no doubt.

But why? Hermione couldn't understand why Harry was so scared, so fearful, of everyone here, including her it seemed with how he glared daggers into her now.

Mummy placed a hand on Harry's arm, but he recoiled from the contact. Breathing heavier and heavier. Air rushing out and threatening to light the atmosphere with how laboured it sounded. Harry flung his backpack on, tugging arms through the straps.

"Harry," Mummy said, this time not touching him. "Harry, dear. You can't sleep in a cupboard. I know—I know your old relatives—" she glanced at Hermione then, as though not wishing for her to hear the truth— "made you sleep there. But in the Granger house, there are new rules. And one of them is that no child sleeps in a cupboard under the stairs."

Harry just stared at Mummy, and a new fear sprouted in his eyes. Hermione's worries grew tenfold in that moment—for whilst she found Mummy's words soothing and calming, Harry viewed them like a leather tome hitting him in the head.

He wordlessly nodded, then turned to Hermione. Then back to Mummy. As if looking the wrong way warranted punishment, and he was searching for a safe place to rest his eyes.

"Come on, Harry," Mummy said, motioning for them to follow her through the hallway. "Let's get something to eat. I'm sure it's just the hunger messing with us all, especially after the long day. And then we'll show you your room, okay?"

Harry nodded again, not saying a word, not speaking like he did with Hermione. Upset was his expression towards Hermione, but towards her parents it was—fear, fright, terror. And Hermione wondered why that was. She wondered what horrors the boy had undergone to think that way about the best parents in the world.

Hermione followed Harry and Mummy into the living room, thoughts about Harry's past raging around like those Australian wildfires she'd read about in the morning paper Daddy parsed every day.

Why was Harry the way he was? And how could Hermione, as a big girl like Mummy with responsibilities towards others, help him overcome his fear and anger?

She promised herself to get to the truth. And promised herself that Harry would never have to suffer those terrors ever again.

Catherine Granger had worked with children before—as a dentist, her profession involved many children who hated getting their teeth checked but persevered due to concerned parents or, indeed in the cases of a few, a sense that they were doing the right thing, ultimately.

But none had troubled her as much as Harry. Sure, in the practice, the odd child would turn up with teeth so rotten that it could be classed as child abuse. But Harry Potter suffered far worse than a neglect of hygiene—far worse than anything Catherine had ever witnessed.

Even now, as they ate Italian food at the living room dining table, with the natural light swaying in the midst of a blood-orange sunset, Catherine couldn't help but worry over her new child. He wasn't eating a lick of the food, opting to shrivel his fingers against one another and dart his eyes to all corners of the room, shifting in his seat as though the chair was composed of lava.

"So Harry, what's your favourite subject at school?" Hermione asked, slurping up a spaghetti noodle with such gusto that Catherine had half a mind to tell her to tone it down. The pop smacked as the noodle sucked itself in, and Hermione giggled.

"I…I don't know," Harry said, and Catherine watched the panic in his eyes, replaced by a sense of unease. He still hadn't touched his food, and Catherine grew worried. His body was already skinny—thinning even more could impede his health.

"Well, my favourite subject is English. And that's because I love reading all sorts of books. Miss Bailey is the best, because she reads for us in class, and she has funny voices for all the different characters. Even for Old Man Harvey, she gets this deep voice that's like a drain being removed and…"

Catherine let her daughter do all the talking, since that seemed to be all that Harry responded to. She shared a look with Mark over the antique table with marble patterns beneath a silver sheen, and similar concerns swirled in his gaze. He asked the silent question, as though a telepathic connection fused between them—are you as worried as I am?

Catherine nodded, slowly, so the two children didn't catch it, and Mark let out a breath. Catherine did too, but she wasn't upset about it. Not at all, because they were committed to Harry's wellbeing. They were his guardians, and though the journey would be difficult, Catherine promised herself to do right by her two children.

The admission almost scared her—two children. Not one, not just Hermione, but a second child to call her own. And, though unreceptive Harry may be, Catherine was sure Mark and her could coax him into belonging with the family.

"Harry," Catherine called, turning to the boy. His eyes rose, met hers, before dropping to his food. "Why don't you eat, dear? That pasta is looking far too lonely. And Hermione's already halfway done, isn't she?"

"Yes Harry, you have to eat," Hermione chimed in. "Mummy once told me that if you don't eat then you get really ill and can't do anything else."

Harry knew it wasn't true—that fact was clear as day when Catherine glanced at him. But he nodded wordlessly, that flash of terror flitting across his eyes when he looked at Catherine and Mark, and then ate a forkful of pasta. With considerable discomfort, Catherine noted, and the swallow was as if a rock had lodged itself in his throat.

He needs time to heal, Catherine told herself as glasses clinked and cutlery clanged. And we'll be here with him, for all the stops along the way. She sent a glance at Mark, and saw agreement in his eyes. They were committed to Harry, not just for the temporary foster, but for the permanent future.

That was what adoption meant, after all.

She'd never imagined adopting an abused boy, but seeing that sparkle in his eyes in the car, when Hermione had spoken to him and bonded with him, revealed a truth about the child. That love still brewed deep within his heart, a love that yearned to attach itself to those around him.

They would do right by the child that had been let down by every other adult in his life. Catherine would make sure of it. Harry was her child now, after all, and he deserved nothing less than love.

A/N: Hope you all enjoyed, and take care this next week!