Chapter 2 - Hollow & Isolated
When Harry stared at Dudley's unadulterated expression of hatred, as well as that of Piers and Morgan, his fear turned to a fright-induced frenzy. Dudley's taunts and jibes were a regular occurrence in Harry's life. But this time seemed different, more malicious if such a thing were even possible.
The rest of the playground blurred, fading into the background of Harry's vision like it wished to avoid the beating Harry knew he was about to receive. The chilled air now featured a sour tint, and Harry swallowed the bitterness down.
The lump blocking his throat almost plopped in his stomach.
"You heard what I said," Dudley snarled, hand still outstretched. And when Dudley's hand was out, it never retracted without something being placed in it—courtesy of Harry's aunt and uncle, of course.
"I said no," Harry squeezed out, vocal chords tightening to restrain the words, as though his fear had a mind of its own and wanted him still, unmoving, unspeaking.
The perfect victim.
The pocket watch was Harry's secret, belonging to him exclusively. Perhaps the only thing he had in life to separate himself from the Dursleys. And whilst he'd always taken beatings from Dudley lying down, he wouldn't let them take his watch without a fight.
"You better give it up, Harry," Piers said, his narrowed eyes almost turning to snake-like slits.
"Yeah, or we'll really do something bad this time," Morgan added.
"You heard them, freak," Dudley said. He waved his fingers. "Now hand it over, or I'll tell Mum and Dad what you done. And you know what they'll do to you."
Harry sighed, fingers loosening around the picture of his family. He was trapped, in a cold and isolated corner of the playground, nowhere to go and nowhere to hide, Dudley and his boys one way, a brick wall the other way, and Harry had no choice but to—
He rammed his shoulder, sickening crunch on impact, right into Morgan's chest, knocking the thin but tall boy back. A thud signalled Morgan falling to the ground, and Harry stumbled over the prone body with tremors racking his skin.
Had he just done that? Had he just…attacked back for the first time? It was a surreal feeling, uplifting for the fraction of a second Harry thought about it. Then reality smacked into him full force, and he turned to catch Dudley and Piers staring at him.
Harry was really in for it now, and the shock on Dudley's face vanished in an instant, replaced by the will to damage—beyond repair this time.
Terror snatched Harry's breath, thin shoes allowing the snow to fuse into the soles as he ran. Wind slapped his face, drawing water up to the edges of his eyes. Dudley and Piers gave chase, Morgan not far behind them, thumps against snow signalling every step, right as Harry rounded the brick corner and slipped on a layer of ice.
His knees bashed the snow, pain shooting through his entire frame. He hauled himself back, shivers not willing to cease, a quick glance revealing Dudley hot in pursuit, even hotter in anger.
Up on one foot. Then the other. And Harry was away once more, darting through children who didn't turn around to witness the scene of a fleeing Harry with three boys on his tail—Harry Hunting was a common practice of the playground, and the other kids knew to stay away if they wanted what was best for them.
But the playground wasn't the best place to run. With a rectangular shape, and one corner populated by a swing and roundabout, Harry's only option was to head for the far left corner, where a jungle gym sat idle amongst the light snowfall. The surface was too cold for the children to play on, but it would have to do.
Harry had no other option.
Harry bolted there as fast as the ice and his legs would allow him. His school fleece billowed behind him, as if vying for extra speed. Breath chattering and heaving all at once, Harry climbed up the slide of the jungle gym.
His right foot slipped, shins almost shattering against the icy metal, but he clamped onto the upper edge with his right hand. Dangling off, fingers seeped by cold, Piers slammed a foot at the slide's bottom. Harry shook, but his grip was firm.
Firmer than it had ever been. But not firm enough to hold out for much longer.
Harry pulled, hard, back screaming from the pain. Arms bending and contorting, like a snake with no muscles or bones.
"Get him," Dudley ordered, and his two henchmen were quick to obey. Their breathing mimicked what Harry imagined the monster in his cupboard sounded like. Their steps crunched snow, more like the snapping of bones, and horror gripped Harry's mind.
Piers climbed onto the slide below Harry, swung a hand to grab his leg. He latched onto Harry's ankle and yanked him down.
Harry held on—fingers depleting of energy, will to escape dropping with every second that passed. And in his other hand was the picture, the last remnants he had of his parents, his most-kept secret in all the world.
The only thing he had that was truly his, meant for him, the one thing that tethered him to life and hope and the sole proof he had once been loved the same as his cousin Dudley.
And Morgan snatched it right from him when Harry wasn't concentrating. His attention had been diverted by the cold of the slide, Piers tugging at his ankle from below, and the water blurring his vision.
When Harry felt the picture leave his hand, a scream tore through his throat. A scream borne of panic, of his secret being found out for the first time. His grip failed, and he dropped onto the slide. Fell down, but not before Dudley managed to get a hit in.
A slap, right to the face, the sting burning to the core of Harry, adding to the furnace of anger within Harry's heart that was ready to erupt. If only Harry could get a lid on it before he made things ten times worse with his relatives.
Morgan handed the picture to Dudley, and Harry steeled himself once more. This time, he ran to Dudley, legs weak and arms weaker, heart hammering ribs that felt inadequate to protect it, and swung a punch in his direction.
But Piers was one step ahead, lightning fast reflexes. He pushed Harry from the side, sending him sprawling onto a pile of snow a metre away. Harry's balance buckled, and he fell into it head first. White pierced and overtook his vision, cold sneaking into his nose and mouth and eyes, and when he lifted his head once more, he could hear howls of the South Pole in his ears.
And then the terror doubled, in an instant.
Because Dudley didn't even bother looking at the picture, didn't bother seeing what had fascinated Harry for so many years that he snuck off during lunchtimes to inspect it.
No, Dudley held an evil in his heart, perhaps passed down from his parents, and that evil manifested in the worst way imaginable. Dudley didn't wish to know Harry's secret—
He only wished to destroy it.
Dudley grabbed the top and the bottom of the moving picture, grubby fingers on Harry's father's head and his mother's feet, and tore the entire thing in two. Then again into four.
The rip that struck the air echoed in Harry's mind. A fierce rip, a sound that squeezed into the back of Harry's psyche, brewing emotions of such hatred that Harry didn't know what to do but scream, but tear his lungs out with shouts straight from a part of his heart that none had witnessed before.
And tears, hot and filled with sorrow and loss, slipped down his cheeks. As if the parental love in his life was leaking out, leaving him hollow inside. Harry clenched his fists, shouting more at Dudley, not even knowing the words releasing from his mouth.
Perhaps they weren't words at all, but pure emotions—sounds meant to convey his deepest fears and terrors rather than any kind of comprehensible meaning.
And then it was over. With a dark chuckle reminiscent of his uncle, Harry's cousin Dudley stalked off through the snow, to the other end of the playground. Harry glanced around, eyes wide and feral, but no other kid was looking at him. No other kid cared that his life had been torn to shreds.
Dudley chucked the ripped pieces behind him, and it rained along with the snow. Falling elegantly, gracefully, as if having one last dance in the wind. Before it settled amongst the sea of white, with young Harry Potter sitting no less than a metre away, cold ensnaring every sinew of his body.
He felt empty, felt devoid of warmth. Only cold, an un-ending cold that didn't relent in the slightest, as if Dudley had willed it into existence only to torment Harry.
Harry sighed, let those hot tears fall until they froze along his cheeks. Then he picked up the pieces of the image, recognising that the people within no longer moved. No longer twinkled with happiness and love.
They were static, unmoving, smiles frozen in place.
And Harry remained still, for once utterly defeated. His secret—dashed into nothingness. The one part of him no one had access to was gone.
Dead, just like his parents.
He slipped the ripped pieces back into the pocket watch, not willing to part with them yet. Closing the lid, he stuffed everything into his trouser pocket and sat back down, right into the thin snow, not caring about its chill.
Then, he turned to the sky, ignoring the nausea bubbling within him and the snow christening his face, and wondered just what he had done to deserve all of it.
"Well, I never expected to see you here," Hermione's mother said, shaking the world back into Hermione's vision.
Hermione yelped, eyes widening at being caught, and she unceremoniously shut King's book with a loud thud. Her mother's study came into view once more, world sharpening in a second as if she'd just woken up and was gaining her bearings. "I can explain," Hermione said, schooling her expression amidst the heavenly smells of books abound. "I have a technicality."
Her mother, who Hermione referred to always as Mummy, gave a musical laugh. Her eyes, brown and deeper than any novel Hermione had read, glistened in the thin shafts of light entering through windows high to her left.
"A technicality?" Mummy asked.
"Or a loophole, as Daddy told me." Hermione smacked her lips. "That's right. I have a loophole. So I didn't break a rule. I'm allowed to read this book." She lifted King's masterpiece (she had decided it was a masterpiece, despite its scary details, about thirty pages in) to show Mummy.
Mummy sighed, walked over to where Hermione sat, and placed a warm hand flush across her forehead. "How's the fever coming along, sweetie?"
"It's okay, Mummy. I'll be fine."
Mummy sighed again, and Hermione knew there was more her mother wished to know about the reality of the fever. Hermione was always a stickler for germs, having read about infections in science class, so letting someone give her a fever wasn't on the cards.
Of course, Niall was the one that dumped his half-eaten lunch on her head, which probably spread the infection to the rest of her body. But Mummy didn't need to know that.
Mummy leaned over to get a closer look at the novel Hermione had been reading. "That's my favourite book, you know."
Hermione nodded with a smile. "I know. I like it as well, but it is a little scary."
"Well, come on then," Mummy said, pulling Hermione out of the chair and leading her to the door. "You can finish it off later, not to worry. I'll fix up some lunch now—Lord knows I'm hungry, as I'm sure you are, and there's never anything warm at the practice, unless microwaved meals count." Mummy sent her a knowing gaze. "And we can have another chat about the fever once we've got our bellies full, okay?"
Hermione nodded, though her throat closed up out of fear. If Mummy ever found out the truth, then she'd storm to Hermione's primary school and raise a concern. And that would only worsen the bullying, worsen the jibes and taunts and insults that rained like the worst hail-ridden day in their part of Hampstead.
No, Hermione could never tell Mummy the truth of her fever. But she couldn't lie, either. It wasn't in her blood. Wasn't in her genes. Her parents had never lied to her, nor did she to them.
As Daddy sometimes said, Hermione was stuck between a rock and a hard place—except this hard place was like a solid block of gold that was impossible to break through.
Lunch was a staple of life in the Granger household whenever Hermione was ill. Rather than spending it at the practice, Mummy would return home and cook something warm, something infused with a mother's love that amplified every taste tenfold.
Hermione loved eating out at restaurants at weekends with her parents—but these quiet lunches with her mother were far more precious to her heart. She knew, since she was a big girl now with big girl feelings, that in ten years she'd look back at the intimate lunches and dinners over and above the theatrics of London restaurants.
Today was tomato pasta with melted cheese oozing through the dish to give it a chewy taste. Succulent, with a savoury taste that Hermione lapped up eagerly—lost in her literary adventures, she hadn't registered hunger until Mummy caught her. The dish was one of Hermione's favourites, and no doubt cooked merely to brighten the day of an ill girl.
When Hermione had finished, Mummy grabbed the dishes and placed them in the sink, before returning to their sparkling, marble table filled with little gems beneath the surface that twinkled like thousands of perfect little smiles. The rest of the kitchen was neat and tidy, white cupboards fitted to prescription with a silky sheen to boot, customary for two dentists with a stickler for sanitation.
The dining table in the, aptly named, dining room was for family meals, anything smaller was at this table in the kitchen.
Hermione washed the taste of tomato puree down with water, then watched as Mummy sat opposite her, leaned her elbows on the table, and gazed right into Hermione's eyes.
It was as if she could see into the depths of Hermione's soul.
Hermione shivered—it wasn't from the fever.
"You'll tell me the truth, won't you, sweetie?" Mummy said, smile so warm Hermione could bask in its rays. "We always tell each other everything, don't we?"
Hermione nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
"So, tell me about this technicality of yours, or loophole as Daddy would call it."
Hermione just blinked at her, eyebrows furrowed—wasn't Mummy meant to ask her about the fever? Not missing a beat, she sputtered into speaking. "Well, you said your books were only meant for big girls, Mummy. But then—then you said I was a big girl since I'm ten years old now." Hermione shrugged her shoulders. "So…I thought I could read the book. It's a technicality—" she enunciated every syllable to get the point across— "so I didn't break any rules."
Mummy merely smiled, then leaned over the table and grabbed Hermione's hand. Mummy's fingers were cuddly and warm and so comfortable Hermione closed her eyes, focussing only on the feeling of Mummy's index fingers making circles in her palm.
"What do you think of having a brother or sister, Hermione?"
Hermione's eyes shot open, thoughts slamming into her mind with the force of Pete's delivery truck that came round with the parcels and letters.
She snatched her hand away from Mummy's, returning it to her side. "A…a brother…"
"Or sister," Mummy added. "I know you have a fever…but I—that is, your father and I—always wanted to give you a sibling…someone to play with. But we…I can't have any more children, Hermione."
"No," Hermione said, a sudden fear injecting itself with the sharpest of mental syringes. "No, I don't want one. And there's no technicality, Mummy. I don't want one." She couldn't risk it. Home was her only safe space, and she wouldn't share it with someone that would be the same as the rest.
Mummy's face fell for half a second, before reverting back to its warm smile. "But sweetie, didn't you say before that you really wanted a little sibling to play with, so you weren't by yourself at home?"
Hermione shook her head so violently her neck felt like twisting off. "I have books. I don't want a brother or sister."
"We haven't made a decision yet, sweetie. But it wouldn't be a permanent thing—"
"I don't want it," Hermione yelled, her own irrationality apparent to her since she was a big girl now. Her voice lowered to a mutter, apology for yelling sent through a look. "I—I just don't, Mummy."
"Let's listen to each other, sweetie, then we'll discuss, okay."
Hermione nodded, prompting Mummy to continue.
"It wouldn't be a permanent thing. We would never allow anyone to put you down or make you unhappy." She said this with a solemn look, as if she knew about Hermione's bullies at school. As if it was so obvious with a single glance at the bushy-haired girl. "Never would that happen in this house—please trust us on this. We would…well, first we would let them live with us as a trial—a temporary foster. And then if we're happy with it, and they're happy with it, and most importantly if you're happy with it, we could sign the adoption papers."
Hermione played with her sweatshirt, tugging at it under the table, grip hardening until she almost tore the bottom of the fabric. "Can I speak now, Mummy?"
Mummy nodded and smiled in response.
Hermione tried to speak, but she couldn't find the words. As though a mental block had clamped onto her mind, she stuttered for a second. Before tears began falling, falling like her heart dropped into the pit of her stomach.
And then Mummy reached over the table, hugged one hand with the other, and then stood and walked over and engulfed Hermione in an embrace reminiscent of Christmas' cheer mixed with summer's glow.
But the coldness of Hermione's life couldn't be shaken.
Hermione babbled through her tears, Mummy's form turning into a streak of blurs. "Please…I don't want—I don't want to bring it—bring it here. Please."
"We won't," Mummy said, cushioning Hermione's head against her chest. Mummy stroked her bushy hair, fingers splaying in between the strands to find more spots from which to comfort her.
But Hermione knew the truth, despite Mummy's comfort—that no matter how much she yearned for a friend, no matter how much she yearned for a sibling, she would forever be isolated.
Isolated and friendless, without a hope in any world, real or imaginary, of that fact changing.
In the story of Hermione, even someone as eloquent as Stephen King, Mummy's favourite author, would fail to find a friend for her.
And she would have to live with that fact, now and forever.
Catherine Granger glanced at her husband Mark as he stepped into their main office in Granger's Dentistry Practice. The office was spacious, walls white and clear, every inch of the place neat to a fault, with a large circular desk in the middle, similar to the one in Catherine's study at home.
Light, waning as the day wore on, breathed life into the office through double-glazed windows spanning the left side. Through the glass, Catherine spied cars shuttling past, carrying people to wherever they wished to go in life. Fast and constant with only hiccups disturbing the otherwise smooth engines.
Catherine—for the life of her, she felt more stuck than anything else.
The faint aroma of vanilla wafted around her—her favourite flavour of ice cream—from a scented candle burning itself out in the office's corner. Catherine felt like the candle—burning out. And it was all because of Hermione's reaction to what she'd suggested at lunch.
"What's the long face for?" Mark said, sitting beside her at the desk. He leaned in, eyebrows furrowing in a way that Hermione had clearly inherited. "There's a mark on your face by the way."
Catherine ran a hand along her cheek. Only smooth skin met her fingers. "There is? Where?"
"Right there," Mark said, sealing his spot on her lips with a kiss. He leaned back again, chuckle already rumbling, looking far too pleased with himself for Catherine's liking. "All gone now, I assure you."
Catherine smiled, but couldn't bring herself to laugh. Hermione's pleading had ripped open her maternal worries. She could shake off grimy teeth letting off a stench worse than a skunk's release, but Hermione's fears always managed to become as much hers as her daughter's.
"I spoke to Hermione about fostering," Catherine began.
"I take it she didn't respond as well as we wanted?"
Catherine shook her head. "No, she didn't. She responded—well, a lot worse than I could have ever imagined." She met Mark's gaze, brown striking brown. "She looked scared, Mark. Looked like someone had died…like the whole world had frozen over."
Mark grinned, motioning to the window. "Well, looking at the snow—"
"I'm being serious, Mark. I'm not exaggerating here. Hermione's terrified and I don't like what I think is the reason for that."
Mark's gaze lowered, as did his voice. "Sorry about that. Go on."
"Hermione—I'm pretty sure she's getting bullied in school. I've…I've been pretty sure of this for some time, especially since—you know, I had to go through the same thing at one point. But…I had siblings that would help me get through it, people to fall back on. And Mama was always at home with me."
"Hermione hasn't a one," Mark said. "Especially when we're at work, all she has is books. That's why we're trying to adopt, isn't it?"
"Hermione thinks the bullying is going to continue at home. Our little girl isn't just bullied, Mark. She's mentally scarred. It's like…her experiences are so bad that she thinks everything will attack her. The only reason I haven't inquired at her school is because she hasn't told me about the bullying herself, and I know how bad it can make things. But…I'm struggling here."
Mark rubbed a hand over his face. "I assume you told her we'd try temporary first, right? And then move over to a permanent adoption."
Catherine nodded.
"What if we take her with us to the orphanage?" Mark said. "That way…that way she can have her choice, if that makes sense, right there and then."
"It's the last resort," Catherine said. "We always wanted another child, but we can't lose our first in trying to get a second."
"We won't," Mark said, tone firm and resolute and holding a confidence that Catherine wished would transfer to her. He took her hand, lovingly warmed her fingers with his touch.
But that didn't work, not this time. Catherine was scared—scared, most of all, of not just being stuck, but moving backwards. Of, instead of not being able to adopt what her heart dreamt of, losing her only child in the process.
"Soon," Mark said, still stroking her fingers and softening his voice. "That's when we find out, Catherine. That's when everything changes."
