Chapter 14 - Acting & Reacting
It was a strange sentence that Mrs Granger spoke to Harry a few days after the revelation that Hermione had gotten the role of Mary in the nativity play. Harry's old school, Privet Primary, had also conducted nativity plays. Every year in fact. Though Harry, due to Dudley's influence over the class and the Dursleys' sway over the teachers, never managed to snag a role.
Nor did he want to, for the extra attention would slip over to Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. And any victory Harry managed to get over their little Dudders would spell utter doom for the black-haired boy. And that wasn't a fire he wished to stoke.
In any case, Mrs Granger said something strange to him, something odd that Harry had never expected to hear in his entire life.
"We want you to help with buying Christmas presents for this year," Mrs Granger said, smiling at him whilst sitting on the edge of his bed. She'd taken to coming here every night and speaking with Harry for a few minutes, sometimes even as much as ten, telling him about her day as well as enquiring about his.
Harry, at first, didn't know what to say. His days weren't always interesting, weren't always packed with Hermione getting new roles in plays, but Mrs Granger seemed to enjoy even the boring parts, like brushing his teeth for two minutes or getting a question right in Miss Bailey's class. And she always steered Harry's retellings back to about himself, since he talked about Hermione far too often.
With the thickness of night peeking in through the bedside window, and the smell of freshly vacuumed floor hovering about the air, Harry considered Mrs Granger's statement as a strange kind of joke. Because a freak like him didn't receive Christmas presents, nor did they buy them for anyone else.
They only watched as their cousin got over twenty presents, all neatly wrapped and presented, whilst the freak got nothing. Not a one.
"Christmas?" Harry muttered, for it seemed Mrs Granger was waiting for him to speak.
"That's right, Harry," she said. "We need to get everyone Christmas presents, and that means a day out in the city centre shopping. I love shopping!" She grinned at him, a hand resting on his duvet, her smile light and eyes alight. "Do you love shopping?"
Harry squirmed in his seat, heat pooling on his cheeks, mind not knowing what to say. For the Dursleys sometimes played that trick—asking a question and then punishing whatever answer Harry gave, whether the truth or a lie or something completely in between.
"Sometimes," Harry opted to say, hoping he passed the trick.
"I know you loved picking out clothes when we went a few weeks ago," Mrs Granger said. Harry couldn't remember picking out clothes as much as Mrs Granger picked out clothes for him. "But Christmas is less about just clothes, it's about the whole experience. The family experience."
Harry shyly smiled, then tucked his gaze into his duvet to avoid looking at Mrs Granger. "I never celebrated Christmas before."
Mrs Granger's hand shifted to his arm and squeezed. "That's okay, Harry. We'll make it the best Christmas ever, then, won't we?"
Harry nodded, and Mrs Granger spoke for a few minutes more, about how earlier at the dentistry practice they'd needed to get some paperwork typed, but the typewriter had jammed up and required new cartridges to replenish the ink.
Harry listened attentively, and then, when the door had shut once more, he pulled out his pocket watch and flicked the lid open using the toothpick. The cool metal both comforted and chilled his skin, and though the picture was ripped apart, Harry knew what it was meant to show.
A happy family. A real family, like the Grangers were without Harry in the way.
But Hermione had said they were a real family, that he was as much the son of Mr and Mrs Granger as Hermione was their daughter.
But Harry knew that was just a lie—or a mis-truth. Which was a lie but not as bad. A lie told to make someone feel better.
Harry sighed, tucked his pocket watch back into the hidden compartment of his rucksack, which still hadn't been replaced, and drifted off to sleep.
The next two weeks of school were very eventful, as well as their evenings at home. Harry and Hermione made sure to practice for the nativity play, almost every day, which was fun beyond words. Harry had read the script, and loved the lines that Hermione was given. She would prance around her bedroom, pretending to be Mary, mother of Jesus, and deliver her lines in the most succinct and in-character way imaginable.
Harry had never actually seen a nativity play, since he couldn't go to the performances, but even he knew that Hermione was going to be the star of the show, far better than anyone else that could've been chosen. If only she believed it herself.
"You're a good actor as well," Hermione had said at one point. To help set up Hermione's lines, Harry would act out Joseph's words, and Hermione sometimes giggled whenever Harry put on a funny voice or jumped up and down with excitement.
"I'm not a good actor," Harry said simply. Another mis-truth from Hermione, no doubt.
"That's another great thing about you that I like," Hermione replied, patting him on the arm. "You're too modest for your own good." And then they continued acting, with the script in Harry's hand whilst Hermione had already memorised all of her lines.
The practices at school were more frequent thereafter, almost every day whilst approaching the middle of December, and with only a little more than a week to go before the actual performance, Harry knew that crunch time was upon them. Hermione looked more and more tired, hair almost drooping along with her face, and Harry knew it was from far more than just acting out lines.
It was from worry, from a sense of dread. Harry understood that emotion more than well enough. That was his fuel growing up, after all, when food was scarce and with no indication that Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon would feed him soon.
"You'll be fine," Harry told Hermione after another gruelling session. Where Harry was having fun acting out different characters in different scenes, even using funny voices to lighten the mood, Hermione was stressing. Sometimes, sweat would pour from her forehead, as though her tumultuous thoughts burned her body like the fireplace downstairs.
"But what if all fails?" Hermione would ask, equally as dramatic as acting in a play. "What if the acting performance of my dreams just does not materialise?"
Harry didn't know what to say, especially not in response to the five-syllable monster of a last word, so he repeated his earlier statement. "You'll be fine," he said, and that seemed to be enough of a comfort to Hermione for her to continue.
The Saturday before the performance arrived in short order, and Harry was due for a great surprise in the morning. The surprise being Hermione bounding into his room, feet bashing the hardwood, bushy hair wayward as though run over by a flock of birds, and flinging herself onto his bed in the middle of his sleep.
He woke up in a flash, fright snatching every bone in his body. The last person to do that had been three months ago—Dudley, and he'd proceeded to yank Harry about for no particular reason. A bruise to the arm, which had taken a week to recover from, was a reminder of what Dudley had done.
The mental bruises, of course, took far longer to fade.
Harry smashed his spine against the headboard as Hermione and her hair attacked him. Realising it was her and not a blubbering cousin with more rolls than a bakery, the scent of danger receded to give way to Hermione's flowery smell. Though Harry, far from a gardener, didn't know what smell it exactly was. It was similar to Mrs Granger's, and yet different in a way he could tell them distinctly apart.
"Sorry about that, Harry," Hermione said, recognising the terror in his eyes. "I didn't mean to…I swear."
Luckily for himself, Harry managed a small smile as she sat on the foot of his bed, staring at him.
"It's okay," he said, eyes growing accustomed to the swathes of light bustling in through the window near his bed. Having woken to the darkness of his cupboard his entire life, the light was a welcome change. "I'll be fine." He gulped down the last dregs of fear and smiled wide. "What's the surprise for? Is today someone's birthday?"
Hermione shook her head. "Have you forgotten about something, Harry?"
Harry's eyebrows scrunched in confusion. "What would I forget about?" Another memory flashed to mind, of forgetting something Aunt Petunia told him to remember—a mental shopping list whilst they were in Sainsbury's. The aftermath of that incident burned itself into Harry's mind like a permanent scar. He pushed that memory out and focussed on Hermione once more.
"What month are we in, Harry?" she prompted.
"December."
"And what's special about December? The main attraction of the month, to put it one way."
"Lots of snow?" Harry guessed. "But there hasn't been that much snow, has there?" Only a few licks of it, actually, which disappointed Mrs Granger and Hermione to no end, though Mr Granger liked being able to drive without shovelling white stuff off the windshield.
"Nope," Hermione said. "That's not the answer I'm looking for. Have another go at it." She sounded, rather eerily if Harry did say so himself, like Miss Bailey. Given her love of reading and explaining things, Harry could see Hermione as a successful teacher, one that would clamp down on bullying instead of ignoring it.
She was awesome like that, of course.
"Then, what is it?" Harry asked.
But Hermione was playing coy, dangling the answer from his grip as though taunting him. In jest, of course. Hermione wasn't cruel—Harry doubted she could ever be, despite the cruelty she'd faced at the hands of bullies.
It seemed those with the worst pasts had the best potential futures. And Hermione was one of them.
"What play am I in?" Hermione asked.
"The nativity play. But I don't see how—"
"Christmas, Harry!" Hermione yelped. She almost pounced on him again, opting instead to ruffle his duvet with barely restrained excitement. "It's almost Christmas, and that means…shopping!"
"Oh," was the word that slipped from Harry's mouth. He recalled Mrs Granger mentioning something about Christmas shopping, and how she wanted Harry to come with them to Central London to find presents. "Is that happening today?" he asked.
Hermione grabbed his arm, albeit rather softly with her cushioned fingers, and pulled him out of bed. Pulling him out the door, she said, "Remember, teeth brushed for two minutes, and make sure you get all the cobwebs out of your eyes." She flashed him a brilliant smile, the kind of smile that Harry had never thought would be directed at him. "Meet us downstairs in a little bit. Mummy and Daddy are excited, too. You're going to love it!"
Harry nodded, in a daze of sorts. For Christmas shopping wasn't for freaks. As he entered the bathroom and began brushing, the scrubbing noise overtaking his senses, he recalled how Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would go shopping for Dudley's presents. It was meant to be an experience, something to look forward to as a family. A glue that bonded people together.
Harry, for obvious reasons not limited to his freakish nature, was barred from ever going with them, let alone receiving a present. That second scenario was out of the question, even with a new family looking after him in the Grangers.
Still, Harry would look at the bright side. Mr and Mrs Granger were taking him Christmas shopping for the first time, and Hermione seemed excited too.
As Harry finished brushing up and smoothed down his mop of jet-black hair, then clambered down the stairs to meet the rest of the Grangers, nothing could wipe the smile off his face.
Hermione had been to Central London many times over the years, and not just limited to Christmas shopping visits. Trips to the centre of the capital frequented her early years, especially when amenities in Hampstead weren't as readily available as they were now. The outskirts didn't bustle with the hubbub of Oxford Street and Kings Cross, not to mention Hyde Park of all places.
Still, despite coming to Harrods for the twentieth time in her life, the wonder and allure never failed to settle deep within her bones. Chandeliers hung low, spraying the hundreds of shelves and antique-looking architecture in a brilliant glow. She glanced around the high ceilings, the chatter of other shoppers almost infectious in excitement, and she instinctively grabbed onto Harry's hand and tried to squeeze the feeling through to him.
He smiled at her, then looked at Mummy and Daddy, who stood beside them. Daddy wore one of his funny suits for the trip, fitting a tie imbued with cow skin patterns dropping to his belly. It was one that Hermione had bought for him two Christmases ago, and Daddy still wore it as if it represented the highlight of his illustrious wardrobe.
"So, princess, make sure to get me a special one this year, okay," Daddy said, wiggling his eyebrows at her. "I don't even need to tell you, actually. Of course you will, since you're the vision of stars in the night sky—"
"Mark, not out here," Mummy cut in, causing Harry and Hermione to giggle. Daddy did, at the best of times, tend to get carried away with verbose compliments akin to Shakespearean poetry.
"Not to forget you, of course, Harry," Daddy said. "You're like a knight rushing into battle, fighting the legions of shoppers to get the best things before others can snatch them." He patted Harry on the shoulder, and Hermione almost missed the barely perceptible flinch of Harry's body. "We're splitting up this year. Harry and I'll go get presents for the girls, whilst they grab the rest of what we need. Meet up back here in…two hours?"
"Sounds like a good plan to me, husband," Mummy said with a laugh. Hermione hadn't seen Mummy this carefree in…a long time. Christmas really brought out the best in everyone, the inner self that school and dentistry hid during the year.
"You'll be fine, Harry," Hermione said.
He gave her a puzzled look. "Nothing's wrong."
"It doesn't need to be. You look worried." She squeezed his hand before letting go. "Mummy and Daddy love you already. You just…need to let them." She walked over to where Mummy stood, and watched Harry shift to Daddy and stand by his side.
"See you two later," Daddy said, before steering Harry to the other side of the store.
"Have they taken the ornament section already?" Mummy asked with a mock-huff. "Come on then, sweetheart, let's pick up a stranger-than-last-year tie for Daddy."
Hermione nodded, but her grin faltered for a second as Mummy led her through to the clothing section, located up a flight of stairs on the second floor.
"Mummy, why is Harry scared of Daddy?"
Mummy paused for a second. If she was surprised, however, Hermione couldn't spot it in her features.
"How do you know he's scared, sweetie?" Mummy asked. She rifled through a few of the other items of clothing on display—trousers with chequered patterns and suits with price tags that made Hermione's eyes bulge.
"He flinched when Daddy touched him," Hermione said. "I saw it myself. Clear as day."
"Maybe he was just taken aback by the contact."
Hermione's head shook. "He gets touched all the time in school, high fives and sometimes other kids tap him on the shoulder to get his attention." Hermione's eyes bore into the chequered patterns, as though they were optical illusions to get lost in. "But…he doesn't flinch, Mummy. He's never scared."
Then another image flashed in her mind—a frightened Harry that morning, who'd scurried back as if Hermione was the incarnation of the monster under the bed, and not his family.
Was Harry truly just scared of being surprised, and nothing more? Or did deeper secrets linger beneath the surface, secrets that Hermione, as a big girl, had a responsibility to uncover and help Harry solve?
"You already know he's had a hard life," Mummy said, flowing her hands over another row of trousers that melted like a sea of brown. "His relatives didn't treat him well. Especially his uncle, according to the orphanage's suspicions."
"But Daddy's not like his uncle," Hermione cried. "Daddy would never hurt him, not in a billion gazillion years."
"No, Daddy certainly doesn't have a cruel bone in his body. He's softer than he looks. But…fear isn't always rational, sweetie."
"Like people being scared of spiders?"
Mummy's smile told Hermione she was right on the money. "Exactly like being scared of spiders. It doesn't make sense, because British spiders can't do anything to you. And yet…they look like they could, so we're frightened of them. Sometimes comically so."
"So…even though Daddy isn't a bad person…he reminds Harry of his uncle, who was a bad person?"
Mummy picked out a trouser, inspected the waistline a little, then placed it back on the rack. She turned to Hermione, fully faced her, and the sad look in her eyes caught Hermione off guard.
"That's exactly right," Mummy said. "At least, that's what my instincts tell me. Gosh, that boy has suffered so much that…even someone as innocent and beautiful as Mark comes off as a potential threat." Mummy wiped the corner of her eye, then smiled at Hermione once more. "We just have to prove the truth to him, sweetie. Prove to him that…families aren't supposed to hurt their own."
"We'll prove it," Hermione said, and they went about searching for Daddy's funky tie for Christmas this year. Yet Hermione's thoughts, constantly, went out to the troubled boy walking around with Daddy somewhere else in this very store.
Back at Privet Primary School, the other children sometimes spoke of going on shopping sprees with their parents. Lavish days out that someone like Harry, a freak, would never get to participate in. Harry would sit at the back of the class, alone and lonely, feet tucked together with knees knocking, avoiding Dudley and his awfully incisive stares. The other kids would share holiday stories like free candy, with trips of skiing in Scandinavia and hot summers in Spain featured in many of their retellings.
And shopping sprees. Lots, and lots, of shopping sprees. Harry sometimes dreamed of the places the other children went to. Daydreamed about them whilst silent at the rear of the class, and he imagined going on his own mega shopping spree in a huge store, larger than anything he'd seen before.
And now, that dream was a reality with the Grangers, even if he wasn't getting a Christmas present himself. Despite the Grangers' kindness, and despite how much they denied it, Harry was still a freak. And freaks didn't get presents, as Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon said.
Harrods, though Harry didn't know the meaning of the word, was colossal, like an enchanted castle sitting in the centre of London, inviting shoppers inside. Its ceiling towered over Harry and Mr Granger as they walked, and it astonished Harry when Mr Granger told him more floors existed above them.
"How many floors?" Harry asked, wonder lacing his voice as the bright lights above danced down to meet him. "How can there be so many floors with this much stuff?"
Mr Granger didn't speak, and that unsettled Harry for a second. Nerves tingled across his body and mind, like they did when he used to be alone with Uncle Vernon. A cuff across the head or a harsh grab of the shoulder was always milliseconds away, and Harry ensured Mr Granger stood with a foot gap between them. Just in case.
"Seven floors," Mr Granger finally said, and Harry let out a sigh of relief. "Seven floors with over three hundred departments." Mr Granger then launched into a detailed explanation, to which Harry was only half listening. When Mr Granger spoke, it meant he wasn't thinking of punishing Harry for being a freak. And it meant, for at least the duration of those few words, that Harry was safe.
"Well, Cathy is an easy buy," Mr Granger said, rubbing the stubble on his chin. "A very easy buy."
"You bought Mrs Granger?" Harry said, horrified for a second.
"Oh, God, no," Mr Granger laughed. "Nothing like that, and you can call her Cathy too, you know. I meant she's easy to shop for, of course. Perfume can never go wrong as a Christmas present for her." Mr Granger winked at him. "A book is a close second, but she buys enough of those as it is, and the Christmas releases this year haven't exactly been up to par. Big girl or little girl books."
Harry nodded, not really knowing what to reply, or what Mr Granger meant by big girl and little girl books. Hermione sometimes mentioned being a big girl now, and that Harry wasn't a big boy yet—not until he turned ten, anyway.
Harry shuffled on his feet as Mr Granger stopped outside the ornament department, where precisely-painted vases and dining table decorations stood like golden shrines waiting to be treasured.
"Maybe I could get one of those…" Mr Granger mused. He turned to Harry, hand on chin, deep in thought once more. The look disconcerted Harry, but he tried not to let the nerves rupture his expression.
He's not going to hurt you, the regular part of his brain said. He's Mr Granger, not Uncle Vernon. Mr Granger won't hurt you.
"What do you think, Harry?" Mr Granger asked.
Harry snapped out of his mind and into reality once more. Mr Granger was pointing to a purple vase in the distance, with flowers drawn on the side. Nice and beautiful, swirling white with green stalks like those in the front garden, and Harry could imagine the vase perched on the dining table whilst they ate.
"It looks amazing," he said with a smile as he and Mr Granger approached it.
"That it does," Mr Granger said. "I think…either this or some perfume. Not sure…maybe I'll just get both for the Christmas cheer, and you can choose the actual present we give on the day." Mr Granger picked up the vase, balanced it in careful fingers trained at the dentistry practice, then nodded at Harry. "Let's go take a look at women's perfumes. Try not to let it stick to your clothes, though. Some of them…let's just say, don't smell very appealing."
Harry gave a light laugh at that, Aunt Petunia's torrid array of scents coming to mind, before following Mr Granger up another two flights of stairs. They reached the perfume section a few minutes later, which was no less spectacular than the rest of the store. Dozens and dozens of boxes spanning a host of shelves, each sparkling in the twinkles of light above.
Testing areas were to their left, through a few stretches of delicious smells. Other shoppers milled around, some girlfriends tugging their boyfriends along the aisles in search for the perfect scent for date nights and special occasions.
"The key is to just let the perfume fill you up," Mr Granger said. "You're not supposed to think about it too much. Just…smell, and see which one is the best." Mr Granger let off a wan smile, as though thinking of other things. "That's how you make some decisions in life, Harry. You're not supposed to think about them too much. Just…in the moment, you know the right thing to do. Don't ignore that feeling."
Mr Granger's eyes met Harry's. "That's how we chose to adopt you, after all. And I can say, hand on heart—" At this, he placed his hand on the left side of his chest, smile intact all the way— "that it was the best decision of all time."
A warmth filtered through Harry. First in his ears from hearing the words, then a redness heating his cheeks, then a feeling spreading throughout his chest, perhaps from his heart. Tingles raced to all corners of his body, right down to his fingers and toes, and Harry didn't recognise the feeling. A warm feeling, a comforting feeling.
He shook his head, struggling to keep the smile off his face and the warmth from his heart. Mr Granger led him over to the testing area, where others sprayed little canisters of perfume into the air, leaned in, and smelled eagerly.
Mr Granger did the same with a few, but they weren't anything special. Some were bland, others decent but not the perfect one. Harry sniffed the perfumes too, and a few of them caused a nausea to fill his stomach.
"They're quite bad," he said, pinching his nostrils together.
"Right you are," Mr Granger said. "But remember, when you find the one, you'll know it." At that, he picked up a little purple perfume, much like the colour or the vase held in his other hand. He sprayed it into the air, and he and Harry both leaned in and smelled.
It was airy, a little light and lilting, yet held undertones of a flower that Harry couldn't place the name of.
"A lily," Mr Granger observed, nodding in approval. "It smells of lilies in the summer. Lovely stuff, this is."
"My Mum's name was Lily," Harry said. He didn't know what made him say it, but when the words blurted out, he mentally cringed, wishing he could suck them back in.
"Is that right?" Mr Granger said with a smile. "That's a beautiful name, Harry. And I'm sure she was an equally beautiful person."
Harry knew she was beautiful, for the picture hidden in his pocket watch presented all the proof he needed.
Mr Granger asked a store clerk for a basket, since they'd forgotten one on the way in, before placing the perfume and vase inside.
"I think we've bought enough things for Cathy, eh. Now it's your turn Harry."
At Harry's puzzled look, Mr Granger chuckled and steered him by the shoulder. This time, Harry didn't flinch, that warm feeling still permeating his chest.
"Hermione gets Christmas presents too," Mr Granger said. He leaned down, almost whispering to Harry, and this time the earlier nervousness had vanished entirely. "And you're the one that gets to choose for her."
A/N: This one came out a little late, but still on the Saturday so we made it! Exams are ramping up early this year for some reason, so I've been plenty busy recently, less time to write anything. Hope everyone's doing well wherever you are, and until next Saturday!
