The Boy in The Photo Chapter 4: Part 3: Harry, a hilda fanfic

Holyhead claimed to be an up and coming tourist destination with a lot to do and a vibrant community that always had its arms open to welcome the travellers coming in on the ferry from Dublin.

Claimed to be.

In reality, the radiant sun in the blue cloudless sky similar to Trollberg failed completely to light up the dull town, populated by people either jaded almost entirely with life. Holyhead was like Trollberg but in the bleakest sense, isolated and forgotten about. Those that travelled there only did so out of necessity to grab the ferry that went to and from Dublin, but sometimes one thing would catch their eye. They would be a fleeting sight, only a few had time to blink and look about for him again as the boat pulled away from the grey shore.

A blue haired child, wandering around the town aimlessly. To and fro he would go, past the often empty shop fronts and the small attractions the town tried to advertise. He would wander down to the beach, to the ruined church and the graveyard. Sometimes he would wander into a newsagent to read the articles and then wander back out again. The locals would watch him silently, sometimes speculating as to his goals.

Skinny and pale, this quiet boy who wore ripped jeans that only went down to his ankles, ragged grey cardigan and undone laces was Hilda's brother Harry, and he had not had a good life.

His and Hilda's Father was a man called Tadgh. He was still well-built like in the photo Hilda had at home, but had given himself to drinking which had taken some of his good looks. With balding, stone grey hair and patchy stubble, Tadgh wore a constant angry and bitter look on his face. The locals knew to avoid him and Harry did as well, hence why he spent a large part of his day wandering repeatedly around town.

That day, the third Sunday of June, Harry walked in through the back door, forced to finish his wanderings for the day because of his hunger. The front door was always locked and he could never rely on his father to open it, so he would often have to climb over the side gate to get in. Looking about the kitchen cautiously as he entered, Harry strained his ears to try and make out anything else in the house before he dared to breathe.

The home he had known for his whole life was actually in quite good order, albeit quite dusty. Tadgh worked down at the Port, but little of it went towards Harry's wellbeing, hence the boy's fragile and ragged appearance. He darted over to the fridge and grabbed two slices of bread and cheese. The cheddar had a bit of mould on it but Harry casually tore that piece off and threw it into the bin. It wasn't his first time having to scavenge food like this.

He sat down in the corner and ate his slapdash sandwich quickly, straining his ears still for any sound whatsoever. He had tried many times to memorise his Father's routine, but Tadgh never stuck to anything. Sometimes he'd be out all day, sometimes he'd never leave the house and sometimes he'd be in and out constantly. His unpredictability meant Harry always had to walk on eggshells, though it never seemed to matter. Tadgh would always appear when he least expected it.

And that's when the torment would begin.

Harry gulped down the last of his sandwich and remained huddled against the wall for another minute, listening intently. No sound, none whatsoever but the boy's anxiety kept him from moving. He hated this feeling, never knowing what was going to happen. In particular, not knowing when it would happen. Sometimes the abuse would start when he'd walk in the door, other times when he'd be lying in bed peacefully. Once, during one of the rare days Tadgh had bothered driving him to school, he'd slammed on brakes suddenly. Harry had thankfully had his seatbelt on, but had still hit his head on the front seat.

'Annoy me like that again and see what happens,' was all Tadgh had hissed darkly, never giving the slightest hint about what Harry had done to bother him.

Finally, Harry prised himself from the wall and dared to root around the fridge again. There wasn't much, most space being taken up by cans of beer and what food there was had been left well past its use-before date. Harry had to pull his head back for a moment, the scent of rotting cream cheese almost being too much for him. Eventually though, he found some apples left in one of the drawers. To his amazement, they were actually fresh as well, unopened and wet with condensation.

Eagerly, Harry reached in to grab the packet, but stopped himself just as quickly. Should his Father notice something was amiss, the consequences would be painful and Harry took a step back in fear. He tried to convince himself that he didn't really need the apple, but his stomach growled in objection. Unable to fight his hunger, Harry took the packet but went about the process carefully. He made an opening, managed to pull an apple out from within and took a couple of small bites. It was enough to satiate his hunger for a time, and the boy shakily returned the apple to the box, its uneaten exterior facing outwards.

Maybe if he was lucky, he'd be able to nibble away at it again tomorrow, as Harry moved from the fridge and out into the hall. It was a cramped space, the same size and width as the front door. Harry didn't even have to extend his arms fully to touch both sides, and there were many times that his Father had cornered him here as well. Those memories made Harry quicken his pace, going up the thinly carpeted stairs as he struggled not to trip over his laces.

Although he now felt easy thinking his Father wasn't home, Harry strained his ears for any sound coming from the man's bedroom. Harry had only caught a few accidental glimpses of the inside, much to his own detriment, but he knew it was extremely messy. It was in stark contrast to his own room, sparsely furnished with small windows that barely allowed the Sun through, as if Tadgh wanted no one to know he existed.

Since he was alone for the time being, Harry decided to risk some hobbies. Laying flat on his stomach, the boy pulled a box of crayons out from under his bed. They'd been given to him by his teachers in school, perhaps the only people who had ever cared for him. From within his pillow, Harry took the paper they'd also given him and got to work creating a map.

Harry loved drawing maps, because it could be any shape he wanted it to be. Sometimes he drew islands separated by a vast ocean, other times it was green with squares and circles for settlements. But each and every one of them had one thing in common; a vast and organised transport system. At least, to Harry it was organised. Most people would look at his maps and probably become nauseous trying to figure it out.

As he pondered what to do, at the same time listening out for his Father, Harry decided on something new. He'd make a rail map, and there would be a little logo with a train on the front. For that, Harry decided to use one of the little models he also owned. Their paint chipped from past owners, they'd been given to Harry by a kindly woman in a charity shop. His collection consisted of six; a bus, two cars and the rest trains.

However, Harry quickly realised that something was amiss. Peering underneath the bed, he saw that only five models were there. A train, the particular train he'd wanted to draw too, was missing and Harry felt a chill go down his spine as he looked about nervously.

His Father had been in here.

Tadgh wasn't a stupid man, he knew all the little things that Harry hated and he tormented him for it. For instance, none of the chairs downstairs had pads on the bottom, so Harry was forced to hear the dreaded sound they made against the floor constantly. And then there were the things he'd do to his room. Despite it being Harry's safe space, it also carried scars of abuse. Tadgh would sometimes come in and pull out all his drawers, drunkenly accusing his son of hiding things from him while Harry sat terrified on his bed. Other times he would tear down the art Harry made and dared to try and put on the wall. But worst was when he would just stand in the doorway, staring at his son with wide, malicious eyes and leaving Harry terrified as to what he would do.

But he also liked to take Harry's toys, because he knew Harry wouldn't be able to get over their absence. Sure enough, the boy wearily pushed the remaining models under his bed, and glumly stashed the paper away as well. Days like these were rare, he hadn't been harassed by the local kids and he'd gotten a decent meal too. But now Harry just flopped onto his bed, feeling miserable.

And then a thought came to him. His Father only cared enough to take the toy from his room; he certainly wouldn't be bothered to carry it around with him wherever he went. He had to have hidden it in the house somewhere, a place where he knew Harry wouldn't dare to look..inside his own bedroom.

Harry immediately pushed it from his mind though, knowing that if he was caught the punishment would be severe and felt his Father would know he'd been in there regardless. His nastiest experiences had come from those small glimpses he'd seen before. Worse, Tadgh had threatened him with the belt if he ever so much as caught Harry lingering in front of his door. Harry wasn't stupid either, knowing there was only one reason why his Father was so territorial.

Inside that room, there had to be some details about his Mum.

Tadgh never talked about Johanna, though Harry had picked up her name when he'd overheard his Father drunkenly mumbling to himself one night two years ago. When he'd realised Harry had heard, Tadgh had backhanded his son across the face which had sent the child spiralling painfully to the floor below, before he'd held Harry in a vice grip by the scruff of his top.

'I catch you listening in again, or you try asking ANYTHING..you'll wish you were never born,' he'd growled.

Tadgh hadn't said not to think about her though, and the image Harry had thought up not long after, as he had lain in bed with his tooth that his Father had dislodged, came back to him now. So, instead, Harry decided to risk indulging in his most secretive hobby. Because his blue hair wasn't the only thing that set Harry apart; it was the fact that this frightened little boy was capable of what could be described as..magic. At least, that was the only word Harry knew that could describe it.

Whatever it was, Harry could tap into it by snapping his fingers, something he had always remembered being able to do. There was a vague, distant memory in his mind as well, of his father clapping and laughing as he had clicked away. It was the only time Harry could think of when his Father had been genuinely happy with him; all the others were smirks or wicked grins as he'd tormented him over one thing or another.

Harry shook his head and focused his mind. He'd imagined his Mum's face more than anything else, kind, warm, full of love and support. Harry imagined her with blue hair too, someone who wouldn't mock him for the gift that they both shared. Her arms, gentle and welcoming rose up to meet him as Harry's eyes drooped. In her arms, he could cry, snuggle up and feel safe from all the horrors and cruelty of the world. They could play trains together, they could talk about his other obsession with space as well. He'd eat nice food, sleep long nights and never have to worry about anyone hurting him ever again..

And somehow, someway, by clicking his fingers Harry was able to make these images come alive. They would go by in slow-motion; resting in his Mum's arms as she pointed up at the sky to the stars above, the slow movement of a model train going along some tracks, the placing of a plate of warm pasta before him..

But Harry never allowed himself to become too immersed in these thoughts. He always had to stay focused and keep an ear out for his Father, who had no idea of this quiet hobby of his. Given that he would frequently go out of his way to tarnish what made his son happy, Harry had sworn to keep this talent, whatever it was, to himself as long as possible.

And almost as if he'd jinxed it, Harry heard the front door open downstairs and stopped the clicking. The image of his Mum faded away and he was back in his room, cold and empty, as his Father's heavy footsteps made their way through the hall. They faded away into the kitchen before they came stomping back, Tadgh's grey head appearing as he heaved himself up the stairs.

'Harry! Where are..are ya, pest!' he called out angrily. Harry could tell from his slurred speech and tone that he was drunk, as was often the norm, and forced himself to respond. It was akin to a prisoner directing their blind executioner.

'H-Here..,' he called out and his Father appeared in the doorway, slamming the door against the wall as he smashed his hand flat against it and heaved himself inside. He eyed his son wickedly, as he steadied himself on the bed frame.

'Hello, runt,' Tadgh sneered, the alcohol hanging off his breath, 'Any idea..Any idea what day it is..?' He asked, a wicked smile turning into ugly scowl when Harry remained silent, not knowing what to say. Cursing under his breath, he moved closer, knowing the boy was uncomfortable with violations of his personal space.

'Ohh..no Daddy, I don't know what day it is!,' Tadgh continued, putting on a high-pitched voice before his scowl darkened and he grabbed Harry suddenly. He hoisted him up and threw him off his bed, where the boy landed hard on his shoulder. As always, Harry curled up into a ball and began shaking slightly. Tadgh snorted and stomped back around to him, pulling Harry's head up by his hair and was completely unmoved by his son's teary, bloodshot eyes.

'Allways have to shpell things out, don't I..?,' Tadgh sneered, slurring his speech, 'It's..It's FATHER'S DAY!' He exclaimed, voice rising in indignation, 'WHERE'S MY BLOODY GIIFT!?'

'I..I-I don't-!' Harry began desperately, terror dripping off every word he forced out, but Tadgh caused him to stop by tightening his vice grip on Harry's hair in outrage. Harry felt the tears bulge from his eyes before his Father finally let go and stumbled back. Harry knew the ordeal wasn't over yet, though as Tadgh slammed a fist on the now open door.

'You usselleess gobeen! I give you shuelter, I gave up evveryythinng for you, but you can't be fuuckiingg arssed to get me just one. suhingle. thing!'

He advanced on Harry again, the boy having resumed his foetal position on the ground. He felt his Father tower over him, so close that he could smell the booze off his breath again. Then the first blow came, haphazard and sloppy, but Harry felt the impact shake his frail body from head to toe.

'..And ya know what that makess you..?' Tadgh hissed, before he reached into his pocket and placed something on the dusty wooden floor before his son. A lone, singular apple. The same apple that Harry had taken some bites out of earlier. Harry almost stopped breathing and dared a glance up at those malicious eyes, devoid of any compassion and full of self-righteous fury.

'It makes you a thief!' his Father snarled, Harry sensing him tighten his fists at each word before he tightened his form, taking extra care to shield his head before Tadgh began to lay into him. Punches struck his sides and arms painfully and Harry felt the bruises begin to make themselves known all over. Tadgh hammered away at him, throwing insult after insult, calling Harry worthless, hopeless and everything in between. For five, painfully long minutes, he turned his son into a punching bag, until finally all the movement forced him to stop, the beer curdling in his gut.

Gasping, the man forced himself up and stumbled away as Harry dared to breathe, feeling that his whole body was about to shatter into a million pieces. Just as he began to unwind, the boy froze in terrified anticipation once again. His Father's footsteps had stopped, one hand against the door as his large form seemed to shake a little.

Tadgh would later look back at this moment constantly, rueing himself for not just continuing on to the bathroom and throwing up the multiple pints he'd sunk that morning. Instead, he'd looked over at his son, nostrils flaring over and over again as he took deep breaths to keep the puke down as long as possible.

'You're better off with me..I'm..I'm all you'll ever have..ya hear? Johanna was..was fucking useless..your suhister is-'

He froze. Harry froze. Immediately Tadgh slammed the door shut, hoping to shake the word from Harry's battered mind but he was already far too late. The word sent Harry into a daze, the image of his Mum being joined by another, a girl who again shared his blue hair and an equally welcoming expression. But that wasn't the only result, because as Harry laid flat on his back and inhaled sharp, steady breaths into his broken chest he felt a rare anger rush up to his head.

Because even though he dreamed of his Mother constantly, Harry's life had been so cruel that he also feared she would be like his Father; drunk, abusive and no respect for his little dislikes. But now he knew the truth. There was a sister out there, and if his Father "cared" about him so much, why in the stars was she not here with him?

Harry sat up, hands over his ears as his Father retched violently in the bathroom next to his room. It was another sound Harry hated and one he heard all too often. All too often had he put up with this terror, having thought he was powerless to do anything. And as he thought about it, a future lurched forward, calling out to him. Harry's head pounded as his eyes darted around the floor, head feeling both light and heavy at the same time. He didn't know what to do; every minute spent here felt like a minute of his life wasted, when his Father reappeared. He looked wilder and angrier than Harry had ever seen him, bits of sick speckled throughout his beard and eyes bulging angrily from his face.

'S-Stay away from m-me!' Harry suddenly exclaimed, the words having formed and then flown from his mouth before he could even register them. They were angry too, full of hurt and confusion, which only drove Tadgh into a rage as slammed another fist against Harry's bedroom door.

'YOU WORTHLESS GURRIER! I SACRIFICED EVERYTHING FOR YOU! EVERYTHING!' He roared at the very top of his lungs. Then he advanced, hands clawed menacingly as if he were about to strangle his son, or even rip him limb from limb. All Harry knew for certain was that he was in for a beating of a lifetime as he scrambled backwards on all fours. Coming right up against the wall, Tadgh reached for him when Harry, in sheer desperation, reached out and snapped his fingers.

He didn't know what prompted it, in fact looking back Harry would always be sure he wasn't thinking near enough straight to react. All he remembered was feeling..warm..not from the Summer heat outside but because of his emotions. It was as if they had all been mixed together before spilling out through his body, before the motion of Harry's fingers brought them together and allowed them to lash out all at once.

There was an explosion of orange light; one that could well have sent Harry flying out of his window had it been big enough. Instead, he found himself winded and flat against the wall as his Father stumbled the whole way back to the door. He clutched at his chest, gasping as another hand gripped the doorframe. The look he gave his son was still full of anger, yet..there was something else, and Harry struggled to comprehend that it was fear. Tadgh's hand found the door handle, eyes narrowing towards his son as he pulled it closed.

'Stay here for the rest of the day, I mean it!,' he hissed darkly before he slammed the door shut. Harry felt the words bounce off him as he slumped down against the wall, shaking. Tired, deeply hurt and deeply, deeply confused, all the boy in the photo could wonder about was his Mother and Sister. Who, unknown to him, were talking about him at this very minute...