Left Behind

by swamygliders

Abandoned at a run-down orphanage by the Dursleys, Harry struggles with fresh injuries and a growing sense of betrayal. Confronting a world of unfamiliar faces and hesitant kindness, he cautiously navigates the bustling corridors and guarded smiles of Little Haven Orphanage. With his pillowcase of scant belongings, Harry steps into a new chapter fraught with uncertainty.

Hello, hello! I admit I got a bit carried away with this one—sorry for the length! Amazingly, I already have at least one more chapter planned. Hope you enjoy!
This is response for a challenge found on potions and snitches

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The summer sun blazed down as Harry sat hunched in the backseat of the Dursleys' car, his forehead pressed lightly against the smudged window. The heat from the upholstery had seeped through his thin, oversized shirt, but he barely registered it. His head still throbbed from where Dudley had shoved him into the wall earlier that morning, leaving a dull ache that refused to fade. His ribs protested with every shallow breath, a lingering pain from his uncle's latest outburst— they were likely broken.

Outside, the streets rolled by in a muted blur, accompanied only by the steady hum of the car's engine. Harry didn't bother asking where they were going; he knew better. Years of silent lessons had taught him to avoid attention, to blend into the background. The cost of stepping out of line was always swift and unforgiving. Vernon's fist had delivered that lesson with brutal clarity just days ago, sending Harry sprawling into the corner of the kitchen. The sharp pain in his side and the dull throb in his ankle ever since confirmed the damage.

He shifted slightly, careful not to move his left leg too much. The sharp, searing pain in his ankle reminded him of how he'd twisted it trying to dodge one of Vernon's kicks. He'd hidden it as best as he could, limping only when he was sure no one was looking. Still, it hurt fiercely now.

Harry kept his gaze fixed on the passing scenery, his hands gripping his knees tightly to keep them from trembling. He didn't need to see the scowls on his aunt and uncle's faces or hear their occasional grumbles to know how unwelcome he was. This summer, like all the others, was just another exercise in survival. He couldn't let them see how much he hurt. That would only make things worse.

Petunia sat stiffly in the passenger seat, her back unnaturally straight and her lips pressed so tightly together they all but disappeared. Her gaze stayed fixed ahead, deliberately avoiding any glance at Harry through the rearview mirror. Dudley lounged in the backseat beside Harry, noisily crunching on a bag of crisps, crumbs spilling onto his shirt with every bite. Harry's stomach twisted painfully; the last thing he'd eaten was the crust of bread Petunia had thrown his way the night before.

The car jerked sharply around a corner, and Harry was thrown against the door. He bit back a gasp, his ribs flaring in protest, and held his breath to keep the pain from showing. Dudley let out a snicker, clearly amused, while Vernon kept his focus on the road, his knuckles white as he gripped the wheel.

The narrow lane they turned onto was lined with small, run-down houses. Their windows sagged in warped frames, and front gardens were overrun with wild weeds and grass that reached the knees. As they passed a warn down park, Harry caught sight of two children perched on a rusted swing set. They sat close together, their heads bent in quiet conversation, the faint creak of the chains swaying in the breeze adding to the stillness.

Harry frowned. This wasn't a neighborhood the Dursleys usually visited. It was too far removed from the manicured lawns and spotless sidewalks of Privet Drive. He straightened slightly, wincing at the pull in his back, and tried to glimpse where they were heading.

The car came to a jerky stop in front of a weathered brick building, its exterior marked by decades of neglect. The once-red bricks had faded to a dull brown, their surfaces chipped and cracked in places where vines had begun to creep upward. Several of the windowsills sagged, their peeling paint curling like dried leaves. Above the rusted iron gate hung a crooked sign, its letters barely legible beneath layers of grime and fading paint: Little Haven Orphanage.

The gate itself creaked softly in the wind, one hinge hanging slightly loose, while weeds poked up stubbornly through the gravel path leading to the front steps. Despite its tired appearance, the building stood solid, its tall, rectangular shape giving the impression that it had seen worse days and survived them all.

Vernon shifted into park with a loud thunk, his grunt breaking the uneasy silence that had filled the car. He twisted halfway in his seat, his bulky frame making the motion awkward, and fixed a hard glare on Harry. "Out."

Harry blinked, momentarily disoriented. "What?"

"I said, get out!" Vernon snapped, his face flushing as his impatience boiled over. "This is where you'll be staying from now on."

For a moment, Harry thought he must have misheard. He stared at Vernon, then glanced at Petunia, seeking some explanation, some reassurance. She clutched her purse tightly in her lap. Her gaze remained fixed out the windshield, her lips still pressed into a flat line. She didn't look at him, not even a flicker of acknowledgment. Her detachment felt colder than the words themselves.

"You're leaving me here?" Harry's voice came out rough, barely above a whisper. His throat felt tight, his chest constricting as he tried to make sense of what he'd just heard. His words sounded small and fragile, almost drowned out by the quiet hum of the car engine.

Vernon's face darkened with irritation. Without another word, he shoved his door open and climbed out. The car rocked slightly under his weight as he stomped around to Harry's side, his features twisted in disgust. The back door creaked loudly as he yanked it open, the sound slicing through the stillness.

"We've had enough of you, boy," Vernon barked, his meaty hand closing around Harry's arm like a vice. Harry winced as a sharp burst of pain shot through the bruised flesh beneath Vernon's iron grip. His uncle hauled him out of the car with little care, nearly making Harry lose his balance as his injured ankle protested fiercely.

"You think we'll keep putting up with your freakishness? Think again." Vernon loomed over Harry, his bulk casting an imposing shadow. He shoved him forward, away from the car, leaving Harry stumbling as he struggled to steady himself. His heart pounded in his chest, the realization sinking in like a lead weight. They were really abandoning him here.

Harry turned back toward the car, his eyes darting between Vernon and Petunia. "You can't just—" he started, but the words stuck in his throat. He wanted to scream, to demand an answer, but Petunia's gaze remained glued forward, as if she couldn't even hear him. Dudley smirked through the open window, a mocking wave of his chubby fingers making Harry's stomach churn.

"Enough!" Vernon barked, cutting off Harry's stammered protest. "You're lucky we didn't leave you sooner." Without warning, Vernon shoved Harry forward, his hand pressing hard against the boy's shoulder. Harry's balance gave way beneath the sudden force, and he stumbled onto the cracked pavement, his injured ankle buckling painfully. He caught himself on the edge of the gate, biting back a cry as fresh waves of pain flared through his side and leg.

Vernon reached back into the car and pulled out a small, lumpy pillowcase. Without a word, he tossed it at Harry's feet, where it landed with a dull thud. Dust puffed up around it as the worn fabric settled over whatever was inside.

"That's all you're getting," Vernon sneered, his face red with disdain. "You ought to be grateful for that."

Harry stared at the pillowcase, his chest tightening. The faded pillowcase sagged slightly under the weight of its contents, but he didn't move to pick it up. Instead, his eyes darted to Petunia, who sat stiffly in the passenger seat, her gaze fixed firmly out the windshield. She still gripped her purse tightly in her lap, her knuckles white against the straps, refusing to look at him. In the back seat, Dudley waved lazily, his smirk wide and mocking.

"Wait!" Harry croaked, his voice cracking as panic rose in his chest. "What am I supposed to—"

"You're someone else's problem now!" Vernon snapped, cutting him off. His bulk loomed over Harry for a moment, then he climbed back into the driver's seat with a grunt. The door slammed shut behind him, the sound final and deafening in the stillness.

The engine roared to life, and Harry stood frozen as the car lurched forward. Dust and gravel kicked up from the tires, stinging his eyes as he watched the Dursleys drive away without so much as a backward glance. Dudley's mocking grin remained burned into his mind long after the car disappeared around the corner, leaving only the faint hum of the engine fading into the distance.

For a long moment, Harry didn't move. His ribs ached with every shallow breath, and his ankle hurt fiercely, but he ignored the pain, his focus on the pillowcase at his feet. Slowly, he crouched down, wincing as the movement pulled at his injuries, and picked it up. The pillowcase was heavier than he'd expected, the contents shifting awkwardly inside, but he didn't bother looking at what was in it. Whatever Vernon had given him, it wouldn't be much.

Turning his attention to the building in front of him, Harry's stomach sank. The orphanage stood like a relic of neglect, its brick walls streaked with grime and weathered by years of disrepair. The windows were obscured by dull lace curtains, and the front door hung slightly ajar, swaying faintly in the breeze. The air around it was thick with the faint smell of mildew and overgrown grass.

Harry tightened his grip on the pillowcase, its rough fabric digging into his palm as he limped toward the gate. His heart pounded in his chest, and his ankle pulsed with every painful step, but he forced himself forward. Pausing outside the gate, he glanced back down the empty lane, hoping for something—anything—but the road remained silent. With a weary sigh, he stepped through the gate, his legs trembling beneath him.

The gravel path crunched faintly under his worn trainers, the sound unnervingly loud in the stillness. He placed his hands on the cool iron bars, their chill seeping into his sweaty palms, and pushed the gate open. Its hinges groaned, shattering the silence that hung heavily over the empty yard. It was just him now, standing before the building, the street behind him as empty as if the world had vanished the moment he crossed its threshold.

Harry sighed and stared up at the tall brick orphanage. Its aged façade loomed over him, the faded red bricks streaked darker in places from the recent rain. The windows glinted faintly in the pale light, some slightly ajar to let in the cool air. From within came muffled sounds—voices rising and falling, laughter ringing out, and the occasional sharp thud of hurried footsteps. The building felt alive with activity, even though the yard around him was deserted. The patchy grass underfoot, still damp from earlier rainfall, clung to his trainers as he shifted his weight.

He lingered for a moment longer, his fingers brushing the edges of the pillowcase in his hand before taking a deep breath and stepping forward. The large wooden door stood slightly ajar, its paint peeling in places. Pushing it open, he was met with the low groan of old hinges and the immediate warmth of the interior. The air carried a blend of scents—something freshly baked mingled with the faint, sharp tang of cleaning supplies. His stomach clenched with hunger, the smell of food drawing his focus as his trainers scuffed against the worn, uneven floorboards.

Inside, the sound of children reached him more clearly. Laughter echoed distantly down the hall, interspersed with quick, uneven footsteps racing over the wooden floors. A blur of movement caught his eye as two boys darted past an open doorway, one shouting something unintelligible while the other gave chase. Across the entryway, in a far corner, two girls sat cross-legged, their heads close together as they whispered. Their eyes flicked toward Harry briefly, curiosity in their glances, but they quickly turned back to their conversation. The rest of the children seemed oblivious to his presence, too absorbed in their chatter and games to notice the stranger standing awkwardly near the door.

Before Harry could decide what to do next, a door farther down the hall swung open with a soft creak. A woman emerged, balancing a tray of mismatched mugs in her hands. She was plump, with a kind face framed by streaks of gray in her curly hair. Her apron, checkered and slightly smudged, bore traces of flour and faint stains, evidence of time spent in the kitchen. She paused mid-step when her eyes landed on Harry, her expression shifting as she took him in. Her brow furrowed slightly, not unkindly, as curiosity and concern appeared on her face. For a moment, the tray wobbled in her grasp before she steadied it.

"Well, hello there," she said warmly, her voice carrying the kind of comfort that came from years of looking after a bustling household. She carefully set the tray on a small side table and wiped her hands on her apron, a practiced gesture, before stepping toward him with a welcoming smile. "You're a new face. What's your name, love?"

"Harry," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Harry," she repeated with a nod, her tone kind and steady. "I'm Mrs. Fields. I'm the cook around here, and I help keep the house running—and an eye on the children when the Director's busy. Been here more years than I can count." She paused, tilting her head slightly. "How long have you been with us, then?"

"I just… just got here," Harry admitted, glancing over his shoulder at the door as though expecting the Dursleys to return. It was an irrational thought—they had made it clear they were done with him—but the sting of their abandonment was still fresh and raw.

Mrs. Fields's eyes softened as she took him in, noticing his tense posture and the way he clutched his side. She didn't ask questions, though, only giving a small nod as if to say she understood more than she let on. She gestured down the hall with a practiced ease, her voice taking on a practical tone.

"Well then, you'll want to meet the Director right away," she said. "She's the one in charge and will get you sorted. Come on, now. I'll take you to her." She started down the hall, glancing back to make sure he was following. Harry stopped briefly before shuffling after her, the sound of his trainers faint against the worn floorboards as he walked into the unknown.

Harry followed her, clutching the pillowcase Vernon had thrown at him. The hallway was lined with faded photographs and a scattering of children's drawings pinned to the walls. The scent of floor polish lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the more lively sounds of the orphanage—a mix of laughter, running footsteps, and occasional shouts echoing from around the corner.

As they walked, a swarm of children rushed past them, weaving through the corridor, their noise and laughter filling the air. A boy with unruly brown hair clutched a wooden airplane, its propeller spinning wildly as he zoomed it through the air, narrowly avoiding Mrs. Fields. Behind him, two younger girls chased after each other, their giggles bouncing off the walls as they darted into a nearby room. A group of older kids huddled near the far end of the hallway, whispering conspiratorially over a deck of battered playing cards.

Mrs. Fields barely glanced at them as she led Harry down the hall, her pace brisk. He tightened his grip on the pillowcase, his eyes darting between the unfamiliar faces. Most of the children barely noticed him, too absorbed in their games and chatter to pay attention, but a few cast him curious glances before turning back to their own activities.

At the end of the hallway, Mrs. Fields paused in front of a door with a polished brass plaque that read: Director Julia Blackwell. She knocked twice on the wood, the sound crisp in the quiet corridor, then pushed the door open without waiting for an answer.

Inside, the office was surprisingly bright and welcoming. A large window framed by cheerful, patterned curtains let in the afternoon sunlight, which warmed the room and highlighted the shelves crammed with books. An overflowing potted fern in the corner sprawled out like it had been growing there for years. Behind the desk sat a tall woman whose silver-streaked hair was neatly pinned back, though a few loose strands framed her kind, open face. Her eyes, a warm hazel, lit up when they met Harry's, her expression immediately soft and approachable. She leaned forward slightly, her posture relaxed, as if to make it clear he was welcome.

"Mrs. Fields," the woman said with a small smile. "And who do we have here?"

"This is Harry," Mrs. Fields said, stepping aside to let Harry shuffle in. "He's just arrived."

The Director stood and stepped around the desk, her heels clicking softly on the wooden floor. She knelt slightly to meet Harry's eyes, her expression calm. The way she looked at him made it clear she wanted to ensure he felt seen. "Harry," she said gently. "I'm Julia Blackwell. I run things here. It's nice to meet you."

She stayed crouched, studying him for a moment longer. His guarded posture hadn't eased, but his eyes flicked to her briefly before darting away again. She could tell he was wary, perhaps trying to figure out if she was someone he could trust. That kind of caution wasn't uncommon, but in Harry's case, it seemed ingrained—like something he'd learned the hard way.

"You can call me Julia if you want," she added kindly. "I know all of this is new to you, but we're not strangers now." Her words hung there for a moment, leaving him space to respond, though she wasn't surprised when he stayed silent. She stood slowly, giving him his distance, and tucked her hands into her pockets. There was no need to rush him; Harry clearly wasn't the kind of boy who responded well to pressure.

Straightening fully, Julia stepped back behind the desk, her chair sliding slightly as she moved it into place. She glanced at him again and gestured toward the chair on the other side of the desk. "Why don't you sit down?" she offered calmly. She lowered herself into her seat and waited as Harry hesitated as he slowly approached.

Harry shifted his weight from one foot to the other, nodding but unsure of how to respond. His mind was buzzing with thoughts—how long he'd be stuck here, what was going to happen next, and, most urgently, how he would get back to Hogwarts. He doubted anyone here would understand if he tried to explain, so he stayed quiet.

He finally sat down, though he perched on the edge of the chair, his posture stiff, as though bracing himself for the next thing to go wrong. Julia studied him for a moment, her gaze flicking over his thin frame and the way he held himself so tensely. It was hard to miss how uncomfortable he was, and she wondered how much of that discomfort came from physical pain.

"Harry," she said again, her voice calm and soft. "I'd like to ask you a few questions, just to understand what brought you here. Is that all right?"

Harry waviered, his gaze darting toward the door as if he might make a run for it. He didn't want to relive the last few hours—or the summer—but there was something in the way she asked, gentle but firm, that told him he didn't have much of a choice. After a moment, he gave a reluctant nod.

"Good," Julia said, leaning forward slightly, her hands resting neatly on the desk. "Let's start simple. Can you tell me how you came to be here today?"

Harry swallowed hard, his throat dry and scratchy. He avoided her gaze, fixing his eyes on the scuffed toes of his trainers. "My aunt and uncle… they brought me," he said quietly. His voice faltered as he added, "They—um—they just left me outside and drove off."

Julia's expression remained calm, but there was a slight pause in the way her hands, still resting on the desk, shifted ever so slightly. "I see," she said, her voice steady but carrying an undertone of curiosity. "Your aunt and uncle, you said? Did they tell you why they brought you here or say anything before they left?"

Harry glanced up briefly, his face tense and uncertain, before dropping his gaze back to the floor. "They said they didn't want me anymore," he muttered, his voice barely audible. "That I was… someone else's problem now."

Julia's gaze softened at his words, though she kept her composure. "I'm sorry to hear that, Harry," she said after a moment. Her tone didn't pity him, but there was a quiet understanding there, as if she wanted to offer some semblance of safety in the wake of what he'd just revealed. "You're not anyone's problem, and you're safe here. I promise."

For a moment, there was silence. Then Julia nodded sadly. It was a story she had heard before, but it was never easy to hear. "Thank you for telling me that," she said gently. "And before you came to live with your aunt and uncle, where were you? With your parents?"

Harry became quiet. He didn't like talking about his parents—not because he was ashamed, but because it always felt like explaining a wound that had never really healed. "They're dead," he said finally. "They died when I was a baby."

The Director watched him steadily, her voice quiet and sincere. "I'm very sorry to hear that. It sounds like things haven't been easy for you."

Harry didn't answer. He wasn't sure what to say. The truth felt too big, too strange for this moment.

Julia reached for a notebook on her desk and opened it to a fresh page. "How old are you, Harry?"

"Eleven," he replied, almost automatically. Then, realizing the date, he added, "Well, twelve in a couple of weeks."

She nodded and jotted this down, her pen moving swiftly but neatly. "Your birthday is coming up, then. What day is it?"

"July 31st," Harry said, glancing at the floor. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had cared about his birthday, and he doubted this year would be any different.

Julia's eyes flicked up from her notebook briefly, a small smile touching her lips. "That's not far off. We'll have to see what we can do to make it special."

Harry blinked, unsure how to respond to that. He tightened his grip on the pillowcase in his lap, not allowing himself to hope for anything.

"What's your full name, Harry?" she asked, her tone steady and matter-of-fact.

"Harry James Potter," he said quietly.

Julia wrote it down in her notebook and continued. "And your aunt and uncle's names?"

"Vernon and Petunia Dursley," he replied, his tone flat. Just saying their names made his stomach clench, memories of their cruelty flashing in his mind.

She nodded again, her pen moving smoothly across the page. "Do you know their address? Where they live?"

Harry wavered briefly before answering. "Number Four, Privet Drive. Little Whinging. That's in Surrey."

"Thank you," Julia said, her voice calm and steady. "And what school do you go to, Harry?"

His stomach twisted at the question. This was what he'd been dreading. "Um…" He fumbled for an answer, his thoughts racing. Could he lie? Would she believe him if he told the truth? Either way, it felt like a trap.

"It's… a boarding school," he said finally, avoiding her gaze. "Far away."

Julia's pen hovered over the page as she glanced up at him, her expression curious but patient. "Do you know the name of the school?"

Harry swallowed hard, feeling his cheeks heat. "Hogwarts," he mumbled, hoping she wouldn't ask for details. Most people had never heard of it, and those who had thought it was a joke.

To his surprise, she didn't press him. She simply wrote the name down, her face thoughtful. "All right. Thank you, Harry."

He shifted uneasily in his chair. Something about the way she was writing everything down made his skin crawl, though he couldn't put his finger on why. Julia closed the notebook and set it aside, her expression unreadable.

"Well," she said calmly, "that gives us a good starting point. I'll need to record a few more details for our files, just to make sure everything is in order and you're properly cared for. We'll talk more once you've had some time to settle in and see the doctor."

As she spoke, her thoughts turned to the next steps she'd need to take. Anytime a child was abandoned at the orphanage, it was protocol to contact the authorities and file a formal report. Harry's situation, especially given the obvious neglect and abandonment, would likely prompt an investigation. Still, there was no need to alarm him. He was already nervous, and she didn't want to make things harder for him. For now, she'd stick to gathering the necessary information and let the rest unfold as required.

Julia's eyes remained on Harry, noting how still he sat, his body tense and unmoving. Most children shifted or fidgeted under uncertain circumstances, but Harry seemed to have locked himself in place, as though moving might bring some unseen consequence. The slight wince he gave when his sleeve brushed against his wrist didn't escape her notice, nor did the overly cautious way he adjusted his posture.

The signs were clear—he was likely hiding injuries. That alone was reason enough to have him looked at by a doctor, though she suspected there was much more beneath the surface. Whatever had brought him here wasn't just neglect; it was something far more complicated, and she would have to tread carefully to understand what he needed.

Julia leaned forward slightly, her voice softening. "Harry, I know this might feel overwhelming, but you don't need to worry. We're here to help you, not to hurt you. Do you understand?"

Harry stiffened, shifting uncomfortably. "I'm fine," he said quickly. "Really."

Julia straightened, her expression kind. "I know you might feel nervous, but it's important. The doctor here is very kind, and he'll just make sure you're doing well. If there's anything you'd like to tell me before then, though, I'm here to listen."

Harry shook his head, his stomach twisting. He couldn't tell her about the bruises, the aches, or the sleepless nights in the cupboard. What would she think? What could she even do?

Mrs. Fields cleared her throat gently. "Why don't I bring Harry to the kitchen for a bit? Get him something to eat before his appointment?"

"That's a fine idea," Julia agreed. "Harry, we'll go over the rest of the intake process after you've had some time to settle. Does that sound alright?"

Harry nodded again, too tired to argue, and followed Mrs. Fields out of the office.

As they walked back down the hallway, Harry's mind churned. He couldn't stay here—not when September was coming. His heart ached at the thought of never returning to Hogwarts, never seeing Ron or Hermione again. How would he even get back without his wand or the rest of his things? Would Dumbledore come looking for him? Did anyone even know he was here?

Lost in thought, Harry almost didn't notice when Mrs. Fields set a steaming bowl of soup in front of him at a small table in a corner of the kitchen. She patted his shoulder gently before bustling off to stir something on the stove.

Harry stared at the bowl, his reflection wobbling faintly in the broth. He didn't know how, but he had to find a way back to the wizarding world. Whatever it took, he wouldn't let this be the end of his magical life.

Mrs. Fields returned after a while, wiping her hands on her apron as she noticed Harry hadn't touched his soup. With a sigh, she pulled out the chair next to him and sat down, the old wooden chair creaking under her weight. She placed her hands on the table, leaning slightly toward him.

"Harry," she said gently but firmly, "you know that soup's not going to eat itself."

Her words broke through Harry's daze, and he blinked, looking up at her for the first time since she'd left. There was no impatience in her expression, only a steady warmth that felt unfamiliar but not unwelcome. Slowly, he picked up the spoon, his hand trembling slightly, and lifted it to his lips. The broth was simple but warm, the taste settling in his stomach comfortably.

"There you go," Mrs. Fields said, nodding approvingly as Harry took another spoonful. "This place doesn't have much, but we try to make sure no one goes hungry, at least." She gestured vaguely to the kitchen around them, its mismatched pots and pans hanging on the walls, some dented and scratched but clean and carefully organized. The worn counters bore the marks of years of use, but they were scrubbed spotless.

Harry glanced up shyly. "Do the kids help out? Like, with the cooking and everything?"

Mrs. Fields smiled, her hands resting on the table as she answered. "They sure do, but most of the work goes into the garden out back. We grow all sorts of things—vegetables, herbs, even a few fruit trees. It makes a big difference when you're feeding this many mouths. The kids love being part of it, especially in the spring when everything's growing."

"You grow all that?" Harry asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

"We do," Mrs. Fields said with a nod. "Costs are high, and donations only go so far. The garden keeps us going, and the kids like to help. There's always something to do out there—watering, weeding, planting. It keeps them busy and gives them a bit of pride when they see what their hard work can do. We've got tomatoes, carrots, lettuce, beans, cucumbers... and plenty of other bits. It's a lot of effort, but it's worth it."

Harry nodded slowly, his thoughts turning over the idea. It was strange to him—working together like that to grow food. It sounded... different. Good, even.

"And inside," Mrs. Fields continued, "we've got a playroom. It's seen better days, but the kids make do. Board games, puzzles, and a few toys that have been patched up more times than I can count. We don't have much that's new, but they have fun all the same."

Her gaze softened as she looked toward the doorway, where the faint sounds of children laughing and playing filtered through. "Then there's the library. Now, it's not what you'd call fancy, but it's my favorite spot in the whole place. Shelves full of old books—some of them older than me! The kids love it. They'll pile in there on rainy days, sprawled out on the floor with their noses in a book."

"Books?" Harry asked quietly, finally meeting her gaze. "What kinds of books?"

"Oh, all sorts," Mrs. Fields said with a fond smile. "We've got adventure stories, mysteries, some silly ones that make the kids laugh. A lot of them were donated years ago, but they're treasures if you ask me. The kids say the big shelf is cursed, though. Wobbles every time someone tries to grab a book from the top row. I reckon it just needs a good fixing."

Harry spooned the last of the soup into his mouth, the warmth settling in his chest as he listened. The way Mrs. Fields spoke about the place—it didn't feel like an institution. It felt like a small, patched-together family, and for a moment, that thought made the ache in his chest a little easier to bear.

Mrs. Fields noticed his empty bowl and smiled. "That's better. A full stomach helps, doesn't it. She stood, gathering his bowl and spoon with practiced ease. "You're going to be all right, Harry. It might not seem like it now, but you've landed in a place where we'll take care of you. We might not have much, but we have plenty of love and care to go around."

Carrying the dishes to the counter, she paused to rinse them off in the small sink before turning back to glance at Harry. He still sat quietly, his eyes fixed on the table, as though unsure what to do next. Mrs. Fields wiped her hands on her apron and moved toward the stove, her attention shifting to the bread she'd pulled from the oven earlier.

She reached for the loaf, unwrapping it from its cloth covering and testing the warmth with her fingertips. "Wait here, love," she said, slicing two thick pieces with practiced precision. The knife glided through the soft interior, and steam curled into the air, filling the kitchen with its comforting aroma. She placed the slices on a plate and returned to the table, setting it down in front of Harry with a small smile.

"Fresh out of the oven," she said. "Eat up now. We'll have you fattened up in no time."

Harry hesitated, then picked up a slice. The bread was soft and warm in his hands, the crust slightly chewy. He took a tentative bite, the simple taste filling his mouth mingling perfectly with the lingering flavor of the soup. As he ate though, his shoulders remained hunched, cautious, as though expecting someone to reprimand him for eating too much or too quickly.

Unnoticed by Harry, Dr. Winslow leaned in the doorway, silently observing. He was of average height and slightly lean, his frame suggesting a man who spent more time moving about than sitting behind a desk. His hair was dark brown with streaks of silver all throughout, was cut short but a little uneven, as if he'd trimmed it himself without much concern for neatness. A pair of round glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, framing warm hazel eyes that held a keen attentiveness. His face was lightly tanned, weathered more by long days outdoors than by age, with faint crow's feet at the corners of his eyes that deepened when he smiled. His expression was serious but gentle, his eyes fixed on Harry. He noticed the stiffness in the boy's posture and the faint tremor in his hands as they clung to the bread.

Dr. Winslow had seen children like this before, though not often, and he preferred to keep it that way. Harry wasn't just neglected; the stiffness in his posture and the way he shrank into himself suggested something worse. Bruises were probably hidden beneath the too-big clothes, and Dr. Winslow's jaw tightened briefly at the thought of what might have caused them. He couldn't fathom the cruelty it took to leave a child in such a state.

When Harry was halfway through the second slice, Dr. Winslow cleared his throat softly. The sound made Harry's head snap up, his eyes darting toward the doorway. Dr. Winslow stepped into the room slowly and pulled out the chair across from Harry.

"Hello," Dr. Winslow said, warmly as he sat down. He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table, his posture open and nonthreatening.

Harry stared at him for a moment before nodding faintly, his hands tightening slightly around the bread as if he was afraid it would be taken away.

"I'm Dr. Winslow," he said, his sharp eyes softening as he studied Harry up close. "I'm here to make sure you're all right. That's all—just making sure you're doing okay."

Harry didn't respond, his posture remaining guarded, but he didn't shrink away. Dr. Winslow took a moment to observe him further—the bony wrists sticking out from frayed sleeves, the sharpness of his collarbones beneath the loose shirt, the faint hollowness around his cheeks. It was a picture Dr. Winslow wished he didn't recognize, but it wasn't new to him.

"You've been through a lot, haven't you?" Dr. Winslow said, his voice soft—barely above a whisper and more a statement than a question.

Harry picked at his bread, tearing off small pieces and chewing slowly, though his stomach still felt knotted. As he finished the last bite, his hands drifted to the plate, fiddling with the few crumbs that remained. His fingers moved restlessly, as if unsure what to do now that the food was gone.

"Here you go, Harry. This will help." He spoke with a calm steadiness, the kind of reassurance that came from years of working with vulnerable children.

Harry took the glass, sipping it carefully, his eyes fixed on the table. Dr. Winslow sat back down and observed him quietly, noting the way Harry's small, sharp movements betrayed his unease. After a few moments, Dr. Winslow leaned forward slightly, his hands resting loosely on the table.

"Mind if I check your pulse while you're sitting here?" Dr. Winslow asked, trying to keep this as normal as possible to keep Harry calm.

Harry glanced up briefly, then down again, and after a long pause, he nodded faintly. Dr. Winslow reached across the table, his touch careful as he wrapped his fingers around Harry's wrist. The boy's skin was cool, almost cold, and his bones felt far too prominent. Dr. Winslow's thumb pressed gently, counting the rapid, uneven beat beneath his fingers. It was a pulse he'd felt before—too fast, too unsteady, one of fear.

"There we go," Dr. Winslow said softly, releasing Harry's wrist. "Not so bad, right?"

Harry didn't respond, only shrugging slightly as his hands returned to the lap of his oversized shirt. Dr. Winslow leaned back in his chair, his sharp hazel eyes scanning the boy more closely now. He took in the gauntness of Harry's cheeks, the way his clothes hung off him like a second skin, and the faint tension in his shoulders. There was no doubt in Dr. Winslow's mind that this boy had endured more than neglect—there were signs of pain, the kind that came from someone who had learned to live with discomfort as if it were normal.

Harry's gaze shifted to the small, lumpy pillowcase sitting nearby. He didn't even know what was inside it—hadn't dared to look yet—but for some reason, he felt an unexpected protectiveness over it. Maybe it was because it was all he had left, the last connection to anything familiar, even if it came from the Dursleys. After a brief pause, he asked quietly, "Where can I put my stuff?"

Mrs. Fields straightened from where she'd been leaning against the counter, her kind eyes softening further. "You can leave it here with me, love," she said gently. "I'll keep it safe for you. No need to worry about it right now."

Harry nodded, his fingers twitching slightly as his eyes lingered on the pillowcase. Mrs. Fields stepped forward, picking it up with careful hands and setting it on the counter near the sink. "I'll keep it right here for you," she said gently trying to reassure him. "Whenever you're ready for it, just let me know."

Dr. Winslow observed the exchange silently for a moment before addressing Mrs. Fields. He straightened slightly, his focus shifting. "Lila, would it be alright if I take him to the patient room for a bit? I'd like to examine him more closely to make sure things are in tip top shape."

Mrs. Fields smiled at Harry. "Of course, Elliot. Poor lad could use a proper check-up."

Dr. Winslow turned his focus back to Harry, his posture softening as he met the boy's cautious gaze. "What do you think, Harry? Does that sound all right to you? We'll take it slow, nothing to worry about."

Harry hesitated, his hands curling slightly into fists where they rested on his lap. He glanced at Mrs. Fields, her steady smile giving him a small measure of reassurance, and then back at Dr. Winslow. After a moment that felt longer than it was, he gave a small, reluctant nod.

"Good lad," Dr. Winslow said with a gentle smile. "We'll go nice and easy."

Dr. Winslow led Harry through the hallway, his steps slow to match Harry's pace. Just off the main entranceway, he stopped in front of a door with a small, neatly printed label: Patient Room. He pushed the door open, flicking on the light to reveal a small but welcoming space.

The room was clean and practical, with a padded examination table in the center, its white paper cover freshly replaced. Along one wall stood a row of cabinets, their surfaces spotless but well-used, and above them, bright posters with cartoon characters cheerfully explained the importance of washing hands and eating vegetables. To the side, there was a comfortable-looking couch with a knitted blanket draped over the back, and next to it, a sturdy wooden chair.

Dr. Winslow gestured toward the table as he stepped aside to let Harry in. "Hop up on the table for me, Harry," he said kindly. He closed the door gently behind them and leaned against it briefly, giving Harry a moment to adjust to the space.

Harry obeyed, stiffly climbing onto the table and sitting with his legs dangling just above the floor. The paper beneath him crinkled softly when he moved.

"This is my little corner of the orphanage," Dr. Winslow said with a faint smile, his hazel eyes watching Harry carefully. "I'm usually here Tuesdays and Thursdays, but I come in whenever I'm needed. So, if you ever want to talk, or need anything else, you just let me know. That sound all right?"

Harry nodded, though his shoulders were still tense, his gaze fixed somewhere near the floor.

Dr. Winslow stepped forward, grabbing a clipboard from the counter and flipping through a few blank sheets. "Good, good," he said, glancing back at Harry. "Now, I'd like to take a look at you, just to see how you're doing. Can you take off your shirt for me?"

Harry froze, his hands gripping the edge of the table. His breathing seemed to quicken slightly, and for a long moment, he didn't move. Dr. Winslow set the clipboard down and stepped back, his posture relaxed and nonthreatening.

"No rush," Dr. Winslow said gently. "Take your time. I just want to make sure everything's okay. That all right with you?"

Harry swallowed hard, his fingers loosening slightly from the table. After a long hesitation, he reached for the hem of his shirt slowly. Tugging it over his head, he finally placed it on the table beside him, keeping his arms crossed over his chest as though shielding himself.

Dr. Winslow's expression didn't change, though his eyes lingered on the bruises scattered across Harry's ribs and shoulders, their edges faded to yellow and green. The boy's frame was painfully thin, his skin pale and marked by scars that looked far older than the bruises.

"Thank you, Harry," Dr. Winslow said softly. "You're doing great. I'm just going to have a quick look, all right?"

Dr. Winslow rolled a small stool over from the corner of the room and sat down before Harry, positioning himself slightly lower than the boy to ease the tension in the air. He kept his voice calm as he looked up at Harry.

"I'm going to start with the bruises, all right? Let me know if anything feels too tender, and we'll go slow."

Harry gave a faint nod, though his shoulders stayed hunched, his gaze fixed somewhere over Dr. Winslow's head. Dr. Winslow leaned forward slightly, moving slowly as he examined the bruises scattered across Harry's chest and shoulders. The fading yellows and greens spoke of injuries that were healing but still painful. When his fingers brushed a particularly dark spot near Harry's collarbone, the boy flinched, his body stiffening.

"Sorry," Dr. Winslow murmured, pulling his hand back slightly. "That one looks like it's still sore. We'll leave it alone for now."

Harry gave a small nod, his hands gripping the edge of the table tightly.

Dr. Winslow continued his work, his fingers gently tracing over the outlines of older scars and fresh bruises. He didn't comment on them, but his heart tightened with each mark he cataloged. Moving to Harry's side, he paused as he noticed the uneven rise and fall of the boy's ribs, his frown deepening slightly.

"Next, I'm going to check your ribs," Dr. Winslow said softly. "If it hurts, let me know. You don't have to hold it in, okay?"

Hesitating, his jaw tightening, but eventually nodded. Dr. Winslow began carefully pressing along Harry's ribcage, starting from the top and working downward. His touch was light but methodical. When he reached the lower ribs on Harry's left side, the boy winced sharply, sucking in a quick breath.

"Here?" Dr. Winslow asked gently.

Harry nodded stiffly, his hands gripping the table harder.

Dr. Winslow pressed slightly further, feeling the subtle misalignment beneath his fingers. His face remained neutral, but he made a mental note of the damage. "You've got two broken ribs," he said gently, meeting Harry's wary gaze. "They're not displaced, which is good, but they'll need time to heal. I'll wrap them up after we're done to help with the pain and keep them stable."

Harry didn't respond, his gaze flicking to the floor. Dr. Winslow picked up the clipboard from the counter, jotting down a few notes before setting it aside.

"Now, Harry," Dr. Winslow said softly, "I need to take a look at your back. If anything feels too sore, let me know right away. This will only take a minute."

Harry tensed again but nodded after a moment, shifting slightly to give Dr. Winslow better access. As the doctor moved behind him, his sharp eyes took in the scars and welts crisscrossing Harry's pale skin. Some were old, faded into silvery lines, but others were fresher—angry red marks shaped unmistakably like the buckle and strap of a belt. A few were still open, faintly raw at the edges.

Dr. Winslow's jaw tightened imperceptibly, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away. A cold fury simmered beneath his calm demeanor, his hands steady even as his mind churned. No child should have marks like these—marks that told a story of pain inflicted deliberately, cruelly. The sheer injustice of it burned within him, but he forced himself to push it aside, knowing Harry needed care. "I'm going to put something on these cuts to help keep them clean, all right? It might sting a little, but it'll help."

Harry nodded again, though he flinched slightly when Dr. Winslow began. The antiseptic cream was cool against his skin, and Dr. Winslow's touch was as gentle as possible. He worked carefully, spreading the cream over the open wounds and placing fresh bandages over them. The boy didn't say a word, but his tension was palpable, his small frame rigid as Dr. Winslow continued.

"There we go," Dr. Winslow said softly as he secured the last bandage. "That's the worst of it. You're doing great."

Harry let out a shaky breath but didn't respond. Dr. Winslow moved back around to face him, his expression calm but thoughtful. "Let's get those ribs wrapped up now," he said, retrieving a roll of bandages from the cabinet. He sat back down on the stool and carefully wrapped the bandages snugly but gently around Harry's torso.

"This will help support everything while your ribs heal," Dr. Winslow said. "It might feel a little tight, but it should help with the pain."

Once he was done, Dr. Winslow leaned back slightly, giving Harry a small, reassuring smile. "You've been very brave, Harry. We're almost done."

He reached for the thermometer and held it out. "Open your mouth for me, please."

Harry obeyed, holding the thermometer under his tongue as Dr. Winslow made another note on the clipboard. When it beeped, Dr. Winslow checked the reading. "A little low, but nothing to worry about," he said, setting the thermometer aside.

Finally, he grabbed the reflex hammer and tapped Harry's knees gently. "Reflexes look good," Dr. Winslow said with a small nod, setting the tool aside.

Dr. Winslow set the reflex hammer down and leaned slightly back on the stool, giving Harry a small, encouraging smile. "All right, Harry. We're almost done here. I'm just going to check a few more things, and then we'll wrap up. Sound good?"

Harry nodded faintly, still clutching the edge of the table.

Dr. Winslow retrieved an otoscope from a nearby tray. "I'm going to check your ears now. It might tickle a little, but it won't hurt." He moved gently, tilting Harry's head slightly to get a clear view of each ear canal. "Everything looks fine here," he said after a moment, setting the tool aside. "Let's check your eyes next."

He grabbed a small penlight and held it at the edge of Harry's vision. "Look straight at me, Harry," he instructed gently. As the beam of light moved back and forth, Dr. Winslow watched Harry's pupils respond. "Good. Nothing unusual there. Now, open wide for me—I'll check your throat."

Harry obeyed, opening his mouth slightly as Dr. Winslow used a wooden tongue depressor and the penlight to examine the back of his throat. "No swelling or redness. That's good news," Dr. Winslow said with a small smile, setting the tools aside.

After making a few more notes on his clipboard, Dr. Winslow said, "Last thing before we move on—deep breaths for me. I'll listen to your lungs and heart."

He picked up his stethoscope and warmed the metal end briefly with his hand before pressing it lightly against Harry's chest. "Breathe in… and out," Dr. Winslow said gently. Harry followed the instructions, though his breaths were shallow at first. "A little deeper if you can," Dr. Winslow encouraged gently. "There you go."

He moved the stethoscope to Harry's back, listening carefully to each inhale and exhale. After a moment, he pulled the stethoscope away and nodded. "Your lungs sound clear, which is good. Heartbeat's a little fast, but that's to be expected right now."

Setting the stethoscope aside, Dr. Winslow straightened and gave Harry a reassuring smile. "All done with that part. You're doing great."

Harry reached for his shirt, moving carefully to avoid jostling the bandages around his ribs. He tugged it over his head, wincing faintly as he adjusted it over his shoulders. Once it was settled, he looked down at his hands, his posture still guarded.

Dr. Winslow watched him for a moment before leaning slightly forward on the stool. "Harry, how's your vision? Any blurriness or trouble seeing things far away or up close?"

Harry looked up briefly, surprised by the question. "No, it seems fine," he said quietly, glancing at Dr. Winslow and then back down.

Dr. Winslow looked at Harry thoughtfully, his expression neutral. "That's good to hear. Still, once you've settled in here, we'll do a quick eye test just to make sure everything's as it should be. It's always better to double-check."

Harry gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, his hands fidgeting in his lap.

Dr. Winslow waited a moment before speaking gently. "Do you have any other injuries I should know about? Anything hurting or feeling off?"

Harry hesitated, his fingers twitching slightly against the edge of the table. For a long moment, he didn't say anything, but then he spoke, his voice so quiet it was almost a whisper. "My ankle... it's not good."

Dr. Winslow nodded calmly, keeping his expression neutral. "All right, Harry. Let's take a look." He rolled the stool slightly closer, motioning to Harry's foot. "Can you take off your shoe for me, or would you like me to do it?"

Harry paused again before shaking his head slightly. "You can do it," he mumbled.

Dr. Winslow leaned forward, his hands steady as he unlaced Harry's worn trainer and eased it off his foot. Setting it gently to the side, he rolled down the boy's sock, revealing a swollen, discolored ankle. His brows furrowed slightly as he carefully cradled Harry's foot, examining the injury.

"This must hurt quite a bit," Dr. Winslow said softly, almost conversational. "You're very brave for not crying out. I've seen grown-ups in tears over less."

Harry looked up briefly embarrassed, but he didn't say anything.

Dr. Winslow gently probed the ankle, his fingers moving carefully to avoid causing unnecessary pain. When he pressed along the joint, Harry flinched slightly but didn't pull away.

"I'm afraid this looks like it's broken," Dr. Winslow said after a moment gently. "We'll need to get an X-ray to see exactly what's going on with it. For now, I'll wrap it to keep it stable, and we'll get you set up with a proper brace or cast once we've had a closer look."

He reached for a roll of bandages and began wrapping Harry's ankle with steady hands. Each layer was snug but not too tight, ensuring support without causing discomfort. As he worked, his thoughts grew darker. How could anyone allow a child to end up like this? The sight of Harry's injuries, combined with the boy's silent acceptance of them, filled him with a simmering anger. He kept his focus on the task, determined to offer Harry some relief and a sense of care he so clearly needed.

Harry stayed silent, watching intently as Dr. Winslow secured the bandage. When he finished, Dr. Winslow leaned back slightly, his warm hazel eyes meeting Harry's.

"You've done really well today, Harry," he said, offering a small reassuring smile. "I'll make an appointment at the hospital tomorrow for an X-ray. Until then, I want you to stay off that ankle as much as possible."

Dr. Winslow stood and moved to a small storage cabinet near the corner of the room. Pulling it open, he reached inside and retrieved a pair of child-sized crutches, their metal frames slightly scuffed but in good condition.

"Lucky for you, I keep these around," Dr. Winslow said as he adjusted the crutches to match Harry's height. "We've had more than a few kids come through here with sprains or minor fractures, so these come in handy."

He brought the crutches over and set them against the table before turning back to Harry. "Let's get you set up on these. Have you ever used crutches before?"

Harry shook his head, looking uncertain.

"That's all right," Dr. Winslow said gently. "They're pretty easy once you get the hang of it. I'll show you how."

He guided Harry off the table, steadying him as he helped the boy balance on one foot. Dr. Winslow then handed him the crutches and demonstrated how to position them under his arms, adjusting them slightly for comfort.

"Now, the trick is to let the crutches take the weight, not your hands or arms," Dr. Winslow explained, demonstrating as he spoke. "You want to swing your good foot forward and let the crutches do the work."

Harry gave it a try, wobbling slightly before finding his balance. He moved awkwardly at first, but Dr. Winslow stayed close, offering encouragement as Harry took a few cautious steps.

"There you go," Dr. Winslow said with a nod of approval. "You're getting it. Just take it slow, and remember to keep your weight off that ankle. It'll take some practice, but you'll be moving around just fine in no time."

Harry glanced up at him, a flicker of gratitude in his wary expression. Dr. Winslow smiled, patting the boy's shoulder gently. "You've been brave today, Harry. Let's get you back to Mrs. Fields so she can help you settle in."

Dr. Winslow stood, removing the sheet of notes from his clipboard. He carefully folded the paper in half, then again into quarters, and slipped it into the front pocket of his jacket. His motions were methodical, ensuring the paper was secure before he returned the clipboard to its spot in the cabinet. He glanced at Harry, ensuring the boy was steady on his crutches before reaching for the light switch.

"Let's head back," he said gently, his words calm and reassuring as he flipped off the light. The room dimmed, and the faint creak of the door filled the air as Elliot closed it softly behind them.

The hallway was quieter now, the earlier hum of activity subdued as children's voices drifted faintly from another part of the orphanage. Dr. Winslow walked at Harry's pace, keeping close but giving the boy space to navigate the crutches. Harry moved cautiously, the soft tap of the crutches against the worn floorboards marking their progress. Every so often, Elliot offered a word of guidance or encouragement, ensuring Harry felt supported without overstepping.

As they neared the kitchen, the familiar aroma of something savory wafted through the air, mingling with the faint scent of baking bread. Dr. Winslow opened the door for Harry, stepping aside to let him enter first.

Mrs. Fields looked up as Dr. Winslow and Harry entered the kitchen, her hands pausing mid-wipe on her apron. A warm smile spread across her face as she took in the sight of Harry, now balancing on crutches. "There's my brave lad. Looks like Elliot's taken good care of you," she said cheerfully, though her eyes flicked toward Harry's bandaged ankle with concern.

Harry offered a small nod, his gaze drifting toward the counter where his pillowcase sat. Mrs. Fields followed his line of sight and moved toward it, lifting the makeshift bag with care.

"Your things are right here," she said, holding the pillowcase up. "I've kept them safe for you. I'd imagine it's tricky carrying anything with crutches, so how about I take this up for you?"

Harry hesitated, his grip tightening slightly on the crutches. After a moment, he nodded. "Okay. Thanks," he said softly.

"Not a problem at all," she replied, tucking the pillowcase securely under her arm. She gestured toward the doorway. "Come on now, let's get you to your room. I'll help you settle in, and maybe you'll meet some of the other kids before dinner."

Dr. Winslow gave her a small nod, and their eyes met briefly. Though unspoken, the look between them conveyed an understanding—this boy needed more than just medical care. As Mrs. Fields guided Harry toward the stairs, she glanced back over her shoulder. "Take care, Harry. Remember to take it easy on that ankle," Dr. Winslow said with a smile before turning back to clean up.

Mrs. Fields led Harry down the hallway, where the muffled sounds of children laughing and playing filtered through. A boy dashed past, clutching a wooden plane, while a younger girl trailed after him, giggling as she tried to keep up. Another child peeked around the corner, their curious gaze darting to Harry before disappearing just as quickly.

"They're good kids," Mrs. Fields said as they approached the staircase. "A bit lively, but they mean well. You'll warm up to them."

The wooden staircase creaked under their weight as they ascended, Mrs. Fields keeping her pace slow to match Harry's careful steps. The bannister's paint was worn and chipped, but it felt sturdy under Harry's hand.

"We try to make it as welcoming as we can," she said, glancing back at Harry. "You'll be in the boys' dormitory—room's got six bunks, and you'll be with some of the older boys. They're a good bunch—mostly."

Harry didn't respond, focusing on navigating the stairs without misplacing his crutches. Mrs. Fields waited patiently at the top, her free hand resting on the bannister until Harry reached her side.

The hallway upstairs was quieter, with doors painted in faded pastel colors lining both sides. Mrs. Fields stopped in front of a door near the end, its pale green paint scuffed but intact.

"This one's yours," she said, pushing it open and stepping aside to let Harry enter first.

The dormitory was simple but orderly. Six bunks were arranged neatly against the walls, each with a small set of drawers tucked beneath the lower beds. The bedding was mismatched but clean, with a mix of worn quilts and colorful sheets. The window near the far wall let in soft light, and Harry noticed a bunk by it that had already been made up.

"That one's yours," Mrs. Fields said, nodding toward the bottom bunk by the window. "Closest to the window so you can get some fresh air. Figured that'd be a good spot for you."

Harry moved slowly toward it, his crutches clicking softly against the wooden floor. Mrs. Fields followed, setting the pillowcase down on the bed. "You can take your time unpacking. It's not much, I know, but we do our best to keep things comfortable."

Harry glanced around the room, his gaze lingering on the empty bunks and the small personal touches scattered about—a few books stacked on a bedside drawer, a pair of worn trainers kicked under another bed. It felt unfamiliar but not entirely unwelcoming.

Mrs. Fields gave him a moment before speaking again. "The boys will be back up here later, but for now, you've got some time to settle in. Come down for dinner when you're ready, and maybe you'll feel up to meeting a few of them then."

Harry nodded faintly, his grip tightening on the crutches as he looked down at his pillowcase. Mrs. Fields offered him a small, reassuring smile. "If you need anything—anything at all—you just let me know."

Mrs. Fields stepped out of the room, quietly pulling the door closed behind her. The latch clicked softly, leaving Harry alone. Her footsteps receded down the hallway, fading into the background of the muffled sounds of distant laughter and activity elsewhere in the orphanage. The dormitory was still now, a quiet space that felt far removed from the rest of the building.

Harry took in his surroundings, his gaze shifting over the simple room. The light from the window was faint but steady, its glow stretching across the floorboards and casting uneven patterns along the walls. The air was clean, carrying the faint scent of recently washed linens, but the room still held an unfamiliar quality that made him uneasy.

After a moment, Harry tightened his grip on the crutch, bracing himself as he pushed off from the wall. The movement sent a sharp pang through his ribs, but he grit his teeth and carefully hobbled toward the bed. His injured ankle flared with pain as his weight shifted, a reminder of just how much worse things could feel if he wasn't careful. Each step took more focus than he wanted to admit, and by the time he reached the bed, his breaths came shallow and quick.

He lowered himself onto the mattress cautiously, leaning heavily on the crutch for support. The fabric of the quilt was coarse under his hand, and the frame creaked slightly under him as he sank down. A sharp jolt from his ankle made him wince, his grip tightening briefly on the edge of the mattress before he let out a measured exhale. He leaned forward slightly, easing the pressure on his ribs, and finally allowed his shoulders to relax a fraction.

The room felt even quieter now, the sounds of the orphanage beyond the door barely audible. Harry glanced at the pillowcase sitting on the bed beside him, its contents a mystery that he wasn't quite ready to face yet. For now, he stayed still, focusing on the steady rhythm of his breathing and the effort it took to keep his body from hurting more than it already did.

His eyes landed on the pillowcase beside him again, its fabric wrinkled and faded from years of use. Earlier, he had pushed aside any thoughts of what might be inside, but now it occupied his mind completely, a nagging curiosity he couldn't ignore. Slowly, he reached out, his hand brushing against the rough material as he pulled the pillowcase onto his lap. The knot at the top was sloppy, tied in a rush, leaving the fabric uneven and bunched at odd angles.

He worked at the knot with his fingers, pulling at the uneven twists of fabric. The material resisted at first, as if tied tighter than he'd thought, and his frustration grew. His mind, however, was far from the task in front of him. Did Uncle Vernon even bother going into my trunk? The question loomed larger than he wanted to admit, igniting a flash of irritation. The thought of his uncle pawing through his things felt invasive, but even more troubling was the idea that his belongings might not even exist anymore.

What happened to it? His chest tightened as the possibilities came unbidden. What if they threw it out? Or worse, burned it? A wave of anxiety crashed over him at the thought. His wand, his schoolbooks, his robes—everything that tied him to the world he truly belonged to. The few personal belongings he had managed to keep through years of neglect and cruelty could all be gone in an instant. The knot gave a little under his fingers, but he barely noticed, his thoughts spiraling.

And Hedwig. His hand stilled for a moment as his throat tightened. He swallowed hard, forcing the panic back down. Hedwig was smart. She hadn't been in her cage when Uncle Vernon had forced him in the car, thank Merlin. She'd been out hunting, staying in the woods overnight like she sometimes did. She'll be okay. She has to be. The words repeated in his mind like a mantra. She was clever, resourceful—she'd always come back before. Maybe she'd find him… she always does.

He pictured her snowy wings cutting through the air, her sharp eyes sweeping over the ground below. If she could find him, he might be able to send a letter to Ron, Hermione, or someone else who could help. But as the thought crossed his mind, doubt quickly followed. How would she know where to search? How far away was he? The uncertainty gnawed at him, leaving him no closer to an answer.

With a sharp exhale, Harry refocused on the pillowcase and finally loosened the knot. He pulled the opening wide and peered inside. A sinking feeling hit him as he reached in and began pulling out the contents one by one.

First, a potato—its skin dusty and uneven, with faint sprouting eyes that hinted at how long it had been ignored. Harry turned it over in his hands, baffled by its presence. He stared at it for a moment, then set it aside, shaking his head at the absurdity. Next, he pulled out a single sock, mismatched and full of holes, its stretched fabric worn almost threadbare. He let it drop onto the bed with a quiet thud before reaching back into the pillowcase.

The next item was a baggy, threadbare shirt that smelled faintly of mothballs, the faded fabric crumpling limply in his hands. It was much too large, more like something Uncle Vernon might have discarded than anything Harry would ever wear. He wrinkled his nose at the faint, stale odor clinging to it before tossing it onto the growing pile.

He continued rummaging, his fingers brushing against objects that felt equally useless. A bent spoon came out next, its handle twisted awkwardly, followed by a faded handkerchief with frayed edges and a shoelace so old it seemed ready to snap at the slightest pull. Each item felt like another layer of Vernon's mockery, and Harry's frustration mounted as the pile of junk on the bed grew.

Finally, he reached the bottom of the pillowcase, his hands brushing against its coarse, empty fabric. He paused, his gaze shifting to the small collection of useless items spread out before him—a potato, a sock, a bent spoon, and scraps of cloth and string. His chest tightened as he realized there was nothing else. No wand. No schoolbooks. No photo album. Nothing magical. Nothing useful. Nothing that mattered.

He let out a frustrated breath, tossing the pillowcase onto the bed beside the pile. His disappointment flared as he stared at the pathetic assortment. It was as though Uncle Vernon had gone out of his way to remind him of how little he deserved in his eyes. Harry rubbed his temples, trying to push the frustration aside, but it lingered, leaving him feeling more isolated than before.

He reached for the items and stuffed them back into the pillowcase quickly. Once everything was back inside, he set the bundle on the floor beside the bed and lay back, careful not to jostle his ribs or ankle. The mattress was firmer than he expected, the quilt scratchy against his skin, but he was too drained to care.

Staring up at the ceiling, Harry tried to push away the tangle of thoughts crowding his mind. The faint creak of the building settling filled the room, mingling with the muffled sounds of children somewhere below. His fingers gripped the edge of the quilt tightly, his heart aching with the unfamiliarity of it all. He didn't belong here—not in this orphanage, not in this room.

Harry closed his eyes, frustration bubbling inside him. How had things gone so wrong? Just weeks ago, he'd been surrounded by magic, by people who finally cared about him, by the possibility of a real future. Now he was stuck here, in this Muggle orphanage, injured and cut off from the world where he truly belonged.

How was he supposed to get back? He couldn't just show up at King's Cross without a plan, without someone to explain this to. Could he tell the director? He tried to imagine the words coming out of his mouth. I'm a wizard, and I need to get back to my school where I learn magic. It sounded ridiculous. The Statute of Secrecy practically screamed at him not to do it. But then again, surely other orphans had gone to Hogwarts before. They couldn't all have had someone like Hagrid to guide them.

And if this was where he was supposed to spend his summers now, she'd need to know, wouldn't she? How else could he explain disappearing for months at a time? Should he go tell her now? Maybe she'd at least have some idea of what to do, or who to contact. But what if she didn't believe him? Worse, what if she thought he was lying and caused more problems? He rubbed his forehead, the questions crowding his mind like a swarm he couldn't fend off.

He hated this. He hated the uncertainty, the helplessness, the not knowing where to start. Everything felt so impossibly big, so out of his control. For all the magic he'd learned in his first year, none of it seemed to matter now.

The faint creak of the door interrupted his spiraling thoughts. His eyes snapped open, his heart racing for a moment before he saw two boys step into the room.

The taller one, with sandy-colored hair and a scattering of freckles across his nose, stopped a few feet from Harry's bed. "Hey," he said casually. "What happened to your foot? Looks like a nasty break."

The shorter boy, broader with messy dark hair, rolled his eyes and leaned against the bunk nearest the door. "Don't ask him that right off the bat, Luke. It's rude." He looked at Harry with a smirk. "But yeah, what happened?"

Harry shifted. "I tripped," he said vaguely, his voice barely above a mumble.

"Tripped," Luke repeated, raising an eyebrow. "That's all? Looks like more than a trip to me."

"Ease up," the shorter boy said, nudging the taller one lightly. "I'm Eddie, by the way. And the chatterbox over there is Luke. We're in here too."

Harry gave a small nod. "I'm Harry," he said simply.

Eddie plopped down on the bunk across from Harry, elbows on his knees. "So, Harry, are you one of those quiet types?" he asked, grinning slightly. "Or are you just tired of people sticking their noses in your business already?"

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the directness. "I don't know," he said, unsure of how to respond.

Eddie laughed softly. "Fair enough. I'd probably feel the same if I were you."

Luke wandered closer, glancing at the crutches leaning against the wall. "Mrs. Fields tell you about dinner yet?" he asked. "She'll send someone up to drag you down if you don't show. Trust me, it's better to go on your own."

"Yeah, she mentioned it," Harry said, his grip tightening on the quilt. The idea of sitting at a table full of strangers made his chest tighten, but so did the thought of someone coming to get him.

"Well, don't worry about where to sit," Eddie said, leaning back on his hands. "You can sit with us. I mean, unless you want to sit with the little kids. They're loud. And sticky."

Luke snorted. "And sticky," he repeated. "Seriously, though, it's better to stick with someone at first. Some of the others…" He trailed off, glancing at Eddie.

Eddie shrugged. "Let's just say they're not all as charming as we are."

Harry managed a faint smile at that. "Thanks," he said quietly.

Eddie pushed himself up and stretched. "Well, we'll leave you to it. Just don't wait too long to head down, or the pudding will be gone."

Luke nudged him on the way to the door. "Don't scare him off before he even meets anyone."

Eddie rolled his eyes. "I'm not scaring him. I'm telling him the truth. They always eat the pudding first."

At the door, Luke glanced back. "See you in the dining room, Harry. If you need anything, just ask."

The door creaked shut behind them, and Harry was alone again. The faint sound of their footsteps faded down the hallway, leaving the room in silence once more.

Harry sat on the edge of his bed, staring down at his hands. The brief encounter with Luke and Eddie lingered in his mind. They seemed friendly enough, but their easy camaraderie only made him miss Hogwarts all the more. He thought of Ron and Hermione, of Hagrid and even Professor McGonagall. The familiar halls of the castle, the warmth of the common room fire, the rustling pages in the library—all felt worlds away.

He let out a heavy sigh and reached for his crutches. Maybe a bit of freshening up would clear his head. Standing was still difficult; his ribs ached, and his ankle throbbed with pain. But staying where he was felt even worse than the physical strain.

Navigating the hallway, Harry realized he had no idea where the bathroom was. The corridors were quiet now, the earlier sounds of play replaced by distant murmurs and the occasional creak of the old building. As he moved carefully along the worn floorboards, he became acutely aware of his rumpled clothes. He hadn't changed since... well, he couldn't quite remember when. Another sigh escaped him. What a fine mess he'd found himself in.

Just as he contemplated whether to continue searching or head back, a gentle knock sounded on the open doorway behind him. Turning, he saw Julia smiling kindly at him.

"There you are," she said softly. "I thought you might be up and about."

Harry offered a faint smile in return. "I was just looking for the bathroom," he admitted.

"Of course. It's just down the hall, third door on the left," she said, pointing the way. Then she tiled her head slightly, her eyes taking in his appearance. "Do you have everything you need? Toothbrush? Clean clothes?"

He looked down for a moment, not wanting to admit how little he had. "I... don't really have any of my things," he finally said.

Her expression softened further. "I thought that might be the case. Come with me for a moment."

She led him to a small linen closet nestled between the bedrooms. Opening it, she pulled out a neatly folded set of clothes—a plain t-shirt, a soft flannel shirt, and a pair of trousers that looked about his size. "These should fit you well enough," she said, placing them in his hands. "They're donations, but clean and in good condition."

"Thank you," Harry said sincerely.

She retrieved a small toiletry kit from a shelf. "Here's a toothbrush, some soap, and a comb. There are towels in the bathroom. If there's anything else you need, just let me know."

He nodded appreciatively. "I really appreciate it."

She rested a gentle hand on his shoulder. "It's no trouble at all. Now, off you go. Dinner will be in about half an hour. Take your time."

With that, she left him to his own devices. Harry made his way to the bathroom, grateful for the moment of solitude. Inside, he leaned the crutches against the wall and caught his reflection in the mirror above the sink. His hair was even messier than usual, sticking up in all directions. There were smudges of dirt on his face, and his glasses sat crookedly on his nose. He looked as tired as he felt.

Turning on the tap, he let the cool water wash over his hands before splashing his face repeatedly. The sensation was refreshing, and he felt some of the day's tension ease away. He carefully removed his glasses, rinsing them gently before setting them aside to dry.

Changing into the clean clothes was a small comfort. They were a bit big, but far better than the soiled outfit he'd been wearing. Folding his old clothes into a bundle, he resolved to ask if there was a way to wash them.

As he combed through his unruly hair, he couldn't help but think about how different this was from Privet Drive. The Dursleys would never have offered him anything without a sneer or a cutting remark. Here, people were... kind. It was unfamiliar territory.

Harry put his glasses back on and really looked at his face in the mirror. His cheekbones seemed sharper than they should be, and his skin looked pale, almost sallow. He now understood the concerned looks the doctor had been giving him. Way too skinny, he thought grimly. No wonder they were all tip toeing around him.

He sighed, grabbing the comb and running it through his hair, though it did little to tame the mess. Still, it made him feel slightly more presentable. He brushed his teeth with the toothbrush Julia had given him, the minty freshness contrasting with how out of place he felt. After packing up his things, he tucked the bundle of his old clothes under his arm, gripped his crutches tightly, and made his way back into the hall.

He stopped and glanced around, realizing with a sinking feeling that he wasn't entirely sure where his dorm was. The hallway stretched ahead of him with identical doors on both sides, none of them standing out as familiar. With a sigh, he hobbled to the nearest one, opening it just enough to peek inside.

"Not this one," he muttered, closing the door quietly and moving to the next.

The third door finally revealed the familiar bunk room. Letting out a small breath of relief, Harry stepped inside and made his way over to his bed. He set the bundle of old clothes and toiletries down carefully and sat for a moment, catching his breath. His ribs ached faintly, and his ankle irritated him, but at least he'd managed to find his way back without anyone noticing how lost he'd been.

The faint sound of a bell ringing reached his ears. Dinner. His stomach growled, reminding him he'd only eaten that bowl of soup today. Harry stood, bracing himself on the crutches, and made his way back out into the hall. The orphanage was beginning to feel a little less like a maze, though it was still far from familiar.

The closer he got to the dining room, the louder the hum of voices became. The chatter of kids, the clatter of plates and cutlery, and the faint smell of something warm and savory filled the air. Harry stopped outside the doorway momentarily, his nerves returning in full force. Sitting in a room full of strangers wasn't something he was used to, and the thought made his chest tighten.

He took a deep breath, trying to steel himself, but before he could take another step, a voice called out.

"There you are!" Luke appeared in the doorway, grinning. "Thought you might've gotten lost."

Harry managed a small smile. "Almost did."

"Well, come on. We saved you a spot," Luke said, motioning for him to follow. "Don't worry, Eddie's keeping the pudding from the sticky kids."

Harry chuckled despite himself, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. He followed Luke into the dining room, where Eddie was already seated at a table toward the corner. He waved Harry over, pointing to the seat beside him.

"Better hurry. Pudding's not going to last forever," Eddie said with a grin.

Harry lowered himself onto the long wooden bench with care, propping his crutches against the side of the table. The smells of dinner—mashed potatoes, roasted chicken, and something vaguely sweet he couldn't identify—were overwhelming. His stomach growled again, though the knot of nerves in his chest kept him from digging in straight away.

Plates of food were already set along the long table, with large serving dishes placed at intervals, allowing everyone to help themselves. Luke handed him a plate and nudged the basket of rolls closer. "Start with this," he said, grinning. "Mrs. Fields always makes extras."

"Thanks," Harry muttered, taking a roll and setting it on his plate. He broke off a small piece, nibbling at it while his eyes darted around the room.

The table was alive with noise and activity. Younger children clustered at one end, their laughter and chatter constant as they reached clumsily for the dishes and jostled one another for space. Sticky fingers grabbed rolls and slathered butter on them with more enthusiasm than accuracy. At Harry's end of the table, the older kids were quieter but no less lively, their conversations about sports, school, and jokes flowing easily. The adults sat at the head of the table, Mrs. Fields and Julia talking softly as they watched over the group.

Eddie leaned forward across the table and grinned at Harry. "Don't mind the stares," he said. "New kid always gets a bit of attention."

Harry shrugged, tearing off another piece of the roll. "I'm used to it," he said flattly. Attention from strangers wasn't new, but it was rarely the good kind.

"Well, if anyone gives you trouble," Luke said, leaning over to nudge Harry's shoulder, "just let us know. Eddie's great at making people regret it."

"Damn right," Eddie replied with mock seriousness, popping a piece of chicken into his mouth.

Harry managed a faint smile, though his appetite still felt distant. He took a small bite of mashed potatoes, their warmth oddly soothing, but the tension in his chest kept him from eating much more. He wasn't sure why he couldn't eat properly, even though his body clearly needed it.

At the head of the table, Mrs. Fields quietly observed Harry. Her sharp eyes didn't miss the way he carefully pushed food around on his plate, taking only the smallest bites despite the growls of his stomach that were audible even from her vantage point. He handled the utensils delicately, like he was afraid of drawing attention to himself or taking more than his share. The way he glanced at the others at the table, gauging their reactions as if he might be scolded for eating too much, tugged at her heart.

"He's barely touching his plate," she murmured to Julia, leaning closer to keep the conversation private. "It's like he doesn't believe there's enough for him—or like he thinks someone's going to take it away."

Julia sighed, crossing her arms as she followed Mrs. Fields' gaze. Her expression softened, though a flash of anger lingered beneath her calm exterior. "I'm not surprised," she said quietly. "After what the police told me, it's no wonder he's like this. His relatives… they've been charged with abandonment, neglect, and abuse. The officer said they're even considering removing their other child. It's horrible."

Mrs. Fields' brow furrowed deeply, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Poor boy," she murmured. Her voice dropped lower, tinged with disbelief. "If they didn't want him in the first place, why take him in at all? What a cruel thing to do—to treat a child that way."

Julia shook her head slowly, her jaw tightening. "I don't know. It's disgusting, really. If they'd left him at the start, maybe he could've been placed with a family who wanted him, who would have loved him."

Mrs. Fields didn't answer immediately, her gaze lingering on Harry. He was nudged by Luke, who said something that made Eddie laugh, but Harry's response was subdued—a small nod and a faint smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He hunched over his plate slightly, his posture defensive, as though he didn't believe the lightheartedness around him applied to him.

"It's a shame he ended up here this way," Julia continued after a moment quietly. "But at least he's here now. He's away from them." She glanced toward the table where Eddie and Luke sat with Harry, their chatter a constant effort to draw him out of his guarded shell. "I'm glad those two seem to have taken him under their wings. Considering where they've come from, it's no wonder they sought him out. They've been through similar things, and I imagine they see a bit of themselves in him."

Mrs. Fields nodded, though the lines of worry etched into her face didn't fade. Her eyes returned to Harry, watching him carefully. He moved a piece of chicken around his plate with the tines of his fork, almost absently, as if eating were more a chore than a relief. Despite Luke and Eddie's efforts to include him in their conversation, Harry seemed to hover on the edge of their easy camaraderie, like he wasn't sure he belonged there.

"We'll have to take it slow with him," Mrs. Fields said gently. "He's not going to open up overnight. He'll need time—and patience."

Julia nodded. "And consistency," she added. "He needs to know he's safe here, that no one's going to hurt him or take anything away from him."

Meanwhile, Harry's focus drifted to the rest of the table. He watched as the younger kids laughed and argued over who got the last roll, their faces smudged with butter. The older ones passed plates of food back and forth, their conversations weaving seamlessly through the meal. It was so different from what he was used to—being ignored at the Dursleys' table, treated like an afterthought. Here, everyone was included, and it felt strange, almost uncomfortable, to exist without conflict.

"You doing okay?" Luke asked suddenly, pulling Harry back to the present.

Harry nodded quickly, though his grip on the edge of his plate betrayed his nerves. "Yeah. Just… tired."

Eddie snorted. "Get used to that. This place has a way of wearing you out, but it's not all bad."

"Especially when there's pudding," Luke added, pointing down the table to where Mrs. Fields was placing bowls of custard and fruit. "Better save some room."

As dinner wrapped up, the once chaotic noise of the table began to subside. Plates were scraped clean, bowls of custard and fruit were passed around, and the younger children's laughter turned to sleepy giggles. Harry managed to eat a little more, though not enough to truly satisfy the hunger gnawing at him. Still, he didn't want to draw attention to himself by asking for seconds, so he pushed his plate away and folded his hands in his lap.

"You didn't try the pudding," Luke said, nudging him lightly as he took another spoonful of custard.

"I'm fine," Harry replied quietly. Eddie glanced at him, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face, but he said nothing.

The younger children were ushered off first, some of them protesting that they weren't tired, while others rubbed their eyes and clung to Mrs. Fields as she gently guided them toward the staircase. The older kids lingered, pulling out a battered box of board games from a nearby cupboard.

"Harry, you coming?" Eddie asked, holding up the lid of a well-worn Monopoly box.

Harry shook his head. "No, I think I'm just going to go up to bed," he said, reaching for his crutches.

Luke looked like he wanted to protest, but Eddie elbowed him. "Suit yourself," he said, giving Harry a small grin. "But you're missing out. I'm about to destroy him."

"You wish," Luke shot back, grabbing the box and heading toward the table with the other kids.

Harry managed a faint smile as he stood, his ribs and ankle protesting as he did so. He made his way back to the dormitory, the sound of the other kids' laughter fading as he climbed the stairs. By the time he reached his bed, the room was quiet and softly lit by the soft glow of the moon through the window.

To his surprise, a neatly folded set of pajamas was laid out on his bunk. They were plain but soft, and far nicer than anything the Dursleys had ever given him. Harry quickly changed into them, the fabric unfamiliar but comforting against his skin. He climbed into bed carefully to avoid aggravating his injuries.

Just as he reached to take off his glasses, he heard the soft creak of the dormitory door. He turned his head to see Julia stepping inside, a gentle smile on her face as she approached his bed.

"Hey, Harry," she said softly, sitting on the edge of the mattress. "I just wanted to check in and see how you're doing with everything."

Harry hesitated, his hands fidgeting with the edge of the quilt. "I'm fine," he said, his voice almost a whisper.

Julia sighed inwardly, recognizing the practiced response. "I'm glad to hear that," she said warmly. "I know today has probably been a lot—new place, new people, all of it. But if there's anything you need, anything at all, you can always let me know."

Harry nodded, not meeting her eyes.

She continued gently. "We've arranged for you to go to the hospital tomorrow morning after breakfast. Dr. Winslow will be here to take you. They'll check your ankle and make sure it's healing properly. Does that sound okay?"

Harry glanced at her, his expression guarded, and nodded again. "Yeah. That's fine."

Julia smiled, though she couldn't help but notice the weariness in his eyes. She stood, smoothing the edge of the quilt as she did. "All right. I'll let you get some rest. But remember, Harry, my door is always open if you ever want to talk—about anything."

He looked up at her then, his expression unreadable, but he managed a quiet, "Thanks."

Harry woke the next morning to the soft snoring of the boys in the other bunks. The gentle rhythm of their breaths filled the room, broken only by the occasional creak of a bunk as someone shifted in their sleep. The pale morning light filtered through the window beside his bed, casting faint, uneven patterns on the worn floorboards. For a moment, Harry stared at the underside of the top bunk, his mind heavy and slow, as though it hadn't quite caught up to where he was. Then it hit him—this wasn't Hogwarts. Nor was it Privet Drive. The orphanage.

Carefully, he shifted to the edge of the bed, swinging his legs over. A sharp protest came from his ribs as he moved, making him wince. His ankle hurt faintly, though the dull ache had become familiar by now. Harry reached for his crutches, which leaned against the bedpost, and gripped them tightly as he pushed himself upright. The worn quilt slid from his lap, and the coolness of the air brushed against his skin. He adjusted his balance, feeling the strain in his arms as he maneuvered carefully.

The hallway outside was eerily quiet, save for the occasional creak of the old floorboards under him. It felt as though the entire building was still holding its breath, the calm of early morning stretching out around him. The faint scents of wood polish and something vaguely floral lingered in the air, remnants of whatever cleaning had been done the day before. Harry shuffled along slowly, the soft tap of his crutches echoing faintly in the otherwise silent corridor.

Reaching the bathroom, Harry leaned his crutches carefully against the wall before turning to the sink. Cold water splashed over his face, jolting him fully awake. He lingered there for a moment, letting the chill clear the last remnants of sleep from his mind. Glancing up, he caught sight of himself in the mirror above the sink. His reflection was pale, his cheeks hollow and his hair a wild mess that seemed beyond taming. He frowned slightly, running a hand through the unruly strands before picking up the comb Julia had given him. He tugged it through his hair a few times, but the effort only seemed to make it stick up in different directions. He let out a quiet huff of frustration but ultimately gave up.

Grabbing his toothbrush, Harry brushed his teeth slowly, appreciating the refreshing, minty taste. It was comforting, even grounding, to do something as straightforward as cleaning up. When he finished, he wiped his face with a towel, the soft material far better than the coarse ones he'd been used to at Privet Drive. The routine made him feel slightly more like himself, though the unfamiliar surroundings and everything else on his mind lingered just out of reach.

Once he was ready, Harry collected his crutches and made his way into the hallway. The quiet of early morning had begun to lift, faint sounds of stirring from other rooms breaking the stillness. From downstairs came the aroma of cooking—warm and rich, carrying the promise of something satisfying. His stomach rumbled softly, urging him forward. Slowly, he descended the stairs, each step accompanied by the faint creak of the old wood beneath his weight.

The smells grew stronger as he neared the kitchen: bread, something sweet, and the unmistakable savory scent of frying sausages. The warm air enveloped him as he stepped into the room, where Mrs. Fields was bustling about, tending to a pan on the stove. Her presence filled the kitchen with an ease that Harry found oddly comforting. She looked up as he entered, her face lighting up with a welcoming smile.

"Good morning, Harry. Up early, are you?" she said, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

"Morning," Harry replied softly, hovering by the door. After a moment, he added quietly, "Can I help with anything?"

Mrs. Fields shook her head and waved him off with a firm gesture. "Not a chance, young man. You've done quite enough just making your way down here. Now, come sit yourself down, and I'll get you something proper to eat."

Harry hesitated, glancing at the stove. "I don't mind helping," he started, but the look she gave him stopped him mid-sentence. Her arched brow and hands on her hips left no room for argument.

"Sit," she said firmly. "The only thing you need to do right now is eat."

Reluctantly, Harry made his way to the table and eased himself into a chair, leaning his crutches against the wall beside him. Mrs. Fields turned back to the stove. In moments, she ladled steaming oatmeal into a bowl, adding a generous drizzle of honey and a sprinkle of raisins before setting it in front of him.

"There we go," she said, sliding the bowl closer. "Now, eat every last bit of that. You're much too thin, and I won't have you just picking at your food like you did last night."

Harry looked up at her, his brow furrowed. "I wasn't—"

"Oh yes, you were," she cut him off, pulling out a chair and sitting down across from him. "I saw it plain as day. You barely ate a thing, and that's not going to fly here. You need your strength, and I won't have you going hungry under my roof."

Harry stared at the oatmeal, then back at her. "I wasn't trying to—"

"I know, dear," she said softly. "But habits like that won't help you now. You've been through a lot, and I imagine eating might not feel easy. But you need to eat as much as you can. Every bite helps."

Harry looked down at the bowl, his face flushing slightly. He picked up his spoon and took a small bite. The oatmeal was warm and sweet, the honey adding just enough flavor to make it comforting. He chewed slowly, glancing up to find Mrs. Fields still watching him.

"Good," she said with a nod as he took another bite. "It doesn't have to be quick, but it does have to be all of it." She got up to go about her tasks, but still kept her watchful eyes on Harry.

Harry worked his way through the bowl under her watchful eye. The warmth of the oatmeal spread through him, and though he still felt out of place, there was something grounding about the routine of eating a meal that someone had made for him—just for him.

As Harry finished the last spoonful of oatmeal, the sounds of stirring upstairs grew louder, signaling the rest of the house waking up. One by one, children began trickling down from their rooms. The younger ones arrived first, their hair mussed and their steps unsteady as they rubbed their eyes. They murmured sleepy greetings as they shuffled past the kitchen toward the dining room, where the long table was already set with breakfast. Some leaned against each other, still half-asleep, while others perked up at the sight of the steaming food waiting for them.

The older kids followed soon after, more alert and lively. Their chatter filled the hallway, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the clatter of plates and utensils as they found spots to eat in the dining room. The lively hum of activity carried on in the background as Harry stayed seated in the kitchen, watching the bustle from his spot at the table. He felt a pang of something he couldn't quite place—something between unease and fascination. The easy chatter of the other kids reminded him a little of the Gryffindor common room, though this was distinctly different.

Luke and Eddie entered together, their conversation already in full swing as they stepped into the kitchen rather than heading to the dining room with the others. Luke's sandy hair was still damp, as though he'd splashed his face to wake up, and Eddie's dark hair stuck out at odd angles. Spotting Harry, they grinned and waved in his direction, grabbed plates, and settled into the chairs beside him at the small kitchen table.

"Morning, Harry!" Luke called, his grin wide and easy.

"Hey," Harry replied quietly, managing a small wave back.

The two boys made their way over, plates in hand, and slid into the seats beside him. Luke sat to his left, balancing his plate on the edge of the table as he reached for a roll, while Eddie took the seat on his right, biting into a sausage as he settled in.

"Didn't see you much last night," Luke said, nudging Harry lightly with his elbow. "You went up pretty quick after dinner."

"Yeah," Harry said, shifting slightly. "I was just... tired."

"Fair enough," Eddie chimed in, cutting into his sausage with the edge of his fork. "This place takes some getting used to. First couple of nights, I thought I'd never sleep."

Harry glanced at him curiously. "How long have you been here?"

"Me? Couple of months now," Eddie said between bites. "Not so bad once you figure out the lay of the land. Mrs. Fields runs a tight ship, though. Don't cross her."

Luke snorted, shaking his head. "He says that, but he's the one who always pushes his luck. Like the time you tried to sneak out pudding for later and got caught."

Eddie grinned, unabashed. "Worth it."

Harry couldn't help but smile faintly. Their banter was easy, natural, and it drew him in without demanding too much of him.

"What about you?" Luke asked, turning his attention to Harry. "How are you holding up? Place making any sense yet?"

Harry shrugged, glancing down at the table. "It's... different," he said carefully. "Not really sure where anything is yet."

"Don't worry about that," Eddie said with a wave of his hand. "Stick with us, and we'll make sure you don't get lost. Except maybe on purpose. Keeps things interesting."

Luke rolled his eyes. "Ignore him. He's just trying to scare you. You'll figure it out soon enough."

"Yeah, it's not as confusing as it seems," Eddie added, grinning. "Just a bunch of creaky floors and doors that stick."

Harry nodded faintly, unsure of what to say. The sounds of breakfast filled the kitchen—spoons clinking against bowls, bursts of laughter from the younger kids, and Mrs. Fields calling out reminders for everyone to clear their plates. Luke and Eddie continued their banter, occasionally nudging Harry to join in. He gave short quiet answers the novelty of sitting among peers rather than being ignored or ridiculed still sinking in.

Eddie leaned back in his chair, balancing precariously on two legs as he gestured with his fork. "You know, there's a spot behind the tool shed where the old man keeps the extra firewood. Great place to hide if you want to avoid chores."

"Or get caught and end up with double," Luke added, smirking. "Don't listen to him, Harry. He's got the worst luck."

"Hey, I'm still here, aren't I?" Eddie shot back, grinning before shoving the last piece of sausage into his mouth.

Harry listened, half-smiling as their easy banter continued. His eyes wandered around the room, taking in the way the other kids interacted. The younger ones were starting to perk up, some giggling as they smeared jam on their toast, others whispering conspiratorially over their bowls of cereal. The older kids were more subdued, focused on their plates or sharing quiet jokes. It was a far cry from the tense, silent breakfasts he was used to with the Dursleys.

Mrs. Fields bustled around the room, her presence a steadying force as she encouraged the younger children to finish up and reminded the older ones to rinse their plates. She glanced at Harry now and then, her expression warm but watchful, as though she were trying to gauge how he was settling in. At one point, she even paused briefly, pointing to her eyes and then playfully gesturing toward Harry with a slight grin, as if to remind him that she was keeping an eye on him making him smile. A real smile.

As the meal wound down, Harry found himself feeling a little more at ease. Though he still didn't fully relax, the unfamiliar environment didn't seem quite as daunting with Luke and Eddie beside him.

By the time breakfast was winding down, the kitchen was filled with the warm hum of conversation and the occasional clatter of plates. Harry looked up as Dr. Winslow appeared in the doorway, his coat neatly buttoned and his hands tucked into his pockets.

"Good morning, Harry," Dr. Winslow said with a friendly nod. "Ready for our trip to the hospital?"

Harry nodded, pushing his chair back and standing carefully. Mrs. Fields fussed over him for a moment, straightening his collar and reminding him to bundle up before he left. With a final nod of approval, she waved him toward the door.

Dr. Winslow pulled the door open with a warm smile, stepping aside to let Harry pass. Harry hobbled forward, his crutches clicking softly against the floor. But as he reached the doorway, he froze, his breath catching.

Standing on the doorstep was a tall man dressed in an impeccably tailored black overcoat, its crisp lines emphasizing his lean frame. Beneath it, he wore simple but sharp Muggle attire—a dark suit with a stark white shirt that contrasted with his pale complexion. His jet-black hair hung to his shoulders, framing a face that was as severe and unreadable as Harry remembered. His dark eyes fixed on Harry sending a chill through him.

The man's hand was raised, as though he had been about to knock, but now he stood still, his gaze locked with Harry's. The air seemed to thicken, the warm sounds of the orphanage behind Harry fading into an oppressive quiet.

Dr. Winslow glanced at Harry and then at the man on the doorstep, his friendly expression faltering. "Ah—" he began, but whatever he was going to say was lost on Harry.

The crutches wobbled slightly under Harry's grip as he stared, unable to process the sight before him. The man's presence here made no sense. It was impossible. And yet, there he was.

"Professor Snape?" Harry whispered, the words escaping before he could stop them.