Interlude

First Memories…

Hermione, Age 3

The girl-child was small, and quite clever for her age; able to burrow herself into a convenient nook in a way no-one would be able to see her – especially her nurse with her acid tongue. Hermione didn't know what she'd done wrong; but there had to be something. The change from sweet and gentle caregiver to insulting, harsh taskmaster had been far too abrupt. At almost four, she was now an expert at avoidance, much like her parents. Had they been the type of people to shout and scream, Hermione might have found herself protesting her treatment at the hands of the woman hired to care for her – since her parents couldn't be bothered – but they weren't, and so neither was she.

Hermione sighed and opened the book in her lap. Her parents' library didn't have any children's books, and her nurse had gotten rid of hers, stating harshly that there was no way she was going to waste time reading them to her (never mind that she could read them herself) and that Hermione was too old for them anyway. She wasn't allowed to watch the television her parents had placed in her playroom (so she didn't need theirs) or play her music because it was childish, and nurse couldn't stand it; the only sounds to come from the expensive system and fill her wing of the large house was classical. Hermione didn't mind so much, although she had cried about her favourite book being thrown away – something she learned quickly not to do in nurses' presence again; the tongue lashing she'd received was worse than a sharp slap across the face.

One day, with nothing else to do – other than be caught playing with the ornate doll house in her playroom by nurse, who would pitch a fit about something so expensive and antique being played with by a careless child and couldn't she grow up already? – she had snuck into her parents library to find something to entertain her sharp mind. It had been rather difficult, because Hermione wasn't supposed to leave the wing of the house she lived in without her nurse; and that hadn't occurred in a long time (other than to walk sedately in the private courtyard attached to her side of the house, under the watchful eye of nurse, who claimed she needed the exercise and should be lady-like about it); but she had loved the challenge it presented. She knew where the books lived, and for someone with the kind of mind she had, it hadn't been difficult to devise her escape.

Hermione could now access the library whenever she wanted, and her mind was fed by medical journals, health guides, classical readings, poetry and a myriad of other things no-one her age should find the least bit interesting. Still, at least she could say she knew why it was that she was forced to eat her vegetables.

Her gaze dropped to the book in her lap The collected works of Charles Dickens. Soon she was immersed in a world without neglectful, emotionally distant parents or callous supervisor; where problems were far bigger than her own, but where happily-ever-afters were guaranteed.

Ron, Age 3

The small red-headed boy watched as his beloved older brother, and his only friend, packed his new second-hand trunk in excitement. The three-year-old didn't quite understand why his brother was leaving; but he did understand, with surprising clarity for a boy his age, that the only refuge he had in his lonely life was going away from him. Ron couldn't help but fear that this new adventure, "school", would steal the kind boy from him forever. He was pulled from his thoughts when the subject of them knelt before him.

"Isn't it great, Ron?" he gushed.

Not really, Ron thought, though nothing showed on his face.

"My first year at Hogwarts! Don't worry, little man, I'll be back for Christmas, and I'll tell you all about it. You know, in a few years, you'll be all grown up and you'll go to Hogwarts too. You'll love it there, Ron. You'll make lots of friends and learn all about magic – just like me!"

The eleven-year-old stood and took something down off his bookshelf. "See this, Ron? This is how I learned to read. You can have it now," Ron took the book from his brother, sure that this would be the only birthday gift he'd receive this year, and his brother quickly showed him how to work the spells on it. "It's ok if you don't remember, I'm sure Percy will give you a hand with it." Ron was sure he wouldn't, but didn't say anything. "When I get back, you can show me how well you're doing with it."

A yell from downstairs had his brother moving back to his now-packed trunk and hauling it from the room. Ron followed him downstairs silently. The older boy leaned down one last time to give him a goodbye hug. Ron might have cried, had he been any other boy losing someone as good as a parent, but he'd learned it did no good a long time ago. He settled for fixing his sorrowful gaze on his brother, and saying quietly, "love you."

His brother grinned. "I love you, too. See you soon, little man!" And his brother was gone. It was the last time Charlie Weasley ever called him 'little man'.

Harry, Age 3

Harry remembered many things. He remembered the rich sound of his fathers' laugh, and the soft musical tone his mother spoke and sang with. He remembered the joyous shouts of his godfather, Padfoot; and the quiet, soothing voice of Uncle Moony. Harry remembered the way his father would toss him into the air and catch him, and the way his mother would hold him in her lap and read to him from books that would play music and light up the words being spoken. He remembered the time Padfoot had filled the house with soap bubbles for Harry to play with when he was babysitting and the scolding Padfoot got for it from Uncle Moony. Harry remembered the time he had read the book back to his mother, word for word, and how happy it made everyone around him.

And Harry remembered the night it all ended.

There had been pain, and fear, and anguish, and mocking laughter and a cold green light and baby Harry remembered it all; even though he didn't understand it. He knew that his parents and his godfather and his uncle had gone away, though he didn't know why. He knew that in their place was a person called Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon (although this other Uncle was nothing like Uncle Moony); and he knew from the moment they first looked at him that they didn't like him, even though he was sure he'd done nothing to displease them.

Yes, even though it would be many years before Harry would understand all these events, he certainly remembered them. Harry found it easy to remember things. Other children his age found it difficult to remember that dirty clothes were put in the laundry basket and toys were put away in their places – but not Harry; even though he had very little of the former and none of the latter. Books go on their shelves and food was not to be wasted by playing with it, but eaten, or you wouldn't get any. Very few children Harry's age cared about the first, or ever worried about the second.

Another thing that Harry could do that other children couldn't was observe those around him. He quickly came to know when Uncle Vernon was upset, and knew the best thing to do was leave the area post-haste; and he knew when Aunt Petunia had found out something especially nasty about someone else, and knew that this was the best time to ask for something he needed because he'd be more likely to get it – like the time he needed new shoes.

There was only one thing Harry liked about living with the Dursleys; and it combined these two remarkable talents – remarkable in that someone Harry's age shouldn't have them – and that was the fact that Aunt Petunia had recently decided that it was sophisticated to play the piano, and had taken up lessons on Great-Aunt Catherine's piano (who had died recently, and had left the piano to Harry's mother; although Petunia reasoned this made it hers now).

Harry had been drawn to the sounds coming from the wonderful instrument the first time he'd heard the instructor play it, and had, from then on, attended lessons at the same time as his Aunt. Not that she was aware of it; in fact she would have been livid had she known that he was picking up the theory and practice far better than she was herself. It had become even easier after the time he had run away from his uncle one day and found the other only good thing about living with the Dursleys – the local library was only two blocks away – and found and read a book about musical theory.

After that day Harry often returned to the library to read. Books and music became his sanctuary; both took his mind away from the harsh reality he lived with and gave him a sense of comfort and security in a world that was neither…