Family Ties
Hermione
I flipped over the open sign and wiped down the front counter of crumbs, watching as they landed on the floor knowing Kirby our dog would enjoy them later. Waste not want not, as my mother says. A dog was something few could afford so we were the lucky ones.
After I put the unsold baked goods back in the fridge, I made my way to the back of the shop where I knew my mother was waiting for me. I pulled open the pantry door, wincing at its familiar creak. My brown curls fell across my face, and I brushed them back with an impatient gesture before reaching for the bag of flour my mother held out.
"Mind you don't spill it, Hermione" she said, her voice as dry and bitter as overbrewed tea. "Lord knows we can't afford to waste a single ounce."
I said nothing, lifting the heavy sack with practiced ease. Carefully, I placed it on the shelf, positioning it precisely next to the sugar canister.
"At least you're good for something," my mother muttered, handing me the baking powder tin. "Though I doubt that'll be enough to keep you alive when the hard times come."
I felt a muscle twitch in my jaw, but I kept my face impassive. If only she knew how I spent my nights, poring over botanical texts by candlelight, memorizing which plants could heal and which could harm. If only she could see the calluses forming on my palms from hauling sacks of grain in secret. The knives that hit their targets every time, I released them from my hands.
You can never be too prepared.
"Is that all?" I asked, keeping my tone cool and detached.
My mother's eyes narrowed.
"For now. Go make yourself useful elsewhere."
As I left the pantry, my steps were light despite the weight of her disdain. I knew something she didn't: I was ready for whatever life might throw at me, whether my family believed in me or not.
At the dinner table, I watch my father curl into himself as my mother glares at him, her voice sharp as she nags him for not smiling enough at our insipid customers. I know he never would have chosen her given a choice. He wanted Lily, Potter’s mother but he was no competitor for James. I push the food around on my plate, trying to make it look like I'm eating more than I am. Every morsel saved is another step towards independence.
"Oh, that Potter kid came in today," my mother suddenly says, her lips puckered like she's just swallowed a sour grape.
My fork pauses midway to my mouth. I force myself to complete the motion, chewing slowly to hide my interest as she continues to lament his dirty clothes and the state of his wild hair.
"I genuinely feared he was going to dive over the counter and rob me," she huffs. "People like that shouldn't be allowed on this side of town."
I keep my eyes down, focused on my plate. my mother doesn't know about the times I've watched Potter from afar, admiring how he moves through the forest like he's part of it. She has no idea that his 'wild' hair is full of twigs and leaves because he spends his days learning the secrets of the woods – secrets I'm desperate to know.
"He's probably just poor," I murmur, immediately regretting drawing attention to myself.
My mother's sharp gaze snaps to me.
"And whose fault is that? His family's, no doubt. Lazy, the lot of them."
I bite my tongue, holding back the retort that rises in my throat. Arguing would only make her suspicious. Instead, I nod noncommittally and take another careful bite of my dinner.
As my mother launches into another tirade about the decline of proper society, my mind wanders to the book of edible plants hidden under my mattress. Tonight, after everyone's asleep, I'll study it by candlelight, adding to my mental map of survival. And maybe, just maybe, I'll find a way to talk to Potter, to learn what he knows about living off the land.
For now, though, I sit quietly, letting my mother's words wash over me like water off a duck's back. She thinks I'm weak and unprepared for the world. But with every passing day, I'm proving her wrong.
Laying in bed I think back to Potter and the time I saved him and his brother from a particularly bad winter, wondering if he still thinks about it too. The memory rises unbidden, as vivid as if it were happening all over again.
I was sweeping the bakery's back stoop, just before closing. The sun had already dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in deep purples and blues. That's when I saw him – Potter – and his little brother huddled in the shadows of the alley.
He didn't see me at first. His eyes were fixed on the day-old bread I was about to toss into the pig bucket. The hunger in their gazes was unmistakable, raw and desperate. It made my chest ache.
I glanced over my shoulder, making sure Mother wasn't watching. Then, moving as casually as I could, I let a loaf "slip" from my hands. It rolled towards the alley, stopping just shy of where Potter crouched.
Our eyes met for a brief moment. I saw confusion there, then a flicker of understanding. He snatched up the bread and vanished into the darkness with his brother, silent as a ghost.
As I turned to go back inside, I caught a glimpse of movement. Potter had paused at the edge of the alley. He raised the bread slightly, a silent gesture of thanks. Then he was gone.
I never told anyone about that moment. Mother would have been furious if she knew I'd "wasted" good bread on someone like Potter. But the memory of his grateful eyes stayed with me, a secret warmth in my chest.
Now, in bed away from my mother, I don’t hide my small smile. My mother sees Potter as nothing but a threat, a dirty wild child. But I know better. I've seen the humanity in him, the struggle to survive. And in that moment of sharing, I felt more alive, more true to myself, than I ever have under this roof.
I turn another page in my book, letting the chirps of birds from my open window wash over me. One day, I'll be free of this place, free of that fence and these narrow minds. And maybe, just maybe, I'll find allies like Potter – people who understand what it means to truly live.
Harry
I crouch by the ancient stove, coaxing the flame higher under our dented pot. The smell of boiling roots and wild onions fills our tiny kitchen, making my stomach growl. Beside me, Collin's skinny arms tremble as he stirs the thick stew.
"You're doing great, Col," I murmur, ruffling his blonde hair. "Just a little longer."
He nods, determination etched on his grimy face. At twelve, he's too young for this responsibility, but we don't have a choice. Aunt and Uncle won't feed us if we don't feed them and my cousin first.
I reach into my pocket, fingering the crust of bread I've been saving. I break off a small piece and press it into Collin's free hand.
"Here. To keep your strength up."
His eyes widen, but he doesn't question it. Food is too precious to refuse. He pops it in his mouth, chewing slowly to savor every crumb.
The floorboards creak overhead. Uncle's heavy footsteps. Aunt's shrill voice calling down:
"That food better be ready, you useless brats!"
I grit my teeth, willing the stew to cook faster.
"Almost done!" I shout back, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.
Collin looks at me, fear flickering in his eyes. I force a smile, hoping it's reassuring.
"It's okay," I whisper. "We'll eat after they do. There'll be enough."
It's a lie, and we both know it. There's never enough. But I'll make sure Collin gets something, even if it means going hungry myself. I stir the pot one last time, scraping the bottom to make sure nothing's sticking. The roots have softened, turning the water murky and thick. It's not much, but it'll fill their bellies and keep them quiet for the night.
"Ready," I announce, lifting the heavy pot. Collin scrambles to grab the chipped bowls we use for serving.
As we climb the stairs to face our aunt and uncle, I think of the forest waiting just beyond our ramshackle house. Of the plants I've learned to identify, the snares I'm getting better at setting. Someday, I promise myself, we won't have to do this anymore. Someday, Collin and I will be free on the other side of the fence. For now, though, we have a job to do. I square my shoulders and push open the door, the steaming pot held high like an offering to particularly cruel gods. It would have to do.
The floorboards creak as I settle onto our thin mattress, pulling Collin close. He burrows against me, seeking warmth in the chill night air that seeps through the cracks in our walls. I fumble in the dim light of our stub of a candle, reaching for the book tucked beneath our pillow.
"Ready?" I whisper and feel Collin's eager nod against my chest.
The book is worn, its pages yellow and warped from water damage. The cover, once bright with colourful illustrations, is now faded and peeling. But it doesn't matter. This book is our treasure, our last connection to a time when things were... different. Better. I clear my throat softly, tracing my finger along the familiar title even though we've gone through this ritual countless times.
"The Little Duckling," I read aloud, my voice barely above a whisper.
Collin sighs contentedly, his small body relaxing against mine. I can almost pretend we're back in our old home, with Mom and Dad's voices weaving the story instead of mine. Almost.
"Once upon a time," I begin, the words as familiar as my own heartbeat, "there was a little duckling who lived in a big pond..."
As I read, painting pictures with words of a world so different from our harsh reality, I feel Collin's breathing slow. The story unfolds – the duckling's adventures, his struggles, his triumphs – and for a little while, we're transported away from our drafty room, away from hunger and fear and the constant struggle to survive. I read until my throat is dry and Collin is fast asleep, his face peaceful in the flickering candlelight. Gently, I close the book and tuck it back into its hiding place. It's more than just a story to us. It's hope. It's a reminder that even the smallest and most overlooked can find their way. That maybe, someday, we'll find our place too.
I blow out the candle and pull Collin closer, listening to the night sounds outside our window – the rustle of leaves, the distant hoot of an owl. The forest calls to me, promising secrets and survival if I'm brave enough, smart enough to learn them.
"We'll be okay," I whisper into the darkness, to Collin, to myself, to the memory of our parents. "Somehow, we'll be okay."
And with that promise echoing in my mind, I let myself drift into an uneasy sleep, ready to face whatever tomorrow brings. A lump forms in my throat at Collin's sleepy murmur.
"Good night," he says, echoing the words our parents used to say. For a moment, I'm frozen, memories washing over me in a bittersweet wave.
"Good night, my little duck," I whisper back, my voice rough with emotion.
Collin snuggles closer, already half-asleep. His innocent repetition of our parents' bedtime ritual both warms and breaks my heart. He was so young when we lost them – sometimes I wonder how much he truly remembers. I close my eyes, letting the familiar phrase settle around us like a comforting blanket. In my mind, I can almost hear Mom's gentle voice, and see Dad's kind smile as they tucked us in. The ache of their absence is a constant companion, but in moments like these, it feels sharper, more raw.
Yet there's comfort too, in keeping this small tradition alive. In being for Collin what our parents were for us – a source of love, of safety, even in this harsh world we now navigate.
"We're still a family," I breathe, so softly I'm not sure if I've said it aloud or just thought it. "You and me, little duck. Always."
As sleep finally claims me, I hold tight to that thought. Tomorrow will bring its challenges – hunger, cold, our aunt and uncle's cruelty. But we have this. We have each other. And somehow, that has to be enough.