As Hermione prepared chicken and chips for the midday meal, a plate slipped through her shaky fingers.

“Hermione,” a groggy voice barked, “Get me a gin!”

The new mum of the house pulled the half-empty gin bottle from the refrigerator, poured it into a tall, thin glass with the single, prescribed ice cube, and carefully carried it to her father.

“What time is it?” he grumbled.

“Half past one, sir.”

“Why in the hell isn’t lunch on the table yet, you beastly girl? Your sister must be starving. Cecily!” he called up to her.

A bob of tousled strawberry blonde hair poked out from between the banisters. “Yes, Daddy?”

“Are you very hungry, darling?” he asked gently, although both girls caught the menacing undertone.

The youngest faltered, stealing a glance at Hermione; Hermione stood leaning away from their father, one arm grasping the other across her body as if to shelter her very soul. “No, Daddy. I’m hardly hungry yet.”

The man sat back looking almost disappointed as he snapped, “Quit fannying around and finish up!”

As the three sat down to lunch a swift breeze bounced through the kitchen window. It was soon followed by a tufted tawny school owl with haunted silver eyes. Hermione caught the letter expertly in one hand as she was accustomed to doing at school. For a moment her heart warmed with remembrances of the notes and small packages her mother always sent throughout the year. As Hermione’s gaze met her father’s her heart turned to steel springs, tensed and waiting to snap. She hastily tucked the letter into her back pocket and trained her eyes on the dry piece of chicken currently gracing her plate.

Her father picked up his glass of gin and hurled it in Hermione’s direction. Cecily let out a small scream as it shattered on the wall directly behind her sister’s head.

“Well . . .” came the father’s growl.

“Yes, sir?” came the teary-eyed girl’s usual response.

A pause, and as Hermione reluctantly lifted her head to gaze upon the fury, it roared, “Get me another glass of gin your daft little witch!” And leave the bottle.”

Hermione jumped up, and as her bare, pale feet tried to escape the shards of glass a more-than-insistent, “And right quickly, girl!” caused her to side-step.

The glass hungrily chewed on her feet as she quickly maneuvered around the kitchen to fulfill the command.

A second owl buzzed her head as she poured the gin. She moved to snatch up the falling letter from the great grey owl but, to her surprise, the feathered being alighted on her sister’s chair and dropped the letter in Cecily’s lap.

Hermione had wished Cessy would be invited to Hogwarts, but she honestly had not expected it. Her sister was very different from herself; she had never excelled at school and did not seem to have the inner spark with which Hermione had been born.

Mr. Granger held out one hand to take the letter from Cecily and snapped his fingers at Hermione with the other. “Drink!” He opened the letter after taking several gulps of the crystal poison. “Just Hogwarts nonsense, sweetums. Nothing to worry about. Daddy wouldn’t send you away.”

Hermione silently willed her sister not to utter a response.

“But . . .” began Cessy, with her head down submissively, “But I want to go, Daddy.”

“You will not be going Cecily.” He turned to his eldest. “And you’re getting blood all over the floor you nasty girl! What is the matter with you?”

“Sorry, sir,” Hermione intoned as she forced herself to begin cleaning the floor.

Cecily unwisely began to wine, “But Daddy, I want to go with Hermione. Please let me just try it. Just for one year, pleeeeease?”

“Silence, Cecily!” Mr. Granger yelled. It was what Hermione had feared. Her father was going to be violent with her sister now, too.

“That’s not fair! Why does she get to go and I don’t?” Cecily pouted.

“Fine then, both of you will stay home.”

Hermione’s head swirled with fuzz, her stomach lurched and she sicked up all over the floor. She instinctively crawled further away from her father, but she wasn’t quick enough. She sprawled onto her back after a heavy boot connected with her shoulder.

“And you,” the father grumbled, turning to his youngest daughter, “You can forget about that so-called school. If it hadn’t been for her going to that bloody school your mother would still . . .”

He began to break down, but downed the rest of the fifth of gin instead.

“It’s not Hermione’s fault, Daddy. If you’d have driven mum to get the gift like she asked . . . but you told her to take a cab –“ Cecily was cut off as she received her first ferocious smack across the face.

Hermione rushed to get between the two, her collar bone screeching with white-hot pain. Her father picked her up and threw her into the larder cupboard, jamming a kitchen chair up under the handle. Hermione struggled to push the door open, but to no avail.

The now raging, drunk man roughly turned his youngest over his lap and began to smack her bum. It was loud and hard, but Hermione was thankful that was all he was doing at the moment. As the girl’s protests grew louder, Hermione realized the situation could escalate quickly.

“Be quiet, Cessy. Just take it,” Hermione called from inside the dank, dark space.

“Shut up you little witch!” came her father’s reply. As he moved to pound on the larder door, Cecily made a run for it. She slammed face first into the glassy floor as he caught her shirt. Her father pounded on her back with his fists as she wailed. Picking up a wire whisk he assaulted her with it as she curled up protectively into a ball. Suddenly, he stopped, inwardly horrified with himself. He stomped out of the kitchen and, with a jingle of keys, the door shut and a car squealed out of the drive.

....................................................

Draco ran down the regal mahogany stairs, cursing the potions for not working more quickly. It was the first time he’d been beaten on the soles of his feet, and the gashes seared with each step.

“You’re late again, Draco,” gushed his mother, as her son’s bright eyes turned to lead.

“Yes, Draco, we’ll deal with that after lunch,” said Lucius.

As Draco forced himself to take a few bites of his meal, a wise choice considering Draco never knew how long he’d be confined to his room without meals after a punishment, a familiar barn owl settled on the vast windowsill. After a nod from his father Draco rose, took the letter, and scanned it before handing it over.

“Ah yes, it is that time of year again. We’ll go to Diagon Alley after we take care of your punishment.”

Draco cringed, and the rest of the meal was eaten in stony silence.

In Draco’s bedroom it was uttered, “Take your shirt and trousers off and lie on the bed. I’ll allow you undergarments, this time.”

“Thank you, father.” Draco immediately complied as his father transfigured a thick strap from a spare bit of string. Taking a few practice swings at the bedpost, Lucius prompted, “Tell me why I must punish you.”

Draco hated every bit of the punishments, but this part always proved particularly demeaning. He began, “When I am late to a meal, I show disrespect and contempt to my elders. Please punish me, father, to teach me respect.”

The reply having been satisfactory, Lucius began beating his son’s legs. He knew from the look of things Severus had applied healing potions again. The senior Malfoy allowed this because he rather liked having a blank slate on which to work; it allowed him to see the immediate results of his current handiwork.

Lucius mercilessly his the exact same spot several times in a row, waiting for his son to involuntarily convulse from the strain of keeping in his cries before moving a few inches down to a new target. After all the flesh on the back of Draco’s legs was aching to the bone and purple welts disguised the skin his father told his to turn over.

Draco was particularly horrified the times his father beat the front of his body; not only did he have to watch each lick as it crashed down on him, he had to keep his face in a stoic, emotionless state. Draco forced his mind to retreat to the Slytherin dungeons as his father repeated his treatment on the front of the boy’s legs.

“Stand up, Draco,” came the command, “And hold out your arms, palms up.” The strap disappeared as his father held up his cane, holding it by the snake’s head. Draco concentrated on making his horribly throbbing legs obey as his father brought the thick stick down on his forearms. Draco fell to the floor, but immediately picked himself up and held his arms out again. After countless blinding strokes his father turned and swiftly left the room, stating, “We leave for Diagon Alley in five minutes. Do not be late!”

...........................................

“Clear the table and do the dishes, boy. I trust you are able to run the hot water yourself this time?”

Harry knew what this meant. “Yes, sir. I can do it myself, Uncle Vernon.” Harry allowed himself to inspect his raw hands as the water made the blisters and welts and even angrier shade of red. He worked quickly as he felt his Uncle’s presence hovering in the room.

His thoughts wandered. What time did a circus begin? 1:00, 2:00, later? It seemed odd that Dudley and Aunt Petunia would become his saviors . . . or would they? Would they watch? Join in?

Harry shook his dark, shaggy head, trying to rid thoughts from his mind. It dawned on him to utilize his Occlumency training in order to calm himself; he cleared his mind and pictured nothingness as his hands throbbed with every movement, grasp, and stinging touch of scorching water. Finished, he took a shaky deep breath and turned round. His uncle had the belt off. The slack end was wrapped around his hand; the buckle-end was swaying by his side.

“Take your clothes off.”

Harry stood, speechless, like a statue. He was going to be beaten, naked, with a heavy silver buckle. Uncle Vernon had beaten him before, many times, but never with the buckle end. And he always did it over whatever Harry happened to be wearing.

“Are you deaf as well as daft, boy? Do as I say!” Harry wanted to protest; noticing his uncle’s face had already turned a pale purple, he decided against it. He began attempting to unbutton his shirt with trembling, swollen fingers.

“Ooh, do ickle Potty Boy’s fingertips have boo-boos?” his uncle mocked. “I don’t have all day, boy!”

‘Can I stall ‘til the others arrive?’ Harry wondered. However as Vernon began to advance hastily, Harry decided against this course of action as well. He lifted his shirt over his head and, with a glance into his uncle’s eyes to silently plead against it, took his socks, shoes, and trousers off as well.

Vernon inched closer and in a sickening tone breathed, “Everything, boy.”

“Uncle Vernon, please –” Harry was punched in the eye and as he fell his last remaining shred of clothing was whisked off.

“Lie on the table.”

Harry threw himself on the cold wooden monster, hoping to cause himself the least amount of shame possible.

“You have always been an embarrassment to our fine family, boy.” Harry tried to listen; perhaps he could reason with his uncle if he listened. “You’ve always been a freak, scaring away dinner guests, clients, family members. I can finally give you the punishment you deserve now I don’t have meddling magic buggers to worry about cursing me.” The massive oaf’s tone and volume took a menacing dive. “You have no one, you know. You are all alone, just as you deserve, you pathetic son of a bitch!”

Before Harry could utter a word, the first stroke came. Harry felt as if he had a hot poker boring into his skin. Vernon was not careful when aiming; he struck his nephew all over, save hi head. Harry learnt long ago to keep still; his Uncle grew even angrier if he struggled. After a few moments, though, Harry could take it no longer. His uncle was hitting him full force and Harry could tell the buckle was now wet with his blood. The boy put a hand back to try to stop the pain in his thin, brittle back and heard a sickening crack as the buckle struck his right arm. He rolled to one side and to his horror his uncle pinned him on his back, striking his front now. Harry writhed as the silver serpent struck every inch of his front.

Vernon stopped. “Clean up, get dressed, and move all your things back to your cupboard. Leave the bed. Dirt belongs on the ground, so that’s where you’ll sleep,” and he spat directly in Harry’s face.

Harry laid deathly still as Vernon stalked up the stairs. Breathing meant a million shards of searing lightening scored his chest. Yet he knew he couldn’t just lie here, nude, on the literally bloody kitchen table. Harry cleared his mind and screamed at himself inside his head, ‘Stop feeling! It doesn’t hurt. Stop it! Stop it!’ He gritted his teeth and, with a punctuated yelp, got down from the table. He crumpled on the floor; his feet just wouldn’t support him. ‘As few movements as possible, and quit being such a stupid, crying sod!’ Harry cleaned the blood off the kitchen surfaces with his shirt, then dressed. It took some time to crawl to the stairs and haul himself to Dudley’s spare bedroom on his hands and knees, pack, and push his trunk down the stairs. He was thoroughly grateful his uncle did not protest when the heavy trunk thudded down the stairs and landed at the bottom with a loud crash.

As Harry dragged himself into the familiar, loathed, cramped space he felt as if here were being sucked back in time, to when he was ten and had no hope – none whatsoever. In a way, this was worse. He had tasted happiness and freedom, albeit in small doses, but as he drifted into an exhausted, fitful sleep his lingering though was,

‘It would have been better not to have known hope than to have it beaten out of me.’