Short Stories

11. Back to school

Even at the crack of dawn, Steve stared at the faded grey ceiling of his bedroom. It  portrayed what his life looked like now. Dull, grey and boring. Exactly an year after the incident of The Blue Wig of 2014, Steve found himself wishing that he had answered that one bloody question.

Part of it was Cedric's fault, though. Steve was muttering to himself, why did Cedric have to start talking? Maybe if Cedric hadn't turned, then Ms Broadfoot wouldn't have made Steve answer the question, he wouldn't have screwed up and they wouldn't have sent them home with complaint slips.

If it weren't for the blasted slip, Cedric's and Steve's parents wouldn't have decided on an informal meeting and they wouldn't have had made the decision of changing schools.

Cedric was transferred to Graldow's Elementary School, near his aunt's home, where his cousin Rosie also studied.

Steve was pulled back and homeschooled by Uncle Marlow. And he was a godawful teacher. Not because he didn't know, not that, Steve was only an eight year old after all. No, it was the way Uncle Marlow taught that was objectionable. He roared and pushed—and on bad days, beat— Steve whenever he got a sum wrong. He complained more than taught, and if the day's whole class wasn't satisfactory, then Steve would have to go to bed with an empty stomach— his dinner would be given to Uncle Marlow.

And now, for the past 9 days, Steve had had nothing for dinner—even though he wasn't doing bad in Uncle Marlow's classes, if he said so himself. But since the rest of the Hopkins, and Mycroft, wouldn't wake up for another three hours, Steve had nothing to do except wait for everyone to wake up and make breakfast.

He was starving.

After another 15 minutes and 37 plans of getting rid of Uncle Marlow, Steve couldn't wait anymore. The hunger was killing him and he simply could not survive like this.

He swung his legs off his  narrow cot and opened the door. The house was silent and the hallway empty. Steve silently closed the door behind him, climbed down the stairs and strode purposefully towards the kitchen

The floor was cool and the air fresh. The morning chill crept up the sleeves of his pajamas and tingled his skin. 

The world felt so beautiful when your family was still asleep.

The kitchen was a homely little space. At least for Steve, it was. It was where he spent most of his time—after breakfast, lunch, and sometimes dinner. He knew where every single thing was kept. Why wouldn't he? After all, he put them all there.

He stepped around the dining table and opened the cabinet on the other side of the room. It was where they kept the extra wheat and grain, and occasionally—yes, there was bread there. Steve pulled the packet out. The expiry date was yesterday.

Hmm. One night would hardly spoil it...

He placed it on the counter and kneeled down to take out the eggs from the box. The Hopkins were purebloods and they were proud ones. They'd rather eat dragon dung than keep a refrigerator. Not that they knew how to use it, even if they did have one.

One was more than enough for him. 

In ten minutes, the pan was washed, dried and placed on the stove—sometimes, it was Steve who cooked the meals, and since he was still an underage wizard, stove was necessary. Toaster wasn't a thing in their house. In fact, the mere mention of the muggle word was scowled at, so Steve heated the loaves of bread on the pan, and buttered it.