TORMENT (Harry Potter Sequel)

Chapter One

There was a sudden bout of thunder. The grey skies suddenly lit with lightning as rain pelted down to the ground below. A large square building, surrounded by high black railings stood tall. The once white walls had degraded over time and had turned a sickly grey. Despite its rundown appearance, the inside of the building was clean and well looked after. A shrill and crackly sound was heard as a middle-aged couple who were waiting outside pressed the buzzer. They shivered underneath their umbrella and greeted the matron who allowed them entry with a somewhat forced smile. They entered the reception of the orphanage hastily.

"Hello Mr and Mrs Hastings," the matron said politely, "We've been waiting for you." Her voice was posh and defined. It was clear she was upper-class.

She was an older woman, now aged 50, and had been working at the establishment for 30 odd years. She just had a love for children. She wore what looked like an old nurse's outfit from the 60s and small high-heeled boots. In comparison, the couple in front of her were anything but defined. Both looked 30 and a little past their prime. Mr Hastings wore a brown, creased suit, matching brown tie and matching brown hat. Mrs Hastings, her face coated with make-up that tried desperately to cover up her wrinkles, was wearing a large red coat that, despite its size, still managed to fail in its purpose of making her warm.    

"Sorry," said Mr Hastings gruffly, "We were slowed down by the rain."

"We almost forgot we booked this appointment," Mrs Hastings chimed in. Her american accent almost caused the matron to flinch but she gave her a sickly smile. The matron had never been a fan of things that she would consider out of the ordinary.

"That's alright. If you would come this way please," she gestured forward and led the two down a long hallway. The footsteps of their wet boots echoed around the cold tiled floor of the orphanage, creating the only sound that could be heard apart from the pattering of raindrops from above them. They climbed a set of stairs. The walls of the orphanage were all white, as were the floors but somehow the atmosphere of it all almost made it look dark grey. The flickering of the light switches and the infrequency of their placing caused large shadows to be cast. The only natural light came in the form of occasional windows, all of which were barred.

Eventually, the matron's pace slowed as she reached closer toward her destination: A large white door with a one-way peephole. She could peer in but no one could look back out. The footsteps ground to halt.

"This is the kid huh?" Mr Hastings asked casually. No interest or care seemed to be in his voice. His body language also showed he didn't really care to be here. The Matron nodded.

"Can we see him?" Mrs Hastings took a small step forward toward the door.

"Of course." The matron opened the peephole to reveal the contents of the room and stepped aside so Mr and Mrs Hastings could see.

Inside the room was a table, one which looked like it belonged in an office or school. Sitting by it was a child waiting patiently in a chair. He looked forward in front of him to the other side of the table. Two chairs were set up for people to come and sit in.

"What's his name?" grunted Mr Hastings, staring intently at the boy.

"Tom Malumis. He's 6 years old," the Matron supplied the information with narrowed eyes. She evidently didn't like talking about the boy.

"6? He's tiny, doesn't look a day over 4!" commented Mrs Hastings. Indeed Tom was tiny. His arms were boney and his stomach was practically non-existent. He was incredibly thin. His face was sunken and pale. Dark lines were already etched underneath his relatively large eyes. Looking into his black orbs, a clear feeling of hopelessness and loneliness was ingrained within them. His cheekbones were clear and his legs were small. He wore a small white t-shirt and brown shorts. A scruffy jot of black hair lay on his head, clearly uncombed. His posture was slightly crooked. There was something animalistic about it. Something about the way that he was seated and the size of his limbs and eyes made him look like a small dog.