Castle of Glass

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Beta read by Arithmancy Master.

A/N: Hello there! I just wanted to make a short announcement that I have started to publish the sequel to this story, just in case some of you have missed it. It is called By Your Side and can be found on my author's page.

But, I didn't want to turn an entire chapter into an author's note – so, I decided to get rid of one of my many persistent plot-bunnies. This is a one-shot that has been on my mind ever since I first listened to the song – and ever time I did after that as well. Hopefully, it won't bother me as much now that it is written out.

I hope you like it!

Update! 13-04-2013

I am happy to announce the entire story Castle of Glass is now proof read by the wonderful Arithmancy Master. Thank you, thank you for doing this for me, I owe you so much.

Extra Chapter

My December

30th December, 1933

It was still dark outside. It was about nine o'clock in the morning – Tom knew – he'd eaten breakfast downstairs with the others, he'd gotten dressed in his ragged, grey garments and bathed properly for once. The orphanage usually didn't have hot water for the children to cleanse themselves in, only slim basins where they could wash up standing, rock hard soaps that stung when you rubbed them against skin.

But this was the day before New Year's Eve and the children should be cleaned up properly. The same kind of ritual happened every time a holiday was coming. At Christmas, the Holy Saturday, All Saints Day and so on. The children were lined up, as if they were to be vaccinated, and scrubbed clean by a vicious sponge and the stinging soap. Afterwards, they were all shining bright pink, like pigs. But they smelled better, Tom would have to admit. The constant filth and grime was getting to him. It was everywhere, on everyone. In the very air. Inescapable.

This kind of ritual also took place before an appointed adoption. The children of the right gender or age were picked out and scrubbed clean from head to toe, to present as good an impression on the adoptive parents as possible. This happened to Tom approximately 10 times a year. Sometimes more, sometimes less. The amount of times becoming fewer and fewer as he grew older. People wanted young children – babies if they could get them – not rowdy teenage boys.

Tom could tell something was going on downstairs – something Tom would rather not think about – something that had made Mrs Cole especially snippy, although she hardly was what one could call easy on regular days either. He feared they were preparing for an adoption, and that he would feature in it. It wasn't that he didn't want to get out of this hell of his – of course he did, in a heartbeat if he could! But he couldn't. He was only setting himself up for yet another disappointment.

Every time, the same thing. It was like a frightening nightmare, repeating itself into infinity.

It was still dark outside – because of the heavy snow littering the ground, because the sun took its merry time rising over the horizon, because the heavy industry smoke made the very air around these parts dark and musky.

Just the way Tom liked it. He liked it dark, mysterious and cold. It was his December after all. His time of the year.

There was a sharp rap at the door, and Tom's stomach turned to ice as the door opened and he caught sight of the one person he did not want to see. The same person that always came to call him downstairs for an adoption visit.

Martha.

She didn't need to say anything, she only nodded to him, telling him with one look to get downstairs. She then continued down the corridor to rap at one, two, three, four.. five more doors. They were facing a couple looking for children of mixed gender around the age of 5-7, in other words.

Tom let out a deep sigh, slipped off of the rickety cot and followed his peers downstairs into the living room at the end of the ground floor corridor. There, sitting in the freshest available sofa, were a man and a woman, holding hands, talking softly to Mr and Mrs Cole.

It was like déjà vu.

The children were lined up in front of the adoptive parents, so that they could be inspected, asked questions and poked at. Like bloody animals at a zoo, Tom thought with dread.

The couple sat talking in calm voices, looking the children over, nodding their heads, asking the Coles for details about birth, interests and personalities. Suddenly, the woman arose and stepped closer to the line of children, and closer still to come stand immediately in front of Tom.

The boy was battling a furious inner fight not to sneer at her. He already knew in detail how this would play out.

"Hello there, Tom," the woman said with a sweet smile on her lips, her slanted brown eyes sparkling in interest. "How do you do?"

"I am well, thank you," he answered her mechanically, as if he'd been handed a script beforehand and was now only reciting lines to the hopeful mother-to-be in front of him. In the corner of his eye he saw how Mr Cole arose from his seat and started to walk towards them. He was smiling softly, as if he was already enjoying what he was about to do.

The woman opened her painted mouth to deliver another predictable question when Mr Cole came to stand beside them, laying a seemingly protective hand onto Tom's knobbly shoulder.

"I see you have taken an interest in Tom, here," he said, his voice tainted with utmost regret. That kind that was so obvious that, if you could read people even remotely well, you would notice it was not in any way sincere.

The woman didn't seem to notice, though. Naturally – they never did. Gullible idiots!

"Yes," she said, her soft smile widening to show off a row of perfectly even, pearl white teeth. "He looks a lot like my father, you see, he has the same hair, the same feel to him... I think he'd fit in quite well into our little family."

"I'm sure he would," Mr Cole agreed, patting Tom's shoulder with a hand that was supposed to be comforting. It made Tom want to bite it. Hard. "He is a wonderful boy, truly. But you see, we've had him since he was a baby, and he's grown up here. We're the only family he knows and... well, I can't deny I think of him especially as my own son. I hope you understand, letting go of Tom wouldn't only be painful for me and my wife. It would be completely devastating for the boy as well."

"Oh," the woman said, frowning in confusion and compassion. Both at the same time. So disgustingly predictable.

"I'm terribly sorry for the inconvenience, Mrs Lovecraft, I didn't know he'd happened to slip downstairs with the others. He wasn't supposed to be here, I beg your forgiveness."

Tom gritted his teeth together, a few of his milk teeth loosening further by the pressure and friction. The metallic taste of blood made itself known.

It was so typical! So perfectly constructed. There hadn't been a mishap – of course not! This entire situation had been designed to work every single time someone took notice of Tom and wanted to adopt him. Mr Cole would always rush forwards, stopping them, claiming to love him, although he really didn't. He enjoyed it that way – wanted it to be that way.

He took pleasure from seeing the sparkling interest build up in the parents' eyes, to be blown out like the flame of a candle once he told them that adoption wouldn't be possible. He took more pleasure still from seeing the flickering hope of a better life grab hold of Tom, to be squashed like a bug moments later when the restricting hand came down onto his shoulder.

The entire scene was staged to pleasure him. And it worked like a clockwork without fail, every single time.

Mrs Lovecraft swallowed it, just like everybody else before her, hook, line and sinker. Not questioning it for even one second. She didn't want to split up a family after all.

It didn't take long for the couple to regroup and pick out their darling child – a boy of eight, with the same shade of hair colour Tom had, but with a lot more meat on his bones.

The adults went to the office to sign papers, the boy was ordered to his room to pack, and the other children were forced into their worn outerwear to go outside and enjoy the freezing winter day. The sun was up – at long last, by popular opinion. Tom would have preferred it if it hadn't bothered to show up at all.

The entire courtyard was covered in snow. It ran up to the hips on most children, as they plodded through, throwing balls of snow at each other, laughing brightly, throwing themselves backwards onto their backs to make snow angels. Tom was taller than most kids his age, and the snow only reached up to his thighs, enabling him to walk easier, making it around the house edge towards the great, half-dead tree at the back. The snow blanket was thinner here, the ground covered by the branches stretching high enough to grace the orphanage roof.

He sat down, leaning against the trunk, closing his eyes in deep misery.

This was his December. This was his snow covered tree. Yet, this was him alone. There was no one to know it was his December. No one to understand what that meant. No one for him.

It hurt, horribly! Because he knew he wasn't unwanted. There were plenty of people who could consider sharing their lives with him. That fact was dangling in front of his face like a teasing bait, twitching away just out of reach every time he tried for it.

But others, people like him, like that other boy, they got it. Easily. Without asking for it. Without trying. It wasn't fair!

This was his December! His time of the year! Why couldn't they see that?

He opened his eyes as the sound of breathless, merry voices came closer to his hiding spot. Three little girls. Defenceless little girls, coming his way. They wouldn't last long, they'd get adopted in a heartbeat, no doubt. People liked young, cute little girls.

Tom hated them. Hated how easily they got away. Hated how they would get away from here while he was stuck, unable to escape this hell of a life.

He narrowed his dark green eyes at them, wanting them to hurt. To feel the pain he himself felt at being neglected. Left out. Singled out.

One of them, unexpectedly, let out a terrified little yelp, clutching her head as if in pain. Tom watched, wide eyed, as she sagged together, the pain apparently gone, and started to wail out her pain. Fat tears was rolling down her pink cheeks.

That made him even angrier. That she could do that. That she was normal. That she could have everything that he couldn't.

So he wished pain on her again, and was engulfed by a cheer sense of accomplishment, of giddiness when she started screaming out the agony, her friends shuffling about in panic. They were running for Martha, standing in the other end of the courtyard, berating some of the older boys for throwing snowballs at the younger children. Her sharp, squeaky voice could be heard clearly over the open space.

Left alone with his victim, Tom walked closer, watching with interest how the girl trashed about, wailing like a little baby. How pathetic!

He bent down to tell her this, whispered it sweetly into her little ear. Told her how stupid she was, how pathetic she was behaving. How much better than her he was.

Then, he was yanked to his feet by a furious Martha, his arm held in a painful grip as the woman yelled at him. The girl at his feet had stopped screaming. The pain had come to an end. For her...

He was disposed of into his room. Grounded. Not allowed to come back downstairs until he was being nice again.

As if that would ever happen.

Tom was sitting on his cot, glaring into the wall, wishing someone would understand this was his December, and that he shouldn't be treated like this.

The door opened, letting a livid Mrs Cole inside. Tom almost thought he could spot steam coming out of her ears as she stalked closer to his bed, her heels clanking sharply against the old floorboards of the slim little room.

"You little misery!" she spat out, slapping his cheek hard, so that his head involuntary snapped to the side by the force of it. The spot where the hand had connected with his face became white hot and swollen in a matter of seconds. Mrs Cole continued with her furious tirade, letting out her frustration, promising certain pain to come to him if he ever tried something like that again.

She clearly didn't understand. She didn't know why he'd done it in the first place. Or what he'd done. She only knew he'd hurt the little girl somehow. She didn't know anything. She had no clue this was his time of the year.

Tom narrowed his eyes at her, imagining her writhing at his feet in desperate agony, and soon, she reeled back, eyes wide. She didn't seem to be in much pain, not like the little girl had, but she clearly felt something was amiss. She looked at him as if he was some sort of demon sent from the devil himself to torment her.

"Now you listen, you little vermin," she grit out, a wild gleam dancing in her eyes, beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead. "You will stop whatever it is you are doing, this second, or you won't like the consequences of it. Do you hear that, boy, listen! I will send you to the asylum," she said, spelling the words out carefully. "The asylum, no questions asked, and they will keep you locked up there. Don't doubt it. Your strangeness has no limit, and they will keep you there forever. Do you want that, demon child?"

And with that, she whipped around and promptly left the room, slamming the door closed behind her, locking it before stomping down the stairs and far away from him.

She'd won, and she knew it.

White crystal snowflakes, falling from the dark dark sky.

Tom knew it was late, that soon the clock would strike twelve and he would be one year older.

He knew he should be asleep, he knew all the other children were asleep. But he didn't care – he wasn't like them after all. And this was his time of the year. His December.

He sat looking out, wondering about things. Was this it? Would this be his life? Would he spend his entire childhood at the orphanage and leave to find some manual work when he got old enough? It didn't seem right somehow. It seemed awkward – wrong.

But what else was there?

He heard his door creak open behind him, and turned in his chair to look at the impostor.

Mr Cole.

He looked absolutely giddy, for some reason, and strode forwards confidently to sit down onto Tom's rickety cot. His smile grew while he sat staring Tom in the eyes, but he didn't say anything. He only sat there, looking, smiling. Being an alien object disabling things in the room to be like usual. Safe. He removed every inch of safety only by being present. And he knew it.

Tom turned around again to gaze out the window, doing his best to ignore the grown man intruding on his privacy. Leering at his back. Sitting in silence for what felt like hours.

Then, he looked at his wristwatch and let out a little snigger. "Midnight, kid," he said, kicking the leg of Tom's chair to startle a reaction out of him. It worked. Tom whipped around to look at him in attention.

"This is your birthday, Tom. Congratulations. Too bad there's no one for you to celebrate with. Had your chance this morning, didn't you. I guess there's no one who wants you badly enough to fight for you, is there? I can see why. Who would want a worthless little brat like you?"

Tom saw more than felt how his hands were trembling with rage. How could he say something like that? How dared he?

This was his time, his day, his December!

Tom levelled his death glare on Mr Cole, wishing dearly to inflict pain severe enough to kill. But once his eyes met those of the grown man, he faltered, hesitated. His hands started trembling even more, and he averted his eyes immediately.

He couldn't do it.

Not because of the threat of the asylum. Mr Cole wouldn't send him there – not when he was such a fun plaything for him. Mrs Cole might, so he couldn't hurt her again.

But there was something stopping him from inflicting pain in his tormentor. Something so terrible it left a bitter taste in his mouth, stinging the side of his eye like a persistent fly.

Fear.

He feared Mr Cole.

This was the one person he needed to protect himself from, and he couldn't.

It was gone.

December, his December, was gone.