Chapter 3: The-Woman-Who-Loved, The-Boy-Who-Fainted.
(Sarah's P.O.V.)
May 1971, London.
NEW HOPE ORPHANAGE
'That seems perfect…'
I felt myself smiling proudly as I read the board hanging in front of a recently built two-story building in the suburbs of London. The building wasn't excessively luxurious or covered a large area. It was just a moderately sized red brick building with comparatively larger than the normal grass-covered lawn. The only thing that stood out in this building was the homely atmosphere that seemed to submerge the building, exactly the way it was intended to.
The source of my pride wasn't the building made up of dead materials, no, it was what it represented. The building was the physical manifestation of my dream coming true, my hard-work paying off. It was almost everything I ever wanted to achieve. The only thing that it lacked was the liveliness that oozed out of a happy household.
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Being an orphan myself, I'd lived in a publicly owned orphanage till I reached my age of maturity. From what I'd heard from the older residents of the orphanage, I was found abandoned near a park by some patrolling policemen. When nobody filed a missing report after a week, I was sent to the orphanage.
I don't remember the earliest of my years at the orphanage. Everything, before I was five, seemed blurry, messy, or illogical. After all, the thought process of a kid is anything but straightforward. Still, there is a memory from the time when I was a three-year-old that seemed unaffected by fog covering the rest of my memories from around that time.
It isn't a tragic memory. It's just a memory of a question, full of innocent curiosity, which was left unanswered for quite some time. I'd just returned from playing in a nearby park where I'd seen a family of three, two adults and a boy my age, enjoying their time together. Upon finding the first adult that I could, I'd asked the question that had been on mind since some time ago.
"Where are my Mom and Dad?"
All that I'd received in response was a look that I couldn't quite understand then. I'd then been ushered to the dining room. After a few more tries I'd eventually stopped asking. It was after a few years that I got the answer to my question.
My time at the orphanage wasn't bad by any standards. I was being properly fed, provided with simple but clean clothes, had other children to play with, taught to read and write and even had the opportunity to go further in my education. The only thing I'd still yearned for was familial love.
The caretakers at the orphanage, while being kind and polite, often unconsciously gave off an aura of fakeness. I didn't quite understand what fakeness was then but it kept me from being emotionally attached to them. Occasionally, some of the temporary caretakers had no qualms in making us feel unwanted and that looking after us was a burden they had been forced to carry.
As I didn't receive the love I desired from them, I made sure that at least those younger than me had someone to depend on. By the time I'd turned 10, I'd become somewhat of an older sister to all those younger than me. Doing so even soothed my craving for a family. There were some tearful separations when some of them were adopted but it was still fulfilling.
At the age of twelve I'd decided that upon growing up, I would build an orphanage of my own. It wouldn't be a large place with tens of children but it would be a place where every unfortunate child would feel wanted and where every member of the orphanage, be it staff or the children, would live like a big happy family.
With this dream as a source of motivation, I'd worked hard, harder than my peers, aced through my middle school and high school, acquired a scholarship, graduated from college, had gotten a job, and worked hard for years.
Finally, at the age of twenty-five, here I stand in front of the building I will hopefully be referring to as my home for the rest of my life.
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September 1977.
New Hope Orphanage, London.
"This was not what I had in mind."
I said to myself as I caressed the messy, black-haired head of the unconscious boy who lay on the bed. My little Alex, Alexander Williams, my son in all but blood, has been unconscious for over two hours now. The doctor told me that he fainted due to shock; what or who shocked him this much, I don't know, but whatever it was, it better stay away from my son from now on.
After all who would want to face the brunt of the wrath of a mother?
Today was supposed to be a completely normal day; the only special event being the little trip to London that I'd been planning for quite some time. The trip proved to be hit among the children, extremely so. Even Alex, that little bookworm, was enjoying it.
He was looking around in wonder while simultaneously making sure that no other children strayed from our group. The next moment though, almost spontaneously, his eyes widened and his face paled. He looked like he'd see a ghost. Within the moments that I was looking towards his line of sight, and found nothing out of the ordinary, he fainted.
This was not supposed to have happened. Today was meant to be enjoyed. Responding as quickly as possible, I took him into my arms and hurried the other concerned children to the orphanage and called for a doctor.
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As the head of an orphanage where I consider all the children as my own, I shouldn't be saying this, but despite all the various children that live or lived, before being adopted, in the orphanage, I share a special bond with Alex. Maybe it was because of us being in a similar situation of being abandoned as an infant, or due to him being more mature than what his age dictates him to be, or him being the only child I've raised from infancy; he occupied a special place in my heart.
'Wake up soon, Alex. Don't make me worry…'
I sighed as I leaned back into the chair beside his bed; my hand still caressing his head. Despite considering him as my son, I never called him such; I couldn't bring myself to act partially towards him with so many young children around. It wouldn't be fair to them. I'm sure Alex would have the same opinion as me.
'After all, he acts like a mother hen around them…'
I chuckled to myself remembering him leading the way and all the other children, even the older ones, following him around in a manner reminiscent to baby chicks following mother hen. Recalling that incident made me nostalgic and I couldn't help but recall the time when I first found my baby boy.
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It was a completely normal early September morning in 1972. I'd just woken up and had opened the gates to the orphanage when I found a baby lying on the doorstep. The baby had nothing with other than the blanket that was wrapped around him.
When I'd heard no sound from him, I'd feared the worst; only to find him sleeping. He had been such a chubby little thing, black-haired, white-skinned, and with reddened cheeks probably due to cold morning wind. As soon as I'd taken him in my arms, he'd woken up but unlike most infants, he didn't start crying on seeing a stranger, no, instead he stared at me with his black eyes showing something akin to confusion.
Alex had been pretty weird even as an infant. For about a week after being found, it was almost as if he was doing everything as an instinct, always having a faraway look in his eyes, looking at something that no one could see. His eyes were always so out of focus that I'd at first thought that he'd been born blind and hence abandoned. One could have fed him, changed his diaper, and he wouldn't let out the slightest bit of sound, except some crying from time to time. It had been quite disconcerting to an infant like that. Fortunately, after that unnerving week or two, he seemed to have come around on his own.
Even then, he'd still been weird. He'd started responding, laughing, crying, and doing everything an infant like him did but there was always something about him that seemed out of place. He'd been too calm, too observant, and seemed very much aware as well as cognizant of his surroundings. He never cried unless in need of something, and his reactions always had a forced quality to them like he was forcing himself to act like that.
Believe me when I say that I'd never seen anything more disconcerting than a baby laughing with seemingly dead-looking eyes…
Fortunately, even that time passed. By the time he was a four-month-old, he'd become the embodiment of what an ideal child would look like; cheerful, curious, cute, chubby little guy. He even cried before pooping.
Truly an ideal baby.
As he grew older, he'd become a normal kid albeit an intelligent, mature, kind, and quirky little kid. He disliked meat with a passion that seemed unusual in someone so young. He did have his moments of cute clumsiness but they were few and far in between. He never fought with the other kids for toys but did tease them one way or another. He'd become the unofficial caretaker of all the children, solving conflicts between them, making sure they don't hurt themselves. That particular quirk of his endeared him even more to all the adults at the orphanage, including myself.
God knows that I love all my children but even a mother deserves a break sometimes.
Another oddity with him was that despite being a friendly, bright child, he'd shown a lot of resistance whenever the topic of adoption was brought forth. No amount of coaxing could alter his decision to stay at the orphanage. I'd assumed that it was the fear of the unknown that fueled his resistance, but even seeing other children being adopted into a loving family, and them visiting later didn't lower his resistance; he'd been sad at the separation even while being oddly understanding.
His continuous rejection to be adopted, to gain a loving family, had confused me even as it had angered me. He was declining something I'd only ever hoped to have had as a child. He didn't seem to care how lucky he was to be able to get multiple families to want to adopt him. It wasn't that I'd a problem in keeping him at the orphanage; I welcomed it even, but for all the love and care that I could give to him, it didn't change the fact that it was an orphanage where he was staying at. It could never be better than a home.
After a few more tries, everyone eventually dropped the matter about his adoption.
At the start of his fourth year at the orphanage, I finally decided to adopt him myself. It was then I came to realize that we adults tend to overlook something extremely simple even if it stays in plain sight. All it took was the blindingly bright smile, excitedly jumping little body, and slightly glistening eyes he had when I informed him about my decision. I realized that for him, he'd been at his home all this time and that by forcing him to get adopted I wasn't sending him to a home, instead, I was sending him away from the home he'd been staying at from as long as he could remember.
I'd forgotten that he was different than the other children that had stayed at the orphanage; even if it was due to unfortunate reasons they had experienced changing homes before, he hadn't.
That incident was the only time that I'd seen him crying after he had learned to crawl and no amount of denying on his part could change that later.
A few days after that tearful incident, in which he had not cried, I'd started teaching him, and a few others his age to read and to write. As intelligent as he was, he picked it up extremely quickly. He started spending a lot of time in the library of the orphanage, reading every picture book present in there multiple times. By the end of his fourth year at the orphanage, he had come further than any of his peers. He had even started doing small chores around the orphanage, helping others whenever he could.
As his mother, even if not by blood, I'd become immensely proud of him. He had become the perfect son that I could have ever wanted.
At that time I couldn't have known that the little trip that I'd been planning for his fifth anniversary at the orphanage would cause him harm.
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Present Day
'All I can do now is to pray and hope for everything to become fine…'
I sigh while standing up from my chair beside his bed. I lean towards him and place a kiss on his forehead while tousling his hair last time for the night. I stand up straight, look at him for a few moments before walking towards the door to his room.
"Good Night, Alex."
CREATORS' THOUGHTS 
shardiv
shardiv AUTHOR'S NOTE: Firstly, I don't own Harry Potter, J.K. Rowling does.
Secondly, as I've said before, I'm experimenting with this novel. I haven't written anything longer than an email since my high school graduation. Therefore, do expect variations in writing quality and use of different styles until I find my comfort zone.
Thirdly, I already have an idea to work on for the next 20-30 chapters.
Fourthly, as I'm a total noob at writing quality literature I do expect constructive criticism from the readers and hope that they provide a solution for the problems they find in my novel.
Finally, I wish to offer my respect to every brave soul out there who has the guts to start writing novels. I have come to the realization that it ain't easy to express one's thoughts on paper without butchering the language while maintaining the flow and coherence of the story.
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