[Podfic-TTS] Wolfstar Podfics Composed by BurningAurora

Harry Potter Miss Drew's Class Year 4 by SquintClover

The thing is that teachers, every one of us, starts off wanting to be Miss Honey.

We go into teaching, fresh faced - even if only figuratively - and eager. Some of us are misguided. We want to be Miss Honey so that when that child achieves or exceeds their potential they can say it’s thanks to us. We want to be the one they cite in academic articles, tell their own children about or even thank in their Oscars acceptance speeches.

And there are those of us who genuinely want to make the difference. Who see the children for who they are, not under the heading of 'pupil', but under their life’s mantle as human.

Along the way, some of us get jaded. We start to think that every minor infraction is a reflection on us, and every major one is a specific 'fuck you' from the kid. Sometimes it is. But not often. Usually it's a reaction to the constraints put upon them by adults, or their less than child-like home life. But the teacher's response is to grow harder, cooler, more vitriolic to these innocent souls.

We all go into teaching wanting to be Miss Honey. But none of us want to meet our Matilda.

Harry Potter is my Matilda.

Teacher’s aren’t supposed to find some children exasperating, or vexing, or just plain boring. But most of all we aren’t supposed to have favourites. But there are children you can’t help being drawn to, even despite the previous teacher’s comments.

In handover at the end of their previous year, you might hear how this child is kind, that one is hard-working, this one needs keeping an eye on. And you might hear how this child just can’t help themselves; how they continually find themselves in trouble; how their guardians are constantly telling you of the trouble they cause at home; how difficult they are.

I hear of children, as they come up through the school. I hear their names being lauded or lamented in the staff room. I see glimpses of them in assembly, or the dining hall, or catch them catching it off their teacher for yet another indiscretion.

But meeting Harry Potter, having him in my class for the first time, is… haunting. Because I can’t stop looking at this boy, this troublesome miscreant, and seeing how utterly broken he is.

His skin is pallid and grey underneath the warm tones, his glasses - broken and too big for his thin face - hide dark shadows beneath his eyes. No eight-year-old should have dark shadows. His uniform, threadbare and sleeve-bitten, hangs off of his slight frame; he’s the smallest in the class by far, both in height and stature.

I try, as I do with every child, to catch his eye. To try to show him that I want to start afresh. To smile at him and tell him ‘welcome’. But he avoids it. A flash of green disappearing beneath dark lashes as he turns away from me.

It’s okay. We have time.

‘He’s always late’ they said. ‘Doesn’t care if you tell him off either. Nothing makes a difference.’

He’s eight?! I think. That’s not his fault!

I don’t tell him off. I smile and say ‘good morning’, I tell him how pleased I am he’s here. He stops the first time, and I can see him looking to the side, as if checking for the catch, to see if he is about to be caught by a predator who had lulled him into a trap.

There is no trap. There is never a trap.

I repeat it every morning he is late, which is more often than not. It took a while but soon he stops shuffling and slouching in; instead he starts to meet my gaze at the door, green and guarded and serious, letting me know that he is there. That he has heard. Soon he begins to mumble a ‘good morning’ back. I haven’t seen a smile yet. It has only been a term.

He comes back from the holidays still tired, despite the supposed rest. And I don’t see the green again. Not for about a week.

I don't hear from his aunt and uncle about a Parents' Evening. I check in with the other Year 4 teacher; they have booked in for Dudley's appointment. I give them a time slot anyway. Schedule it to start just as Dudley's finishes.

They walk straight past my room.

" Excuse me? Are you Harry's guardians?"

"What has he done now?"

"Nothing, Mr Dursley. But I wanted to talk to you about him. It is his parents' evening after all."

"We aren't his parents."

They walk off. Barely making eye contact, even.

I try to talk to Harry about it. He's doing some colouring at wet play. It's so easy to forget how young he still is, especially when he's moodily walking in a far off corner of our concrete playground, or trying to punch some other kids' teeth out.

"Did you have a nice weekend, Harry?"

He shrugs.

"What did you get up to with your family?"

"'M not their family."

I don't say anything. Sometimes that's all it takes.

"They don't really like me being around. I was in my… room mostly."

"You wanna tell me what happened at break earlier?"

"Not really. I know I shouldn't have hit him but - I just did it without thinking, really."

Harry starts coming to stand near me around Christmas. Wherever I happen to be, Harry's hovering close, usually picking at the knick-knacks accumulating on my desk. Or else biting his nails or picking at dry skin.

I pass my hand along his arm, find reasons to run my touch past him. I suspect from the way he leans into it, that he's not accustomed to kind touch. I fix his collar, or trace a hand over his hair as I mark his work. If I'm talking to him face to face, I direct his gaze with a gentle finger under his chin.

He holds my hand one day. I am well aware that, by this age, it's not cool to hold your teacher's hand. He's picked his moment. The rest of the children have followed into assembly, Harry is at the back of the line. I go to grab something from my desk and as I join him by his side, he slips his hand in mine. I squeeze it tight. And when we sit down, Harry on the floor and me on my chair, he is practically on my feet.

Harry never has his P.E. kit. He assures me he brings it in, but it always vanishes from his peg. It's probably just as well. If it's anything like his other clothes, they'd fall off him in seconds. And I don't think he could bear the embarrassment. How could I let him? So, there's a PE kit in my cupboard now. He knows it's his. We never say a word about it.

The bullying is hard to catch. He gets changed quickly and always crouched behind a table, tucked against a chair. It's only thanks to his polo shirt, gaping neck slinging around his shoulder, that I see the bruises. Harry doesn't talk to me about it but I catch Dudley and his friends. The way they torment him, taunts and jibes rain in-between fists and feet.

I speak to Dudley's teacher but I don't think they will do anything. They've heard Harry's name spat out by his previous teachers, they think he's the trouble. So I speak to Harry's guardians. I barely get my words out before they hang up.

The headteacher doesn't try either. He's supposed to be the one who notes these things down, who keeps a record of all these events. In case you need to build a case.

He doesn't.

Reading Harry's work is painful. It's lacklustre, at best, and completely illegible the majority of the time. But he's articulate. When I can get him to talk to me, he uses words I don't expect. His social understanding is exemplary, even if he can't apply it to himself. He reads beautifully and can explain the subtext, he sees relationships as beautiful and can find the hidden meanings. But he's 'failing' every subject because he refuses to write.

Seeing him with the reception children is where I see his gift. He reads with them slowly in the library and holds their hand as they show him the bugs. I was told he shouldn't be allowed the privilege, of buddying up with the small ones, but seeing him shine and nurture and teach just goes to show that people don't see Harry the way he deserves.

My hair turns blue today. I don't know how it happens.

Harry and I are talking. The class thinks that he is getting told off, and maybe he is in a way. We've got to an understanding. Harry knows that I love him, that I am always on his side. But that doesn't mean I don't hold him accountable for his actions. It takes love to fight against the pain. I don't think Harry is given enough love to fight alone. Perhaps if he did, he wouldn't have to fight at all.

He doesn't look at me. Won't allow me to get a word in. And I don't want to really. It is so rare for Harry to show me anything but reservedness. I can see him fizz, almost spark, with pent up fury.

Then suddenly it stops. And my hair was blue. We laugh and laugh about it. It's magical.

But somehow a letter ends up going home with him anyway. No-one will tell me who has sent it.

The thing about living in the same town you work in, is that you inevitably bump into the children you teach. Usually, it goes one of two ways: either they exuberantly wave back and tell everyone in touching distance that you are their teacher. Or they resolutely ignore you.

Harry never sees me. I see him sometimes. Wandering the streets aimlessly, or as I walk past the Dursley's house on the way to the supermarket. He's usually lost in thought, eyes detached or fingers desperately clawing at the roses in the front garden.

I see Harry move up through the school. His remaining two years undoing any goodwill he feels towards his teachers. His Year 5 teacher is full of the spite, of having taught inadequately for too long. Harry is the problem, the spawn of all evil. I try to collect him into my classroom whenever I can. He sometimes comes willingly; the trust for adults is broken, however, and I have to fight to show him how I am still on his team.

And then one day he's gone.

I don't see him at our school, of course. He has outgrown us all. But I don't see him in the streets either. I don't catch him mowing the lawns. I hope that he's some place wonderful. That there is magic and wonder and comfort there. That there is a motherly figure who loves him, who holds him accountable too.

I hope that he flies, soars, through his teenage years. That his interests are sparked and valued; that he fights for what he believes in and stands up for what is right. I hope that he learns to love, to not obsess on what others do. That he knows that he is good and just.

"I'm not their family," he had said.

I hope he finds some.

I see him years later. With two men.

He's able to withstand their touch, he leans into it, as he had once upon a time with me. And he laughs.

I may not have been his Miss Honey. But he found one, or even two, anyway.