On Making Friends

A/N: If you like this story, please read my fic The Scarlett Letter, which is active and growing! When you finish reading, please review and tell me what you think.

Disclaimer: Nope, JK didn't even leave a scrap of story that I could claim as my own. Darn it!

On Making Friends

By Islander

By the time a girl like me has graduated from high school, she hardly remembers any of her friends from her elementary days. I think back to my first years in school and I remember little--names and faces, but not much more than that. I can remember, basically, who I liked and disliked, but I sure as heck don't dwell on it. It's as if they were part of another lifetime.

But there's one boy that I will never forgot, not for as long I as live. Though I haven't seen more than glimpses of him since elementary school, I remember not only his name and his face in its every last detail, but also his kind heart and his gentle personality.

I will always remember him, because he taught me a heartbreaking lesson in friendship I can never forget.

First things first: at that time I was only eight. I had left all my old friends behind and had just moved into Little Whinging. I knew nobody at my school and nobody around the town. I entered my new third-grade class in the middle year. This was when all the other new kids had long ago found their own little groups, and when they no longer had time to sympathize with me. Let me tell you, I was one lonely and scared child. I thought I would never find a friend.

"Be a nice girl, Christina," Mum told me when I related my worries to her. "Do what's right, and everyone will love you. Every good deed you do will reward you, I promise."

"Are you sure?" I asked her, by blue eyes wide. "I'm already good, but I still haven't found a friend."

"It's only been one week," Mum said, placating. "Just be patient, and you'll soon have all the friends you could want."

So I went to school the next week, resolved to make a new friend. I sat down in my assigned seat behind a boy called Dudley Dursley. I would like to say he looked like an overweight gorilla with a ratty blond wig, but that would be an insult, both to the gorilla and the wig. He acted like I didn't exist, but instead threw his newly-sharpened pencil across the room, where it hit another boy in the cheek. The boy didn't make a noise, but winced in pain.

Note to self: don't make friends with Dudley.

With that figured out, I turned to look at the boy that got hit by the pencil. He was pulling his books from a tattered book bag, the fringe of his messy black hair brushing his desk as he bent over. His bony arms stuck out of the sleeves of a shirt that was much too big for him, though not nearly as baggy as his pants, which were rolled up five times at the cuffs.

When this boy straightened, his bright green eyes, which shone through his taped and crooked glasses, met my own. His face flushed when he realized I was staring at him. We both turned away from each other, but not before I caught sight of a peculiar lightning-bolt scar peeking out from behind his bangs.

Then class began. As our teacher, Miss Fairview, began instructing us as to how completing simple long division, I listened intently. But every now and then I'd sneak a glance over at the black-haired boy. He was now unconsciously scratching at the angry welt raised by pencil, looking pretty miserable.

I kept my eyes on him for the rest of math class. He followed Miss Fairview's instructions and took careful notes on everything she said. He doesn't seem so bad, I thought. I wonder why Dudley threw a pencil at him?

Then, after a countless number of examples on the chalkboard in the front of the classroom, Miss Fairview wrote out a few problems and told us to divide into groups to practice.

"Over here, Dudley!" a boy named Piers called out. If I squinted, I could mistake Piers for a rat. He had that tone in his voice that let everyone know just how much he thought of himself.

Note to self: don't make friends with Piers, either.

"You got it, Piers," Dudley said. Darn it, he had that tone, too! He pushed over a little girl as he took a seat beside his repulsive friend.

As everyone paired up, I sat helplessly in my seat, too shy to speak to anyone. Soon only three people were partnerless--a curly-haired girl named Margaret, that black-haired boy, and me.

Margaret assessed the situation and made a beeline for my desk. "Be my partner," she insisted. I was quite pleased, both with her willingness and with my apparently magnetic personality. "I don't want to be anywhere near that Potter boy." This addition rather took me aback. So I was a default, was I? But it was the vehemence in her tone that really bothered me. Certainly this boy--Potter, was he?--couldn't be so bad?

Miss Fairview looked around the room at all the partners until her gaze landed on Potter. "Ah, so you're left without a partner again, Harry?" she said, longsuffering, as though it was his fault. She sighed and addressed the whole room: "Okay, who's going to group up with Harry?"

Everyone immediately made a great show of zipping their mouths shut. Dudley guffawed rather disgustingly, and a large, unsightly boy named Gordon poked Harry in the back with his pencil--hard. Harry winced again and pretended like it hadn't happened. But in his eyes I could see his hopelessness. Did this happen to him every time the class paired up? Was nobody going to accept him?

"He can sit with us." That came from me. Gosh, was I brave!

A bit too brave, it turned out. Margaret immediately stabbed me in the leg with her pencil and hissed, "What, are you stupid?!" Out loud she wailed, "Please, Miss Fairview, don't make him work with us!"

Note to self: don't make friends with Margaret, either.

Miss Fairview sighed again. "We've been through this a hundred times already," she said. "Harry, go sit with Margaret and Christina. Margaret, I don't want to hear a word of complaint out of you. Now everyone get to work."

And so we did. Harry nervously pulled an empty desk next to mine and sat down. Margaret huffed and swung away from him, her face twisted into a decidedly irritable frown.

I tried to ignore her childish behavior. I leaned towards Harry and said, "Hi, I'm Christina."

"I'm Harry," he said shyly as he pushed his thick black hair from his eyes. We didn't shake hands because we were both infested with cooties, but we did exchange nervous smiles.

I quickly looked up at the problems on the board, still smiling to myself. "I didn't get what Miss Fairview was teaching ," I said. "Did you, Margaret?" She sniffed petulantly, but otherwise ignored me. "What about you, Harry?"

"Yeah, I got it," he said. His own smile also hovered on his lips, if a little more hesitant than mine. "D'you want me to show you?"

"Yes, please," I said, still very shy. "That'd be great."

I couldn't understand why my fellow students didn't like this boy. In the next five minutes he explained the whole process of long division clearly and understandably. And he was perfectly friendly and unpretentious the entire time. Once we finished all the problems, he asked, "So did you just move here?"

"Yes," I said, cautiously conversational. "How long have you been at this school?"

"Since kindergarten," he said simply, his green eyes suddenly sad again.

"It's. . . it's hard coming to a new school in the middle of March," I said softly. "It's been a week, and I'm still looking for a friend."

Harry's gaze met my own. "So am I," he said. Even at that tender age my heart broke for him. Had no one befriended him in the past three years? He just couldn't be bad, not when he had been so friendly to me!

Note to self: make friends with Harry Potter.

This last mental memo was fierce and determined. It didn't matter if Margaret, Dudley, Gordon, and the rest of the class hated him. It wasn't as if they'd care that I was friends with the thin, dorky kid who wore taped glasses. "Can you sit with me at lunch today?" I asked.

Harry gave me a genuinely warm smile. "I'd love that," he said. Then we blushed again and avoided each others' gazes.

After that we had to return to our own desks. Harry was still smiling as he left me, even when Gordon poked him in the back of the neck with his pencil.

Dudley took his own sweet time leaving Piers. When he finally took his assigned seat in front of me, he no longer acted like I didn't exist. Instead, he gave me a vicious poke in the arm with his pencil and whispered, "You're an absolutely idiot to make friends with that Potter boy, you piece of shit."

Yowwow! And I thought Margaret poked hard! I winced as a small spot of blood sprung from my arm, but, following Harry's example, I winced and didn't make a sound.

Being only eight, it took me ten minutes to get over the fact that Dudley had used the s-word. After that, I determinedly decided that he was a brute and that I hated him, from his hideous blond curls to his bloated feet. Who was he to tell me who I could and couldn't make friends with?

**********

"Thank you for sitting with me," I told Harry shyly at lunch that day. We had the end of the table all to ourselves, as nobody else seemed to want to get near us.

"Thank you for sitting with me," Harry replied. "Nobody else does."

"Why not?" I asked him, my brow furrowed in pity and concern.

"Because of Dudley," he said. His voice held a tinge of sadness, but no self-pity. "He's my cousin, you know."

"Is he really?" I asked, quite surprised at this revelation. "But he hates you!"

"I know," Harry said as he nibbled on a tiny sandwich. "But that's only because my aunt and uncle hate me."

"Why?" I asked, feeling very sorry for this poor eight-year-old. "You're the nicest person in our entire class!"

Harry shrugged. "Being nice doesn't help here," he said, "not when Dudley's gang bullies anyone they please. You'll only be popular if you suck up to them."

"But I don't want to suck up to them!" I cried. "This is so unfair! Doesn't the teacher do anything to stop it?"

"Not particularly," Harry said as he started on half of an apple. "Dudley and his gang do everything behind Miss Fairview's back. She thinks that they're perfectly nice and popular."

"But she's not nice to you!" I said indignantly, hating her.

"It's because I'm not popular," Harry explained. "How could I be nice if I have no friends?" He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone of voice, but his eyes shone with pain and hurt. By god, I swore I wouldn't add to it!

Then a boy with yellow teeth and a bulbous nose stopped by our table. He poked Harry's cheek with a pencil so hard that a fine flow of blood ran down his face. Still he only winced.

The-Boy-With-the-Yellow-Teeth-and-the-Bulbous-Nose turned to me and said, "You're gonna be sorry that you made friends with such a freak. We can't stand him. Everyone's gonna hate you now." And he walked off.

Note to self: don't make friends with The-Boy-With-the-Yellow-Teeth-and-the-Bulbous-Nose, either.

Harry quickly wiped away the flow of blood and muttered, "I hate it when they call me a freak."

"You know you're not," I said fiercely.

"Do I?" he replied, his eyes troubled. "Everything weird happens to me. I get into strange accidents, and I do strange things. And I have this scar on my forehead." He pointed at the lightning bolt beneath his bangs. "How can I say I'm not a freak when I don't know myself?"

I could only wonder how to answer him. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence before I ventured, "How did you get it?" When Harry looked confused, I added, "The scar, I mean."

"In a car crash," he said, his voice suddenly sad and wistful, "when my parents died." Right then I knew how much he wished to leave his aunt and uncle, how much he wished to live with his mum and dad in a family where he truly belonged. And right then I knew that it was up to me to help him fit in somewhere, and with somebody.

**********

Gym class came right after lunch. The coach took us outside to play football on the expansive field. I was excited, because I was (and still am) a very athletic girl, and football was my favorite game in the whole wide world.

The coach picked two captains--Dudley Dursley and The-Boy-With-the-Yellow-Teeth-and-the-Bulbous-Nose. They swaggered out in front of the class and started sizing everyone up in preparation for the game.

Last week I played better than all the girls--heck, I played better than most of the boys, even. They knew I was good; if they didn't pick me first, they were sure to pick me sometime soon afterward.

I was picked last, along with Harry Potter. As we headed off towards opposite teams, I wanted to cry. Dudley and The-Boy-With-the-Yellow-Teeth-and-the-Bulbous-Nose knew how great I was at football. I could run just as fast as either of them, and I could kick farther than both of them put together! Why were they doing this to me?

But it wasn't just them. As the others started formulating a strategy, they moved purposefully away from me. I could see Margaret practically limpeting herself to Dudley, cooties be damned, sycophanting his every suggestion. I wanted to grind her face into the ground. Hell, I wanted to grind everyone's faces into the ground. Everyone except Harry.

I really did want Harry as a friend. That boy needed someone who appreciated him. I was old enough to know that people without friends turned out very badly indeed. I didn't want that to happen to Harry. He was too nice to go wrong, and I didn't want to be the one that changed him for the worst.

But at the same time I wanted friends of my own. I didn't want people to hate me. I didn't want Dudley and Piers and The-Darned-Boy-with-the-Darned-Yellow-Teeth-and-the-Darned-Bulbous-Nose to poke me with their wickedly sharp pencils. I didn't want to be known as the girl who hung out with the freak. I was being nice and doing the right thing, but where was it leading?

To this. Dudley tripped me on purpose and I ruined my new shirt--because I was nice to Harry. The-Boy-With-the-Yellow-Teeth-and-the-Bulbous-Nose kicked the football straight into my face, and my nose started bleeding, and I had to go to the school nurse--because I was nice to Harry. Piers poked my arm with his pencil in the exact same spot Dudley had poked me, and, though I only winced and forced myself not to cry out, I bled out a small stream that hurt like H-E-double-toothpicks--because I was nice to Harry. Miss Fairview put me in the back of the line when she promised last Friday that I could be line leader, all the meanwhile muttering darkly about my new friend--because I was nice to Harry.

I hated them all. But, even under these strong sentiments, I still wanted them to like me and accept me. There had to be something I could do, something to fix all of this.

**********

That afternoon I arrived home in tears. Mum rushed to my side in a heartbeat, cooing all the meantime. "What's the matter, Christina?" she asked me. "Was it something at school?"

"Everyone hates me!" I wailed, rubbing futilely at my reddening eyes.

"No, darling, certainly not everyone," my mum tried to correct me.

"Nobody will be my friend!" I cried, still louder, my voice echoing in our tiny kitchen. "I was nice, and they all hated me because of it! You lied to me--you said they'd all like me if I was nice, and they don't!"

"Christina, Christina, please don't cry," my mum soothed me as she stroked my soft brown hair. "They don't hate you. They're just. . . not used to you yet. It takes time and patience to make new friends."

I just blinked a quick succession of tears from my shining eyes and whimpered pitifully into Mum's shoulder.

"Now dry those tears," she told me gently. "Certainly there was one person who said something nice to you today?"

I sniffed back another whimper and whispered, "Actually, one boy helped me with math and sat at lunch with me."

My mum smiled widely and said, "See? You do have a friend. What's her name?"

"His name," I corrected her, feeling marginally better. "And it's Harry--Harry Potter."

"What a lovely name," she said easily. "You two will hit it off just fine."

"I suppose."

"So I don't want to hear any more nonsense about nobody liking you."

And that was that. She was right, I realized; Harry was my friend now, but was that enough? How could I get through elementary school with only one friend while everyone else scorned me and labeled me a freak? Could I stand the endless bullying, the pencil-poking, the name-calling, even the teacher's displeasure--all for one boy? When I got to my room I sunk into my bed, my head spinning. All this was too much for one eight-year-old to handle.

**********

The next morning when my third-grade class took their seats in our room, Harry was much removed from his former dour self. He seemed almost excited, and grinned widely as he gave me a wave of greeting. I returned the wave, but as I did an anxiety clenched in my heart. I looked away and couldn't meet his gaze. In front of me, Dudley purposely pushed his book off his desk, and it caught me in the shin with its sharp corner. In winced in pain, but didn't allow a single sound to escape me.

In math Miss Fairview assigned us to work in groups, though this time she took care of the pairing herself. Harry sat with a toothy kid who looked like a horse, and I ended up with Margaret.

"So did you get the lesson?" I asked her softly, my voice toneless.

She didn't answer my question. Instead, she pulled me closer to her and hissed, "Look, Christina, I don't know what you're playing at. I know you want to make friends, but not even the desperate people hang around Harry Potter."

"What's it to you?" I asked, stung by her impudence. "I can make friends with him if I want to."

"You can, but you'll be hated by everybody in here," she told me shrewdly. "Is that what you want? Just to let you know, I've heard that Dudley's punches pack a wallop."

My heart constricted even further. I scratched unconsciously at the pencil stabs that still scarred my arm. "Why should he care who I make friends with?" I asked. "Why should anyone care?"

"We wouldn't," Margaret said, "except that it's Harry Potter. Nobody makes friends with him. Ever. Dudley's made sure of it."

I jabbed my pencil furiously at my paper, creating a small, deep slash on its surface. "Look, why are you trying to help me?" I asked angrily. "I thought you hated me, just like everyone else."

Margaret grabbed me by the neck and forced my gaze into hers. "We don't hate you Christina," she whispered. "Not yet. We really do want to be friends with you. But we can't be, not with Harry around.

"It's not too late, Christina, to change your mind. But change it quickly, because time is running out."

My lip trembled and the pencil shook in my hand. "Why do I have to do this?" I whispered, my voice breaking. "Why does it have to be like it is?"

Margaret shrugged, her eyes suddenly sad. "I don't know," she said simply. "But please trust me--I know what I'm talking about." She scratched at her arm, which I saw, to my surprise, bore the same scars my own arm bore. Hers had faded into almost nothing, but they were still there, just barely visible on her smooth, pale skin.

"So. . .so. . ." my voice cracked, and I started over again. "So. . . did you get the math?"

**********

At lunch that day I bought myself the customary school meal and took it towards the third-grade tables, balancing it carefully in my small hands. Once again I saw Harry sitting by himself, nibbling at a sandwich that almost looked like it was growing mold. He didn't seem too happy with his lunch, but when he saw me a smile spread across his face, and he waved me over.

I paused, my heart suddenly racing again. My gaze shifted from one end of the table, where Margaret and her friends sat, to the other end, where Harry was gazing at me with an expectant shimmer in his bright green eyes. And I knew I had to choose between the two.

Desperately praying that nobody was looking, I quickly headed to the end of the table and set my tray next to Harry. "Hi," he said nervously, his grin growing wider. "Thanks for sitting here again."

But I never got a chance to sit. For as soon as I set down my tray, Dudley appeared beside us, as if from nowhere.

"So you're sitting with the freak again?" he asked me in a loud, carrying voice. I froze, my heart pounding fearfully. "Christina and Harry--how sweet. Now we have two freaks."

The rest of my class heard him. They looked up from their lunches and stared at Harry and me with wide eyes. Margaret put a hand to her temple and slowly shook her head in pity.

"Nobody sits with Harry," Dudley continued menacingly. "Only the shitty freaks sit with him."

I didn't even notice his use of profanity. I looked about desperately for help, hoping frantically that someone would come to mine and Harry's aid. Surely the teachers saw us from their table in the middle of the cafeteria?

But nobody came to help us. We were all alone. It was just me, the girl who was trying desperately to do the right thing, and Harry, the boy who had done nothing wrong but was still the most hated child in the school. How could there be someone to help out two kids that went so dangerously against the mold?

"Freak," Dudley continued, as if he knew no other word base enough to describe us.

I looked up desperately at Margaret. She gazed imploringly at me for a moment, then turned away, squeezing her eyes shut in frustration. But I could still hear her voice in my head: "It's not too late, Christina, to change your mind. But change it quickly, because time is running out."

"Freak!" Dudley continued. He pulled out a freshly-sharpened pencil from his pocket and poked it lightly against his fingertip.

"I. . ." I gasped. "I. . ."

He grinned wider and lifted his pencil.

"I. . ." I whispered, "I wasn't going to sit here."

He paused, his pencil still poised above him. "Sorry, couldn't hear you," he said, his leering smile turning even more hideous. "Speak up."

"I WASN'T GOING TO SIT NEXT TO HARRY POTTER!" I yelled so that everyone could hear me.

All my classmates stopped eating to gaze up at me. From his place next to Piers The-Boy-With-the-Yellow-Teeth-and-the-Bulbous-Nose grinned widely. Margaret even peered at me through her fingers, thoroughly engrossed in the spectacle before her eyes. Yet worst of all was Harry Potter. He stared at me, stunned and shocked. Tears swam in his eyes as he gazed up at me, his first and only friend.

Note to self: Don't make friends with Harry Potter.

I couldn't bear to set eyes on him, but neither could I bear to turn away from him. Then, my voice shaking, I spoke quietly, but clearly enough that they all unmistakably heard me. "I'm not sitting with Harry Potter. I'm never going to. How could I be friends with such a freak?"

Dudley and Piers sniggered and exchanged thumbs-up. The-Boy-With-the-Yellow-Teeth-and-the-Bulbous-Nose high-fived with one of his despicable friends. Margaret uncovered her eyes and gave me a sad smile. Yet none of them said a word, but waited to see what would happen next.

Then Harry spoke, so quietly that nobody heard him but me. His voice was weak and crushed; his lip trembled as a tear ran swiftly down his cheek and fell to the floor. "I understand, Christina," he whispered. No hint of malice filled his voice, but only a shattering hurt. "Being nice doesn't help here."

It was then that I got angry. I was angry at Dudley and Piers and all his sycophants for bullying Harry Potter and anyone who tried to befriend him. I was angry at my classmates for submitting to Dudley and his gang. I was angry at Miss Fairview for hating Harry and doing nothing to stop others from doing to same. I was angry at my mother for her false and empty words. I was even angry at Harry for coming into my life and bringing me to this brutal choice. But I was most angry at myself for my weakness and for my betrayal.

And I couldn't bear it any longer. With an animal cry, I snatched the pencil from Dudley's hands and drove it into Harry's arm. It buried itself in his skin before I drew it back. He winced as blood sprung from his veins and trailed down his forearm, but he didn't cry once. Instead he turned away from me and began nibbling his sandwich again as if I was only one of the many others who stabbed him with pencils every day.

Still breathing heavily, I grabbed my tray and sat down next to Margaret and her friends. They gave me pats on the back and warm congratulations for my actions, and in five minutes they were proclaiming everlasting friendship.

As for Harry, I never spoke to him again. I saw him throughout elementary school, then again during the summers when he returned from St. Brutus's Institution for Incurably Criminal Boys. I doubt he remembers me; I am only one of the many people who has so disappointed him in his life.

But I can never forget what could have been. And I can never forgot, or forgive, what I did to him.

**********

That afternoon I bounded into the kitchen with a grin on my face. Mum looked up from the dishes to greet me. "Hi, honey. How was school?"

"Wicked!" I said excitedly. "I made tons of new friends! Miss Fairview says she's gonna make me line leader next week, and Margaret and her friends played with me at recess and sat with me at lunch. I even got picked first for football!"

"I'm glad to hear that, Christina," Mum said. "I told you you'd make friends."

"And Dudley even invited me to his birthday party!" I squealed, barely able to contain my excitement. "It's gonna be awesome, and he's even gonna have ponies there! Ooh, can't I go, please?"

"Of course, darling," Mum said, laughing as she dried off her hands on the dish towel and drew me into her arms. "I'm so glad to hear you're so popular."

I grinned into her shoulder, feeling very pleased with myself. I was only eight at the time--all I knew was that my whole class liked me now, and nothing had gone wrong since the incident at lunch.

"So what about your friend Harry?" she asked with a smile as she returned to the dishes.

"Oh, him," I said, wrinkling my nose. "He's not a good friend. He makes everyone hate him."

"Oh, that's too bad," Mum said mildly. "I suppose you shouldn't hang around him, then, seeing as you have so many other friends. He's not worth it."