"F*ck!" — I've been standing outside for two hours, pounding my fists against the frozen ice. The knuckles of my fingers are bleeding, but I don't pay any attention to it. "I hate it, I hate it, I HATE IT!" — I continue to hit the ice, although my mind is at the level of a 23-year-old, at this moment my emotions are those of a 10-year-old boy. Tears stream down my cheeks, but not from pain or cold, rather from despair and resentment. To end up in a world of magic and wonder and... "To end up a damn Muggle!" — with the last blow to the ice, I begin to slowly regain my composure. Quickly glancing at my body, I realize that besides my bloodied knuckles on both hands, I have also accidentally dislocated my left index finger, but I hadn't felt it due to the cold.
It's as if I've been doused with cold water. I stand in the alley, silently staring at my hands, lost in thoughts that even I don't understand. Suppressing the last surges of anger, I slowly wander back to the orphanage. "What if I hadn't found out that I live in a world of magic?" — an involuntary thought crosses my mind, but there are no "what ifs." Passing by respectable buildings, I walk along the streets and alleys. Every hundred meters, the scenery around me changes: the buildings become increasingly dilapidated, and the people more pitiful. I walk, lost in thoughts about my future, and with every step I take, I carry an unimaginable weight of emotional suffering. The only thing keeping me from breaking down again is my adult mind whispering that emotions won't help me right now.
Half an hour later, I enter the door of the orphanage. The younger kids are playing in the common room, and the temperature throughout the building is not much higher than outside; the fireplace hasn't been lit in two days. The older kids are either outside or working. As I pass a group of children who call me to play with them, I decline and wander further towards the director's office. Standing in front of her office door, I involuntarily freeze, hesitating to knock. But recalling the concerned looks of the others who saw the state of my hands, I gather the courage to knock.
Knock-knock
"Come in" — a tired female voice calls from behind the door. Entering her office, I remember to adjust my clothing — if it can be called that: a shabby coat and a pair of pants that have been patched a thousand times. The first thing that catches my eye in her office is the absence of any unnecessary items. This is quite surprising, considering that directors of orphanages usually pocket a large part of the funds. But Madame Vickerbottom is a very kind woman, and all the money that comes into the orphanage goes solely to the needs of the children. But that's not the point right now. She lifts her head from some important papers and meets my gaze. Despite her fatigue, she tries to smile at me.
"Morfo, is something wrong?" — her tone is filled with care and concern. I rarely trouble her and am generally a quiet child, so my arrival is quite unexpected for her.
Thinking that explaining my outburst of anger would be much more complicated, I decide to lie. "A beggar attacked me on the street, and I had to fend him off." — I try to infuse my voice with as much emotion as possible, even though I'm not feeling much right now. "Could you help me with this?" — I raise my hands, showing her my knuckles with already dried blood. This is clearly not what she expected to see, but it's not the worst thing she's seen during her time here.
Her face pales slightly, and her hands tremble a bit, but after a couple of seconds, she collects herself. "Come here, I'll help you bandage your hands and reset your joint." I step closer to her as she reaches for the first aid kit in her desk. A flurry of questions fills my mind: "Why isn't she asking me what happened? Why isn't she scolding me?". But all these questions drown under one thought: "She's used to it..." Managing the orphanage alone, she has often seen similar scenes, and now she chooses to solve the problem quickly rather than engage in useless tasks like scolding me or interrogating me.
"Bite down, dear" — I hear her words, but I don't have time to react before she quickly resets my joint on my left hand. A sharp pain pierces through me, but it quickly fades, giving way to a dull, lingering ache. As I watch her wrap the bandages, I find time to think again about what awaits me after the orphanage.
"All done, please take care of yourself" — with the last layer of bandages on my hands, she ties the bandage tightly and then hugs me.
"Okay, Madame Vick... Mom" — I feel respect for this woman for everything she has done for the orphanage, so saying one word to make her happy costs me nothing.
After saying goodbye to Madame Vickerbottom and leaving her office, I run into Eric, who immediately starts bombarding me with his usual questions... As we walk together down the hallway, I involuntarily mutter in a barely audible voice, "All the transplants have some sort of cheat, and here I am, left with nothing in the orphanage."
"Did you say something?" — Eric asks, to which I casually wave my hand, indicating that it was nothing important.