What follows is my very first Harry Potter story. Although I have previously attempted fiction of the original kind, and violently enjoy reading others' fan work, I'm a bit shaky when it comes to combining the two areas. If those who decide to read this dribble could give me responses such as "That sucked royally, dude," or "The beauty of that passage is inexpressible," I would be forever indebted. "Good," "Bad," or "Indifferent" would do as well. Flame if my writing offends greatly, but a logical explanation of my grievous errors would benefit all involved to a much greater extent. Now that my senseless rambling is coming to a halt, on with the show!

Everyone's favorite portion of fan fiction, that evilly necessary animal, The Disclaimer:
I own nothing but Brede Kearney, (and she disputes that quite passionately); everything else belongs the genius word sculptress, J. K. Rowling.




Synthetic Fiber


As she mindlessly picked at the aging sneaker sole, a teenaged girl sighed. At that very moment, the deteriorating condition of her shoe's base reflected all too accurately her current emotional state.

Her almost black hair, perpetually slightly frizzed, drooped into her face, obscuring her features from view, had anyone been observing her at the time. Behind her curtain of hair dwelt a pale, almost "pasty" visage, as she often disparagingly referred to it. The only pigmentation noticeable upon the otherwise colorless face was a sprinkling of freckles haphazardly spilt across her nose, cheeks, and forehead. Her large, variently-hued eyes, flecked with blue and gold, dominated her small, ovular face. The sizable sensory organs overpowered a small, round nose and thinnish lips. Her pointed ears, a point of embarrassment on the young woman's part, were rarely visible to others at any moment, and often went unnoticed by others, to her great relief.

Below the neck, this female individual could best be described as proportioned. Although not particularly slim, she was possessed of enough curves to maintain a pleasant figure. At the moment, the "Colleen," (as she was often referred to by her plethora of Irish relatives), formed a tight little ball, with her weak knees tucked under her small pointed chin, her heavily spotted arms, so similar to her face, wrapped tightly around her halved legs, and her now unoccupied hands clenched tightly together. The striking eyes, typically dancing with mirth, were red-rimmed and moist, and the small lips trembled and shook.

She was also conspicuously and intentionally alone.

A good friend had poignantly remarked recently that she had never seen her cry. The girl had expressed a false sense of surprise, exclaiming an artificial astonishment at the observation. In truth, from a very young age, no one saw a tear escape her eye. A laugh or sarcastic retort were always available, even a sympathetic ear, (most of the time), but her eyes remained dry, excepting the moments of weakness, when she would flee to some unoccupied space.

This day had been one of the closest calls; in her concealed grief, she had barely reached an empty classroom in time, before the sobs came. These were no ordinary hiccups. They were horrible, violent sobs that tore from her throat as from a wounded animal. Her face, so often possessing a warm, cheerful, sometimes mischievous glow in public, would readily shift into a strange and unnatural parody of itself. She rocked herself back and forth, seeking comfort that wasn't there, yearning for those who had abandoned her.

Suddenly, a sharp rapping interrupted her mournful and involuntary breakdown. A muffled inquiry as to the situation of the occupants of the very room she had commandeered for her own temporary private hell was becoming increasingly audible.

Panic raced through her veins; the sudden seizure of the panic attack had prevented her mind from registering the possibility of someone overhearing her cries. She leapt to her feet and hastily pressed her hands to her face, swiping the incriminating moisture from her cheeks. Her grief shoved to a far corner of her mind to be attacked later, Brede Kearney took several shaky breaths and blinked fiercely, desperately praying to the Trinity her eyes bore some resemblance to their normal selves, not swollen, bloodshot betrayers. She silently composed herself, adjusting her robes, patting her mane of frizz, and called out in her "Americanized Irish brogue," as she referred to it, "Where's the fire?"

She flicked her wand at the door, and immediately, a sandy-haired youth burst into the room. Phrases somewhat resembling "Are you all right?" "What happened?" and "Why the blazes was the door locked like that?" burst forth from the boy's mouth.

A slightly taken aback Brede racked her brain for a suitable excuse. The sight of the normally calm, logical, and generally unflappable Remus Lupin in such a tizzy unnerved the girl and virtually emptied her already scattered mind of plausible explanations. Grasping at straws, she finally dredged up an appropriate response, something to the effect of "Whatever are you talking about, good sir, I've just been minding my own and some unnamed masculine individual's business." In real world terms, with a painful and almost impossible to muster smirk, she muttered, "Wouldn't you like to know..." and left a marginally unconvinced, yet properly mortified classmate behind her.

Once she had rounded the corner, Brede broke into a run and, finding a deserted hallway, collapsed and finished her cry.



Was it utter crap? Was it immensely entertaining? Could I make it better? Should I stop before I bore you all to death? This is my first attempt, so PLEASE (pretty please with sugar on top) let me know if this should be continued. Give me ideas for future plot developments if it's even mildly entertaining. Does it have potential? One-word responses and onward are greatly appreciated. Thank you for even reading this!