Note:This is just a small experiment. This fic. is based on the Trio theory
which I thoroughly support after watching the third movie {The trio theory
is the triangle with harry ron and hermione as the victims..} I hope you
enjoy. Also if you could R&R i'd really appreciate it!
Other Note: DO NOT MAIL ME AT THE DEFAULT ADDRESS. I do welcome mails from anyone but if you choose to do so my new mail is projectdragonlinkinpark.com
He was looking down at the ground, his thoughts soaring far higher than he was, into the cloud cover mere inches from his head. This had to be a dream. An impossible intangible dream that snared the senses into believing things that weren't. He wasn't flying. He wasn't free. He willed himself to close these imaginary eyes of his, disappearing from this sub-reality and appearing back into his own little piece of hell, gazing around the small bedroom the lay in front of him, wincing as his ears tuned into the high pitched screams of Aunt Petunia willing him to come cook breakfast. Another day in the life of Harry.
He wondered as he ambled down the stairs, what would his friends think of him now? Now that he was home. No longer was Harry a 'Hero' who had overcome Voldemort more times than need be mentioned. No longer was he 'The Boy Who Lived'. That was the problem. He was no one. Just a phantasm of emotions, yet these emotions weren't real either, just his imagination getting the best of him.
The Dursleys saw him as a disposable slave and he was constantly walking on eggshells among them, wondering if today would be the day he would have the invitation to leave this life forever. Just leave, blend into the shadows and be one with them. No longer a person as he was forced to be now. What if he were dead. What if....
Ron had awoken early this morning, not unnatural now-a-days. Stupid teen hormones. He'd been having a wonderful dream too. He was flying around the school grounds on a Firebolt, a Golden Snitch clasped between his fingers, the crouds of people once seated in the Quidditch stands flooding onto the field to congradulate him. Wonderful-but still yet impossible. A sigh escaped his lips as he sat up in bed, blinking back the sleep that had collected in his eyes. Absently he flattened his hair onto his pale fore- head. He'd need a haircut soon. Great.
Making his way downstairs a few moments later he peeped into the kitchen, coming face to face with his mothers back and retreating quickly back to his room. Not in the best mood to deal with her. Yet again stupid teen hormones.
Once back in his room he settled at his desk, absently twirling his quill around his fingers before realizing he hadn't heard from his friends. Harry and Hermione had usually written him within a few days of the end of term- but now it was two weeks before a new term and he hadn't heard from either of them, at all.
Withdrawing a sheet of parchment from one of the drawers he settled down to write Harry first. A guy thing. Sucking on the tip of his quill he wondered what he could possibly write. Indeed his summer had been uneventful, consisting of the usual visits from his brother and demands of his mother and father. He wasn't exactly sure Harry would want to hear about this but he needed someone to rant to.
However, before he could begin writing he felt a small tingling sensation come over his body, engulfing him with a warm fuzzy feeling before he found himself staring up at the silouette of his desk, looming precariously above him. He opened his mouth to scream but the only thing that emanated from his mouth was a tiny squeak.
Then, with just the blink of an eye he was returned to Ron again. A very fearful version of himself but Ron none-the-less. He glanced frantically around, discovering a small abundance of feathers collecting at his feet.'Dammit you two...'he muttered under his breath. Fred and George had obviously perfected the art of converting the magic of Canary Creams into inanimate objects. Wonderful.
With a final glance of his narrowed eyes he reluctantly relaxed and settled down to continue his writings...
Other Note: DO NOT MAIL ME AT THE DEFAULT ADDRESS. I do welcome mails from anyone but if you choose to do so my new mail is projectdragonlinkinpark.com
He was looking down at the ground, his thoughts soaring far higher than he was, into the cloud cover mere inches from his head. This had to be a dream. An impossible intangible dream that snared the senses into believing things that weren't. He wasn't flying. He wasn't free. He willed himself to close these imaginary eyes of his, disappearing from this sub-reality and appearing back into his own little piece of hell, gazing around the small bedroom the lay in front of him, wincing as his ears tuned into the high pitched screams of Aunt Petunia willing him to come cook breakfast. Another day in the life of Harry.
He wondered as he ambled down the stairs, what would his friends think of him now? Now that he was home. No longer was Harry a 'Hero' who had overcome Voldemort more times than need be mentioned. No longer was he 'The Boy Who Lived'. That was the problem. He was no one. Just a phantasm of emotions, yet these emotions weren't real either, just his imagination getting the best of him.
The Dursleys saw him as a disposable slave and he was constantly walking on eggshells among them, wondering if today would be the day he would have the invitation to leave this life forever. Just leave, blend into the shadows and be one with them. No longer a person as he was forced to be now. What if he were dead. What if....
Ron had awoken early this morning, not unnatural now-a-days. Stupid teen hormones. He'd been having a wonderful dream too. He was flying around the school grounds on a Firebolt, a Golden Snitch clasped between his fingers, the crouds of people once seated in the Quidditch stands flooding onto the field to congradulate him. Wonderful-but still yet impossible. A sigh escaped his lips as he sat up in bed, blinking back the sleep that had collected in his eyes. Absently he flattened his hair onto his pale fore- head. He'd need a haircut soon. Great.
Making his way downstairs a few moments later he peeped into the kitchen, coming face to face with his mothers back and retreating quickly back to his room. Not in the best mood to deal with her. Yet again stupid teen hormones.
Once back in his room he settled at his desk, absently twirling his quill around his fingers before realizing he hadn't heard from his friends. Harry and Hermione had usually written him within a few days of the end of term- but now it was two weeks before a new term and he hadn't heard from either of them, at all.
Withdrawing a sheet of parchment from one of the drawers he settled down to write Harry first. A guy thing. Sucking on the tip of his quill he wondered what he could possibly write. Indeed his summer had been uneventful, consisting of the usual visits from his brother and demands of his mother and father. He wasn't exactly sure Harry would want to hear about this but he needed someone to rant to.
However, before he could begin writing he felt a small tingling sensation come over his body, engulfing him with a warm fuzzy feeling before he found himself staring up at the silouette of his desk, looming precariously above him. He opened his mouth to scream but the only thing that emanated from his mouth was a tiny squeak.
Then, with just the blink of an eye he was returned to Ron again. A very fearful version of himself but Ron none-the-less. He glanced frantically around, discovering a small abundance of feathers collecting at his feet.'Dammit you two...'he muttered under his breath. Fred and George had obviously perfected the art of converting the magic of Canary Creams into inanimate objects. Wonderful.
With a final glance of his narrowed eyes he reluctantly relaxed and settled down to continue his writings...