Disclaimer: Harry Potter material doesn't belong to me, but Brian Moore is my idea.
(A/N: I'm working on a sequel to this that will be called "Odd Part II")
Percy
"What is odd?"
I found my self reading aloud in English class; ruing the fact Hogwarts even had an English class,
"What exactly makes something odd?
There's different ways of saying it
Abnormal, Strange, Unusual, Peculiar, Erratic
This word has many synonyms
Is that odd?
Is the woman with a bald head odd?
Is the man with holes in his trousers odd?
Or are they merely misfortunate?
Does that make them odd?
Who gets to decide if it does?
I saw a boy today
being ridiculed by another boy
I've been observing them for years
Is that odd?
Or is it odd
that through all there squabbles and physical spats
they look alike, sound alike and share another key fact?"
A shaky feeling washed over me--I half-wondered if I was shaking--but the trembling of my hands as they held my notebook (nearly loosing it) was enough to confirm I was. My mouth started tasting like blood; I half wondered if my mouth was bleeding when I knew it wasn't. I felt like an idiot, but not only because of my fears. I felt highly sure if I kept reading I would attract someone's (maybe even more than one person's) rage. Also, I knew I my poem could possibly bring about trouble for people.
"Through similar dark eyes, matched with similar dark hair,
they reveal the same kind of sensitivity and fear
You might think they look like brothers
I think they look like they could be friends
Is that odd?
Or is it ironic?
Maybe the two words are the same?
But no two people are alike
Differences can be hard to find,
like the differences of snow flakes
People can look alike and act alike,
but even people who have siblings with the same faces
don't always share the same personality traits
People call each other odd for personal differences
but if we are all different from each other,
does that make us all very odd?
Is it odd to call someone else that
or think that they are?
Is it odd for me to question something like that?
What is odd?"
I looked up from my notebook and into the eyes of my class mates. It amazes me that from first year to seventh year all those eyes still frighten me into feeling like a helpless little boy, with their judgmental gaze. I could still feel myself shaking and it was growing far worse as I continued to stare silently at my class mates. My eyes fell to the side row in the back of the room to my left where my friend Oliver Wood sat, his eyes held no judgment but instead showed that in his soul he felt sorry for me and wanted to help me. I offered him a small, so as to not attract a great deal attention, smile in my gratitude to him. His eyes blinked, his face faded into the same kind of smile. My eyes pulled away from him, scanning the class again; my classmates were supposed to be asking me questions, but they chose to remain silent as did Professor Moore. Oliver, although he wanted to help me, stayed silent with them; he was probably too afraid to go against them.
Once in our second year, I believe it was, I was helping him to practice avoiding bludgers for Quidditch (he never did learn) and when he got on his broom he told me, "I don't like people laughing at me...." he had this kind of pained expression set on his face, like he didn't want to continue telling me what was wrong.
I had gripped his upper arm to console him; he looked to me with sadly frightened eyes. You can always see what his true emotions are in his eyes; usually there are traces of fear in his eyes, but they also hold a constant look of sensitivity. Not in a feminine way, but in a way that shows him to have a good soul.
"What's wrong?" I had asked.
He admitted, acting as though he struggled to breathe, "When I'm scared, really scared, like I am on the Quidditch field I feel like everyone's choking me with there judgment....and there laughter." Oliver looked desperate, "I don't like it, Percy," his eyes had dropped, "I don't like it at all."
"You don't want to be laughed at?" I had asked.
"I need to play well out there." he had said firmly. "I need to look like I know what I'm doing."
"Who are you trying to impress?" I heard myself ask; I was theorizing something about that, but I was still unsure about it.
He looked up, "No one," he tried again, "everyone."
"Someone," I had told him knowingly from behind my glasses.
"Lets practice." he said, rising up into the air.
Without much of a choice I opened the trunk we had brought with us and released the bludgers into the air. I watched him block a few easy ones, but then I let my eyes slip away. My thoughts took me to other ideas that I needed time to mull over.
After a short time I looked up, both our eyes widened in alarm as a fast bludger headed toward him; but our fear was short lived because the bludger took an unexplained turn away from him and circled around the goal posts to get farther away and then came hurling back. Only this time it was alright because Oliver was prepared for it and sent it soaring from the goal.
He gave a hearty, "Yeah!"
I cheered with him, clapping my hands. Then, I saw a green figure out of the corner of my eye; I looked over at the gate, which allowed the players in to see Marcus Flint standing there. An odd thought crossed my mind, 'Was it him?'
Marcus had been gazing up at Oliver, but then he let his eyes fall on me. We stood there a moment, locking eyes in silence. It's ironic that with all the questions I had for him, I never said a word. He slipped away, taking my chance with him.
I looked away from the gate and then an unsettling feeling of being watched came upon me and I looked in back of me, up at where students sat for games. All of those places should have been empty; except that Mr. Filch (holding his cat) and Professor Snape were up there watching me. Despite the fear they gave most students, I didn't feel any of it in that moment; realizing that there were now two, as Mr. Filch is a squib, suspects in what had occurred, both as unlikely as the next. The men looked at me with these puzzled gazes that also gave the impression that they knew something I didn't; I realized then that they knew who had helped Oliver. But would they tell me? I never had a chance to find out because Mrs. Norris jumped from Mr. Filch's hands and they left the seats to go after her. I turned to look back at Oliver, feeling both confused and thoughtful.
I've never told anyone about that day.
Back in my English class, I still waited for someone, anyone, to ask a question and break the unbearable silence. I struggled to breathe because I didn't want the class to here me breathing heavy, I tried to hold my breath and it felt like I was suffocating. My eyes scanned over to the other side of the room where the Slytherins sat together; classes have always been divided like this when Slytherins are involved, and my eyes settled on Marcus Flint.
What I saw in his eyes was enough to make my trembling increase so much that I dropped my book and my body crashed to the floor as I faded out. The last things I heard were my classmates standing up and rushing over to me, while their voices called out my name. But I succumbed to my low blood sugar and the liberating darkness that took me away from what I had seen in Marcus Flint's dark brown eyes.