Disclaimer: You know, I don't understand WHY we have to write these things, cause, which normal person would write a fanfiction if he/she owned this anime/manga/book/idea etc etc. Clearly, I do not own HP, J. K. Rowling does.
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.
...
They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.
…
Yes, they were perfectly normal, boring family, just one of the hundreds and thousands of families you can see everyday.
…
…
"…"
"This is just wrong! Especially from me!" yelled a little, green-eyed boy, who was currently sitting on a bench at the park and giving a Death Glare to the almost blank, innocently white page, where he had just written the first few sentences of his new story. Soon-to-be story, he hoped.
Was it possible for a notebook to look guilty…? Or was he just losing his mind?
At the boy's exclamation some mothers, who were at the park with their own kids, looked at him a bit disapprovingly, but seeing a rather young, small boy, with messy, dark hair, glasses and a rather frightening expression on his face, as frightening as it could be for such a fragile-looking child, they left him alone.
The boy didn't care at all. He just continued glare at his notebook, waving his pencil around almost maniacally. Finally he sighed, feeling miserably.
"And what's wrong with me!" he almost moaned. "I'm actually writing a story of Dursleys, of all things! Dursleys! God knows, just how much I can hate them! Aren't there other things I could write of? About smiles and sunshine and flowers, and pretty, interesting things, and… heck, even writing about ponies would be better!" he closed his notebook and banged his head with it. "On the second thought, I do hate ponies. Oh, where the hell have I hit my head? And I'm not talking about banging my head with my notebook. That was on purpose." He closed his eyes and sighed again he seemed to do that a lot today.
But it wasn't everyday that he was in as bad mood as he was today.
It was only on days like these, when his stories refused to come to him. He was almost literally chasing after them in his head, but he couldn't get a hold on them.
You see, this boy, was no ordinary child.
His name was Harry Potter and he was a writer. Well, not really, at the moment, as he was considerated too young to write anything more serious that a good story, but his life's goal was to write a book that would be a Bestseller.
Long way to go, that's for sure, but Harry was a very bright child for his age, almost a genius prodigy, and had already send his stories to some newspapers or magazines, under a false name, of course, and with his family not knowing anything about it, and those people had liked them and had taken calling him a prodigy every time he send a new story.
Harry liked to write about everything. About his life, what he saw, heard, knew… But his best stories were those, who talked about magic and other seemingly-impossible things. Where mystical beings came alive, about their experiences and things they did. These stories were the light in his otherwise monotone life.
Everyday passed with him waking up from his aunt's screening, doing all the chores for his oh, so lovely, dear family and being chased by his cousin.
Stories helped him to stay sane. After Harry had read every book in the Dursleys house, he had taken to go to the library and read there. As he had read every book that he could understand, he especially loved legends; he had taken to write stories on his own.
They were pretty good, actually.
Then his eyes snapped open and gained a sharp, thoughtful look, before they glazed as an idea formed in his mind. "But they sure are the perfect people who can make your life miserable… like mine… Just throw in an abused character … once again, just like me… who later finds out that he/she is a hero or something, and he/she has to decide fate of the world… I'm glad that I'm not a hero. But what stories could I write if I would be…" he mumbled, but was snapped out of his thoughts as he felt the first raindrops fall from the sky.
The sky had turned darker, while he had been thinking over his ideas and now was in slightly purple shade that actually looked kind of pretty.
"Skies are crying…" whispered the small child. "But why are they crying? Are they sad because I am sad….?"
Harry carefully wrapped his notebook with his jacket and quickly started to run towards the Privet Drive. Suddenly he had found a new inspiration. His dream would come true and nothing would stand in his way.
Days later, the first, weird letter came…
A.N. Hi there! My first time writing a story that's not a crackfic! Please tell me is it good, bad? Should I continue it? This was just a little idea that popped up in my head and refused to go away…
Btw, my grammar can be crappy, because I'm from Latvia and I can Latvian speak perfectly, not English. I'm still learning…
Review!