Disclaimer: I do not own the original canon nor am I making any profit from writing this piece. All works are accredited to their original authors, performers, and producers while this piece is mine. No copyright infringement is intended. I acknowledge that all views and opinions expressed herein are merely my interpretations of the characters and situations found within the original canon and may not reflect the views and opinions of the original author(s), producer(s), and/or other people.
Warnings: This story may contain material that is not suitable for all audiences and may offend some readers. This particular piece includes references to child abuse and very vague references to bigotry based on nationality & ethnicity. Please utilize understanding of personal sensitivities before and while reading.
Author's Note (Terms to Know): Acacia is an evergreen plant native to central part of Africa and is particularly common in Rwanda. Among its meanings are renewal of spirit and affection, making it commonly used as a memorial for the dead. It also means freedom; Skepticism is to think about an idea or concept without judging if it is true or false; Agnosticism is to believe an idea or concept can be either true or false; In anatomy, the rib bones are divided into two groups. The first seven from the top are the true ribs; the bottom five are the false ribs. Likewise, the helix is the upper and outer curve of the ear and lends itself to the name of piercings in the area.
Author's Note(s): I normally don't really weigh in on the current shift on Hermione's ethnicity, but I think this time I need to mention my stance on the matter, as it plays a part in how Hermione is referenced as acting in this piece. Given the way the HP series was written, I cannot in good faith write Hermione as anything other than white. I do not judge those who can, and I understand the frustration which led to the discourse on the matter. (As a Native, I share that frustration.) Also, do not take the mention of Hermione's blind spots as bashing. Remember she's just a teen at that point, and in a pre-internet world. Ignorance when one just simply hasn't been exposed is not a problem and if I didn't come across the term cultural relativism until college, I'm guessing Hermione wouldn't have either.
Competition/Challenge Information:
House: Hufflepuff
Category: Short (500-2000 words)
Prompt: Dreams do not work unless you do (Prompt)
Fill Number: 02
Representation(s): Marauders; Death of Family Members
Bonus Challenge(s): Non-Traditional; Mouth of Babes; Found Family
Word Count: 1947 (Story Only); n/a (Story & Epigraph)
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Simple Enough
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There were few things that Harry liked about walking home from school on his own. It always took forever, and people tended to glare at him. It didn't help that he still had chores waiting for him when he finally managed to get home, even if they weren't as much during the week. Aunt Petunia only rarely accounted for weather when determining if Harry would be walking or riding home with Dudley, so he was already used to walking in the rain and cold despite only being in second form.
But there was one thing that always made the hike worth it.
Tucked into the more generic shops along the main street of Little Whinging was Love's Bohemia. Harry wasn't certain which of the two Loves actually decided to name it that or if it even mattered, since the couple ran it together. They made clothes, among other things. Isabelle made the cloth that Tristan used to make the clothes. She also made the jewelry they sold, working the raw materials into whatever form she desired.
She always said that change was the start of creation, that destruction was never just the end of things.
Most of the time, she would follow the words with a wink at Tristan before returning to cleaning her equipment. That was usually when Tristan would decide that Harry needed another scone or muffin. He never spent more than an hour or so in their shop, not unless it was cold or rainy, but those hours were his favorite moments outside of the school's library. Isabelle and Tristan were always happy to see him return after the first time Tristan had yanked him out of a particularly cold rain his first year going to school.
Isabelle was weaving a silvery wire through a client's triple-helix piercings when Harry pushed open the door. Against both women's dark skin, the wire was as bright as moonlight and the three jasper rounds on each of the two loops already in place seemed to glow like embers. Harry blinked away his confusion over the client having shaved her head—it was far from the oddest thing he'd seen in the shop—and immediately sought out Tristan who was seated in his armchair with his embroidery project. The oranges of the acacia blossom Tristan was stitching were warm against the navy cloth he had chosen for the base.
Love's Bohemia was not the sort of place that the Dursleys would approve of and the Loves were not the sort of people she would like. It was different and strange. Both Isabelle and Tristan were from outside of Britain—Isabelle from Rwanda and Tristan from Scotland—which made them the same. That's before considering the things they sold in the shop and who made what. Uncle Vernon was clear about his opinion on men who made clothes; Harry didn't think that Tristan's bear-like appearance and thick beard would be enough to sway him from it. Aunt Petunia was just as clear about people with multiple piercings, no matter how pretty, and the people who did the piercing.
No matter what the Dursleys would think though, Harry loved the little shop. The Loves were also the kind people Harry wished his parents had left him with instead of the Dursleys. Maybe someday, if he worked hard enough, he would be able to open up his own shop, just like the Loves'. Only maybe not clothes, Harry didn't think he would ever love textiles like Tristan did.
His eyes traced the delicate jewelry Isabelle was crafting directly on the client as she chatted in a language Harry didn't recognize. Her movements were precise and confident, a testifying honor to the client's obvious trust. Something like that would be nice. He would like to become so skilled at creating beautiful things that someone would trust him that much.
It probably would never happen. Harry only messed things up for people. He destroyed lives.
But then again, maybe Isabelle was right when she said that destruction was never just the end.
Maybe all he had to do to create his idle dream was to change the world.
That seemed simple enough.
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Many things about his life changed the summer he turned eleven, but overall, Harry didn't mind much. Hogwarts had some really weird things (really all of the magical world seemed to) but after so many years of hanging around Love's Bohemia, Harry was used to weird. There was no point in arguing with the way things were when there would be no changing them. It was always better to save one's energy for the things which truly mattered.
Another truth of Isabelle's that Harry had taken to heart after hearing it repeatedly throughout his childhood.
It did tend to upset Ron and Hermione, though for different reasons. Ron wanted to complain about things and while Harry was willing to listen to all of the other boy's complaints, he tended to not be as genuinely upset about things. Hermione had some good ideas of what truly mattered but there were strange gaps that Harry could never figure out. Normally, Harry would just accept that maybe she wasn't aware of the problems—after all, he only knew of some things because of Isabelle. Some things really could not be learned from books. That didn't change the fact that there were a few things more important than being upset about the culture of an entire group of people just because it didn't match one's own ideals.
Incidentally, it was escaping an argument over how to free the house elves of Hogwarts that Harry stumbled over someone who would be completely normal for the Loves' shop. Her last name even had 'love' in it. Luna was more than a bit what anyone would call nuts, but she didn't seem to mind that any more than the shop's regulars did. Her first words when he had fallen onto her had been about how much she loved his skin, which was a bit creepy until he realized Luna loved drawing on all kinds of surfaces, including skin.
It didn't take long for them to start getting together to work on different projects. The tournament that somehow sucked him in scarcely a month later didn't make anything easy, let alone continuing to keep his research and metal work secret from Hermione. To say the two witches didn't get along would be a greater understatement than saying Dudley was a little stupid. Hermione didn't appreciate Luna's skepticism and agnostic approach to life; she preferred to put her faith entirely in books and professors. Luna didn't hold nearly the same level of frustration and anger as Hermione, but she didn't appreciate being treated like she was stupid for not believing a book held all the answers. Once Ron got over Harry being in the tournament, it hadn't taken long for Ron to pick up on the easy method of distracting Hermione from nagging them about homework.
Then Cedric had died and Umbridge came to Hogwarts.
As a gift for Solstice, Luna drew an acacia blooming on a branch cradled in the right dip between his true and false ribs. Then she cast the spell to sink the ink into his skin. The sting was present when he woke screaming from the vision of Mr. Weasley being attacked. Sirius had been solemn as he helped Harry cover it with the arnica salve to help the new tattoo heal. It wasn't until his godfather revealed a similar tattoo along his own ribcage (five blossoms, three from before Azkaban and two done since his escape) that Harry understood. The pair had shared a few tears over the people who inspired the new blooms before Mrs. Weasley called them down for dinner.
Sirius slipped a book to him on methods and traditions around body modification. He had slipped a note between the cover and title pages. Unlike what Harry would have expected from an adult, it only urged him to be careful and safe in the activities, not a demand to never do it. Having someone who understood the interest to which Harry had devoted an increasing amount of dwindling free time was a novelty.
When McGonagall asked him what his plans for after Hogwarts was, Harry took one look at Umbridge's toad-like face and decided that discretion was the better part of valor. The meeting devolved into a grudge match between the two professors, not that it mattered much to Harry. He already knew that his dream of owning a little studio, probably with Luna, wasn't reliant upon any particular OWLs or NEWTs. He would need a decent amount of GCSE, but he doubted that McGonagall could advise him better than Tristan could; he would also need someone to apprentice under, but Isabelle had already agreed to arrange for something. Outright lying didn't feel great but Harry already had to deal with Hermione lecturing about how he would need a real career; he really didn't need both McGonagall and Umbridge making things harder for him.
He already knew that arguing about his future plans wasn't going to change anyone's mind, least of all his. He knew the importance of saving his energy for the battles which really mattered.
With the fresh sting of a second acacia blossom on his ribs, Harry returned home from his fifth year filled with the knowledge that he had to kill Voldemort to stop him from destroying the world.
He didn't know how anyone expected a teenager to be able to do that, but it seemed simple enough.
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There were few things which Harry could say with absolute certainty were his, earned only through his own effort and dedication. Regardless of what the jealous mutterings of a certain professor would have anyone believing, Harry was aware that he had gotten away from more than one punishment because of what he represented to the magical world. Even his spot on the quidditch team was a matter of luck more than true skill; it was easy to be the best at something when flying was as natural as breathing. Defensive magic was easy when fighting for survival was an everyday activity in one way or another.
His entire life belonged to others, to what he could do for them.
Even after everything settled from the War with Voldemort, there was still a clamoring for Harry to do more. He regretted the impulsive decision he had made back in his fifth year because McGonagall was determined to see him installed in the Auror program, as was Shacklebolt. Hiding in the muggle world did little to deter their recruitment efforts. As strange as it was, given how he had dedicated himself to essentially stabbing people for a living, Harry didn't think he could stand any more violence in his life.
Luna's response was a somber offer to mark him as a chooser of the slain. The mark hurt more than any other she had given him, like it was burning deeper somehow. Not even his acacia blossoms, weighted with memories as they were, hurt as much. After the pain faded away, the reminder of destruction on his left forearm helped to focus his determination to create only beauty as he worked.
Destiny discharged, Harry could finally be free to create his little shop that he had been working towards since childhood. He never had to choose whether to be dragged into an arena or to walk in again. He had a different way of saving the world now.
All he had to do was convince the wizarding world to leave him alone.
That should be simple enough.
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An Ending
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