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The Snake's Trio
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Prologue
#4 Privet Drive
A small, skinny ten year old sat, curled up, in a small cupboard. His face was wet with tears, the salty stream pouring down his pale face as he sobbed away the pain. Large, mature green eyes peaked out from under a mop of black hair, welling with tears as he sat in his cot. He winced as he moved backwards in his tiny room, pressing his bruised back against the wall. He thought back to the night before…
Uncle Vernon had not been very happy.
The tiny cupboard was getting small for him now, he knew, but he also knew that he wouldn't be leaving it any time soon. As light started to pour through the crack in the doorframe, he wiped his eyes furiously.
Don't show your weakness, it only makes it hurt more.
That was the rule he always made himself obey at the Dursleys. Showing weakness was a sin, it only made the pain worse, and he had known this for as long as he could remember.
For as long as he could remember, he had been unresponsive, pensive and mechanic. He had closed himself off from all others, only taking pleasure from the time he spent in his small den outside the community football field.
It was funny how he had come across the place really. Harry fondly remembered how he had come across The Den, and what that had brought on…
He was running from Dudley and his gang one Saturday, panting and stumbling as he ran from their fists and their sticks. The eight year old's feet pounded against the sodden pavement as he reached the end of Magnolia Crescent, splashing and slapping in puddles as he ran. He rounded a corner and, on a whim, he sprinted around the outside of the large football field near his home, and delved into the huge forest that lined one edge.
Harry ran blindly into the trees, Dudley's catcalls and jeers fading into the distance. As he ran, he dove, ducked and dived among the wet leaves that hung low, the rainwater weighing them down. He changed direction and twisting his body every few seconds in a desperate attempt to get away from his cousin. Soon, the young boy burst through two dark trees, and came to a stumbling halt in a large clearing, far away from the distant football field.
The boy looked around, curious and intrigued by the beauty of the scene. The clearing was large, surrounded by tightly knit Applewood trees, so close that they nearly touched. The earth was littered with long, green grass, and the ground around the trees sported tall, drooping foxgloves, white and purple in colour. The branches of the trees stretched inwards, covering the clearing and shielding Harry from the pattering rain. Many of the trees were hollow, and Harry found himself wishing desperately that they were bigger, so big that he could crawl inside them and warm his frostbitten fingers. Suddenly, he felt a strange urge to raise his right hand. He did, slowly and cautiously, and flicked his skinny wrist at the tree nearest him.
The tree moved.
It shifted and morphed, the large hollow in it pushing outwards like it was being pulled apart by hot, iron hands. Soon, Harry was standing in front of a large, open hole in the tree trunk, with a small room inside it that was surely too big to fit in that thin, tall tree.
Harry stared down at his hand in awe, a smile slowly growing on his pale face.
This was the beginning of something. Something big.
Since that moment, Harry had trained in magic every day. He had started small, little things like pointing his finger at his desk in school and conjuring a small insect. Then, his daring had grew, and he had started to conjure more and more amazing things. Once, he had seen Dudley beating up a small child, and had muttered the first thing that came into his head, 'Stupefy!'. Dudley had slumped to the floor in a dead faint, and the tiny boy had scampered away without a second glance at Harry.
Harry had started developing the spell he had used, and soon found that he could create other spells as well. Spells like 'Impedimenta', 'Expeliarmus' and 'Locomotor' had fallen from his lips, and Harry had decided to start learning Latin. The librarian had looked at him like he was crazy when he had asked for books on Latin, but had complied once she got over her shock. Soon, Harry was attempting the impossible every night in The Den, and huge white stags leapt around him long into the eve, as he conjured large, golden eagles to keep watch on the entrance to the clearing.
He had developed the talent of seeing into people's minds, subtly and lightly reading their thoughts as they faced away from him. He had had a laugh at reading his Uncles ignorant, unorganised thoughts that was for sure. He had also felt a strange pull in the back of his mind every now and again, as he passed certain people in the street. It felt like something was being pulled from his mind, and he got rapidly annoyed at it, training to force out the strange sensations in his mind. Soon, he stopped feeling them, only feeling a small ripple in his head. He also noticed, with amusement, that whenever this happened, certain people started to look a little like Dudley if breakfast wasn't ready on time, which made him laugh inwardly.
He was independent. Strong, fearless and defiant until the last moment, he attempted the impossible one night, and attempted to reach his soul guide.
He had heard of this theory many a time, and, after much research had decided to attempt it. He had meditated, and after a mere two hours he had achieved the feat that so many had failed at. He had me his soul guide, Daralus, who was a large, Black Panther cub with piercing green eyes and large white wings. He had enjoyed casting the spell Daralus had recommended, and had watched happily as Daralus materialised out of thin air in front of him, similarly to the stag.
It was at that moment, he decided that he wouldn't be a pushover anymore. He would work alone. He would be great on his own.
Though, deep down, he knew that he desperately wanted a friend. He wanted someone to rely on, someone to hold his burdens while he was busy holding everybody else's.
Harry was dragged forcefully from his thoughts by the heavy footsteps coming down the stairs, and walking into the kitchen, and he sighed. Trouble in paradise.
It was at that moment, Harry made a vow to himself.
I will be more than this. I will be more than what they made me.
0o0o0o0
#18 Drasmere Lane
A short, underweight girl sat in her bedroom, curled up in her windowsill. Her legs were tucked up to her chest, and her curtains were drawn, so you could only see her if you were directly outside her window. She was small enough to fit in the tiny gap between the white canvas curtains and the window pane without creating a disturbance in the drawn curtains, so this place always proved to be the best of hiding spots. Her forehead was resting on her knees as she fought back tears, and her bushy, light brown hair fell over her face as she sobbed.
As the horizon lit up, she wiped her eyes slowly on her large, black hoody, and held her breath as large, clomping footsteps passed her door.
Never let your guard down, vulnerability will destroy you.
That was the rule she had reiterated to herself over and over again, every moment of her life. Her father had made sure of that.
Ever since her mother had died having her, Hermione Granger had lived a life of pain and misery, not much different from that of a boy living miles away in Surrey. Her father was almost constantly drunk, and school was her only escape from his fists, those six blissful hours of forgetfulness.
But she still never let her guard down.
Hermione sighed, depressed and tired, and listened to her father stomp, shout and rage in a drunken fit out on the landing. She knew that he was so drunk that he wouldn't remember this at all the next evening, so she was safe to stay hidden.
She ran her fingers over the bruise that had blossomed on her left forearm, the gruesome purple contrasting sharply with her pale skin. Why did he do this? She didn't know. How did he become so cruel? She did.
Blame.
He needed somebody to blame, and she just happened to fit the perfect criteria.
Hermione sighed again, and raised her right hand, willing her bracelet to come to her. It was a bracelet that Hermione had made herself when she was five, thick and worn from too much use. It was black, and made of soft, frayed wool that felt soothing against her skin.
She didn't know how she did the… Thing. It just happened. She could make things happen… Magical things that could raise the hairs on the back of her neck.
She could bring things to her from far away. She could sharpen her pencil just by looking at it. She could repair things she had broken. She could create tiny balls of flame.
The one thing she couldn't do was make friends.
Hermione sighed again.
I will be more than this. I will be more than he makes me.
0o0o0o0
The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole
Ron Weasley was sobbing loudly.
He was locked in his tiny, attic room in his tiny, shabby house.
Damn them all, damn them to Hell! He thought bitterly, as his freckled face screwed up in anger. Why today? I didn't do anything wrong!
Control your emotions. Stay impassive.
Ron had just been thrown bodily in hear by his irate mother after a disastrous trip to the wizarding market, Diagon Alley. Ron had been developing his magical power immensely ever since his brother, Bill, had been made Head Boy, spending hours cooped up in his room, and training in wandless magic. This was why he was so excited about finally going to the infamous Diagon Alley! So many books! He had headed straight for the bookstore, intent on getting some more books on wandless transfiguration, but, just as he'd reached the door, he had been pulled back away by his fuming mother, who was hissing in his ear about 'Ignorant little midget like you won't learn anything, Boy!'.
Ron's mother had dragged him by the ear back into the Leaky Cauldron, grabbed a handful of floo powder, and (ignoring his protests) flooed the two of them back home.
They had arrived at the Burrow, and Molly had immediately turned into 'Sweet Molly'. (A/N yes I know Molly is really OOC but it had to be done)
Flashback…
The two redheads tumbled through the fireplace in the living room of the Burrow, coughing and wheezing as dust and ash sprung up around them. Molly barely bothered to brush herself off before tightening her grip on her sons ear, and pulling him mercilessly out of the room, down the stairs and into the small basement.
Knowing what was next, Ron weakly tried to struggle, but his efforts proved fruitless – in a second he was tied to the chair as Molly leaned over him menacingly.
"Now, ickle Ronniekins, why did you do that?"
Her sickly sweet voice chilled Ron to the bone. He had no idea why she acted like this to him, and not to the other brothers.
She liked to hurt him, when nobody else was around. It had started with the odd cut here and there, the occasional burn. But it had grown.
Nobody could know. She told him this as she cut him, relishing in his cries. He supposed that she was a natural psychopath, relishing in the pain of others, but unable to feed the hunger for blood.
He was pulled from his musings by the first cut, Molly's favourite knife splitting the loose skin between his thumb and forefinger.
It was going to be a long day.
End flashback…
Now, Ron sat in his room, running his abused, sore hands over the orange Chudley Cannons bedspread. He would get out of here, and until then, he would keep training.
It was at that moment; Ron Weasley made a vow to himself.
I will be more than this. I will be more than she makes me.
0o0o0o0
Somewhere far away, the cogs of fate were turning…
0o0o0o0
fin.
