A Songfic to 'This Velvet Glove' by the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
I am both J.K and The Red Hot Chili Peppers' manager, and have access to all rights to these lyrics, scenarios and characters. Honestly people, what do you expect this disclaimer to say?
*sighs* I own nothing. This included. Nichts, ne rien (only speak 3 languages) get the idea?
(((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((
No one is waiting
For me to fail
My will could sail yeah
))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))
It was very easy, doing it. I mean, the act of digging something sharp into your flesh and pulling it out. It's something that even I couldn't get wrong. Does it help me? Well yeah, of course. A bit. Truthfully, not as much as when I started, when it was like. . .like an orgasm. I hesitate to use that word, but it really was - the adrenaline of expectation as I watched the blunt blade dig into my leg, and the sudden explosion of pain, the thrill of blood, the relief of tension.
Now it's more like a warm blanket after being out in a storm; it's familiar, and comforting, but nothing new. Same old, same old. I don't even look at the healing cuts now. I have no time for them, no desire. The fresh blood helps, and sometimes when I need to I tear at them with my nails, and the crimson reminds me of Ron.
Oh yes, you were waiting for that. Of course that's what set me off. Red reminded me of so many things - the Chudley Cannons posters on his wall, the colour he flushed when he was embarrassed, the hue of his hair. I miss him so much. Nothing's fair, is it? The 'right' thing would be for me to have defeated Voldemort in revenge, but I couldn't do that. When he came, I was herded back to the dormitory with the rest of the students, and I didn't try to escape, didn't try and save them. Did you see how many people died? I did. It was Voldemort's parting present to me, a sea of blood, and I can't set foot in the Dining Hall without seeing it in my mind. I can't fall asleep without seeing him killing Ron. Torturing him. Hearing my best friends screams for death. He didn't deserve that. I don't deserve sleep.
The wonders of concealing charms.
Keeping some semblance of normality (for me) was the last thing I could do for Ron, so I battle on daily, playing Quidditch, laughing and joking with Hermione, throwing the usual curses and insults at Malfoy. Do you hate me yet? I am fake; I am nothing. If ever there was a Harry Potter behind the masks that you all put up, he bled out of open wounds.
((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((
It's such a waste to be wasted
In the first place
I want to taste the taste of
Being face to face with common grace
To meditate on the warmest dream
And when I walk alone I listen
To our secret theme
))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))
Yes, we share a little in common. Mutual contempt, you would sneer. After all, why should you respect me? No, we both understand the truth. We both have perhaps more cynicism than is healthy. And. . .we crave power. Not perhaps power that Voldemort sold, but power over smaller things. I never knew anyone so absorbed in having meticulous control over his classroom, and I doubt many knew one who craved speed above all other speeds. Height above all heights.
Oh Merlin, what am I talking about? Nobody understands, and I don't expect you to be any different. But I like to entertain ideas of the impossible. Sometimes I leave the dormitories at night and walk around the lake, and I imagine that we are talking. I never have talked to you, but I can imagine your conversation would be perfect; darkly humorous and ironic, and you, unlike the rest of the population, would know when a pause is wanted. Will you wish you looked behind masks now, Professor? Probably not. I'm being hopelessly romantic; it is nothing more than a dream to wonder if you could ever understand me. Oh god, this note is going so badly wrong, and I'm running out of time.
I'm sorry.
I know all the answers to those questions, you know. The ones you asked me on that very first potions class. And I know them through understanding, I just never wanted to show it. How would it look if the Boy-Who-Lived was a boring academic? I am, frankly, a publicity stunt gone wrong.
The point to this note is, you will not receive it until it is too late. Cruel, selfish, inconsiderate to you. I don't care. This is my right. I thought about doing this publicly; off a large bridge, or maybe, clichéd as it sounds, the Astronomy Tower. That's what would have made it right to everyone. But I don't care now. I want to die as Harry, not Potter. I could not choose my birth, but I'm damn well going to leave the way I want. Headstrong to the last.
Please, do these things for me. Tell the Headmaster, Hagrid, Hermione, McGonagall, anyone who cares, that it was not their fault. Nor is it yours, though you are not stupid enough to think otherwise. Find my body, Professor, and conceal my scars. All of them. I want them to carry on believing I was perfect.
I'm going to find Ron and apologise, take his suffering from him as he took mine from me so many years ago when we met. He shouldn't have died, it's my fault. Now is my time to atone.
Thank you.
(((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((
Sailin' for the sun
'Cause There is one
Knows where I'm from
I care for you
I really do I really do
Come closer now
So you can lie
Right by my side
Sit alone in the sun
I wrote a letter to you
Getting over myself
)))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))
Well? What do you think? Love it or hate it? I am considering doing a sequel but only if I get 50 positive reviews. PLEASE feed me. I'm hungry. That little blue box in the corner will stop my rabid, starvation induced muses from kicking in, and will prevent me from writing horrible slash, eg Snape/Hagrid, Buckbeak/Hagrid, I could go on. But I'm sure you'd rather I didn't.
I am both J.K and The Red Hot Chili Peppers' manager, and have access to all rights to these lyrics, scenarios and characters. Honestly people, what do you expect this disclaimer to say?
*sighs* I own nothing. This included. Nichts, ne rien (only speak 3 languages) get the idea?
(((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((
No one is waiting
For me to fail
My will could sail yeah
))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))
It was very easy, doing it. I mean, the act of digging something sharp into your flesh and pulling it out. It's something that even I couldn't get wrong. Does it help me? Well yeah, of course. A bit. Truthfully, not as much as when I started, when it was like. . .like an orgasm. I hesitate to use that word, but it really was - the adrenaline of expectation as I watched the blunt blade dig into my leg, and the sudden explosion of pain, the thrill of blood, the relief of tension.
Now it's more like a warm blanket after being out in a storm; it's familiar, and comforting, but nothing new. Same old, same old. I don't even look at the healing cuts now. I have no time for them, no desire. The fresh blood helps, and sometimes when I need to I tear at them with my nails, and the crimson reminds me of Ron.
Oh yes, you were waiting for that. Of course that's what set me off. Red reminded me of so many things - the Chudley Cannons posters on his wall, the colour he flushed when he was embarrassed, the hue of his hair. I miss him so much. Nothing's fair, is it? The 'right' thing would be for me to have defeated Voldemort in revenge, but I couldn't do that. When he came, I was herded back to the dormitory with the rest of the students, and I didn't try to escape, didn't try and save them. Did you see how many people died? I did. It was Voldemort's parting present to me, a sea of blood, and I can't set foot in the Dining Hall without seeing it in my mind. I can't fall asleep without seeing him killing Ron. Torturing him. Hearing my best friends screams for death. He didn't deserve that. I don't deserve sleep.
The wonders of concealing charms.
Keeping some semblance of normality (for me) was the last thing I could do for Ron, so I battle on daily, playing Quidditch, laughing and joking with Hermione, throwing the usual curses and insults at Malfoy. Do you hate me yet? I am fake; I am nothing. If ever there was a Harry Potter behind the masks that you all put up, he bled out of open wounds.
((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((
It's such a waste to be wasted
In the first place
I want to taste the taste of
Being face to face with common grace
To meditate on the warmest dream
And when I walk alone I listen
To our secret theme
))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))
Yes, we share a little in common. Mutual contempt, you would sneer. After all, why should you respect me? No, we both understand the truth. We both have perhaps more cynicism than is healthy. And. . .we crave power. Not perhaps power that Voldemort sold, but power over smaller things. I never knew anyone so absorbed in having meticulous control over his classroom, and I doubt many knew one who craved speed above all other speeds. Height above all heights.
Oh Merlin, what am I talking about? Nobody understands, and I don't expect you to be any different. But I like to entertain ideas of the impossible. Sometimes I leave the dormitories at night and walk around the lake, and I imagine that we are talking. I never have talked to you, but I can imagine your conversation would be perfect; darkly humorous and ironic, and you, unlike the rest of the population, would know when a pause is wanted. Will you wish you looked behind masks now, Professor? Probably not. I'm being hopelessly romantic; it is nothing more than a dream to wonder if you could ever understand me. Oh god, this note is going so badly wrong, and I'm running out of time.
I'm sorry.
I know all the answers to those questions, you know. The ones you asked me on that very first potions class. And I know them through understanding, I just never wanted to show it. How would it look if the Boy-Who-Lived was a boring academic? I am, frankly, a publicity stunt gone wrong.
The point to this note is, you will not receive it until it is too late. Cruel, selfish, inconsiderate to you. I don't care. This is my right. I thought about doing this publicly; off a large bridge, or maybe, clichéd as it sounds, the Astronomy Tower. That's what would have made it right to everyone. But I don't care now. I want to die as Harry, not Potter. I could not choose my birth, but I'm damn well going to leave the way I want. Headstrong to the last.
Please, do these things for me. Tell the Headmaster, Hagrid, Hermione, McGonagall, anyone who cares, that it was not their fault. Nor is it yours, though you are not stupid enough to think otherwise. Find my body, Professor, and conceal my scars. All of them. I want them to carry on believing I was perfect.
I'm going to find Ron and apologise, take his suffering from him as he took mine from me so many years ago when we met. He shouldn't have died, it's my fault. Now is my time to atone.
Thank you.
(((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((
Sailin' for the sun
'Cause There is one
Knows where I'm from
I care for you
I really do I really do
Come closer now
So you can lie
Right by my side
Sit alone in the sun
I wrote a letter to you
Getting over myself
)))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))
Well? What do you think? Love it or hate it? I am considering doing a sequel but only if I get 50 positive reviews. PLEASE feed me. I'm hungry. That little blue box in the corner will stop my rabid, starvation induced muses from kicking in, and will prevent me from writing horrible slash, eg Snape/Hagrid, Buckbeak/Hagrid, I could go on. But I'm sure you'd rather I didn't.