Harry Potter characters and related indicia are copyrighted to the amazing
J.K. Rowling, and all persons she has decided to allow rights to
(including, but not limited to: Scholastic, Inc., Bloomsbury Books, Warner
Brothers). I am none of the aforementioned people, nor do I lay claim to
anything by writing this. The world of Harry Potter is not mine, merely a
fantasy world I have been allowed to dream in momentarily. Please don't
sue. After all, we all love to dream, don't we?
A/N: First chapter in my response to the fanfic challenge proposed by the wonderful author Nytd. Go read her works, they're marvelous! Challenge rules will be posted at end of the completed story for reference. Enjoy!
He was in a second story bedroom of a large manor, curtains waltzing in the windows with the breeze. The infant in his arms was asleep, pale, and defenseless against the black velour sleeves of his robes. The babe always fell fast asleep when he picked him up, most likely seduced into comatose by the gentle, water-like qualities of his voice. He stopped humming.
"Works like a charm," he chuckled distantly.
"What would I do without you?" Narcissa Malfoy was exceedingly pretty when with those she found to be pleasant company. "I daresay you'll want to get back to the party." He laid Draco in his crib, removing a finger from the grip of his tiny fist, and set a blanket gingerly on his small figure. He closed the window, setting the dancing curtains to rest, feeling cool lips pressed against his cheek.
"Thank you," they whispered. With a nod, he left for the basement, through a maze of empty, brooding hallways.
The moment he stepped in the room, he was accosted by a blond in form fitting scarlet dress robes, the same hue as her lips. He pulled away from her lusty kisses, tainted with the breath of a muggle champagne. Lucius Malfoy was a hypocrite if there ever was one.
"Excuse me, McCarthy. A word, if you will." The blond sighed, and left to prey on some other unsuspecting Death Eater. A man with the largest shoulders that a human could possibly have turned towards him, looking slightly irritated, but still listening.
"What are we supposed to do about Chantal?"
"What do you mean?"
"Chantal Lestrange. You know that her parents were sent to Azkaban last week. The Malfoys will not permit her staying here much longer. I don't think Narcissa would mind so much, but Lucius would never stand for it. We can't just leave her to fend for herself. She is only a child."
"And you think I have the time to take care of her, do you?" McCarthy retorted, rather brutally. "I don't see anything wrong with letting her fend for herself. I suggest you go find somebody who cares, if it means that much to you."
Crabbe? Goyle? No, neither of them was smart enough to hold a child right side up. They both recently had children anyway. He surveyed the room quickly. Fincastle? He was much too involved, and he didn't have anyone at home who could care for her while he was away. Macnair? Too interested in killing things. Mulciber? Imperius curse specialist. He would have too much fun with a small child. Travers? That was ridiculous. Voldemort, perhaps? Out of the question. How could he even consider- There was a strange sensation on the back of his neck. Rookwood? Kissing him?
And there she was, offering him a tall flute of champagne. Every time he peered at her face she seemed to be nothing but a pair of brown eyes with graceful lashes gazing up at him. Athena Rookwood was the younger sister of Augustus. They both worked at the Ministry; Augustus for the Department of Mysteries, and Athena had just begun at the Council of Magical Law. Spies, but he had a feeling Athena was more of a spy for the ministry than for the group at the Malfoy Manor that evening.
"Ahh. Athena. How nice to see you," he smiled, thinking quickly. "Still wanting someone to warm a place beside you at night?" He knew it was awful to play with emotions like that. but he had to find a suitable home for Chantal. She eyed him cautiously.
"I thought you said you didn't want to get attached. I know you think," at this point, she pulled him farther towards a corner and whispered, "that this is all too risky. Was it just last week that you refused me for sake of not wanting to hurt anyone? Here you are, a Death Eater, saying you don't want to hurt anyone. That's a lie if I've ever heard one, not to mention you have the nerve to come to me a week later and deny it." The words sounded so painful, coming from someone else's mouth. A Death Eater, not wanting to hurt anyone. He'd been trying to hard to admit to himself that this was not what he wanted.
"No. I haven't changed my mind. But there's somebody over there in the corner who has been crying her eyes out here with the Malfoy's for the past week. She needs a home. She needs someone to take care of her, and." he trailed off. "She needs someone caring, even compassionate. I know that she neither wants to, nor will be able to in this much longer, Athena. To be honest," she laughed at him, "I don't think you want to be in this mess either."
She started longingly into his eyes, backing towards the doorway and whispering to him in a smooth, honeyed tone. "Obviously, you have enough care and compassion. You're the one out here pleading to find her a suitable new home. Get out of here and take care of her yourself." The door she turned to face opened, and in stumbled Peter Pettigrew, followed closely by Narcissa Malfoy with a wailing Draco in her arms.
"Lucius! What is going on? He just came screaming through the hallways, raving about how Harry Potter has just." Narcissa's words caught in her throat and she nearly choked on them. Draco stopped crying. The room was deathly quiet.
Peter Pettigrew clung to the railing of the stairs for support, lungs heaving to take in air as if he had been trapped underwater to the very height, breadth and width of his lungs. A yew wand fell from his grasp and clattered down the steps. Wild fire burnt in his eyes and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
"James and Lily Potter are dead." Peter looked up. No one dared to even consider moving. There was a pause so pregnant it could've had twins. "Master tried to kill the son, Harry, but it backfired. He is dead. Harry Potter killed." he broke down in dry, wracking sobs. Because of his lust for power, he had been assimilated into a life fancying hatred and prejudice. Because of his weaknesses, his childhood friends had been killed. Yet, Peter's were sobs of fear, not of self hatred.
The room echoed with a vast array of emotions. The words "Harry Potter" dripped from every mouth present. Many were scornful, spitting out the name as if a bite of rancid meat that deadened the taste buds. A few of them were laced with awe, reverence even. He made his mouth fit around the word, but somehow it felt neither right nor wrong. One small voice was shouting it in the general direction of his knees.
"I HATE HARRY POTTER!" Chantal cried, pounding her small fists against his thighs with surprising force. "I hate him! I hate him! I HATE HIM!" He folded her into his arms, shushing and whispering soft solace. He would be the one to take care of her. But who would take care of him?
Late July sunlight filtered through the muslin, Severus Snape wrapped in wet heat beneath the veranda's kiosk. He hated that dream. It wasn't really a dream, merely remembering that evening in his sleep. It had been exactly that. The emotions, the desire to escape it all, the silence that prickled the skin worse than any scream, the way he set to rest a screaming child, the way he held Chantal close in his arms as she let out torrents of fear and loneliness and naïve bitterness.
It was going to be a long day.
He slid out of bed into the fierce rays, rushing to get inside, yet graceful as always. The sun felt no guilt no matter how many innocent people met its touch and burnt, blistered and red with the scar of unfriendly embrace. It was particularly vicious in the desert, more of a challenge burning those who try to protect themselves. Severus whispered a curse word, realizing he was fresh out of Sunshade Serum. He would have to get more yarrow, and he was nearly out of hyssop. It's a good thing that the garden out back was very well taken care of, or he'd never find all the ingredients.
Severus was assisting at the apothecary located in Saudi Arabia, at the edge of a lush oasis home to a whole community of wizards outside of muggle Al Badi. Dumbledore had sent him there two weeks ago to wait for reinforcement and instructions as to what, exactly, he would be doing there. Two days before this painfully bright late morning, he found out that the reinforcements were none other than his two favorite people in the world: Remus Lupin, and Sirius Black. They would be meeting with Dumbledore at Bartleby Lupin's flat that afternoon at sunset to discuss the coming mission over tea.
He slipped on a set of thin, breathy robes the white color of beach sand. Were black robes not absolute death in the desert, he wouldn't have dared to wear something so light. A green, heatless fire smoldered in the fireplace, and his great horned owl, Andromeda, picked at the remains of a small mouse on her perch on the corner. He took a long draught of water, pulling out ingredients and thinking of how often he felt associated to Andromeda's mythical counterpart. Sure, he wasn't a girl. But he felt just as betrayed, just as vulnerable.
His parents had been prey to the Dark Lord and his supporters. They dare not join the side themselves. His mother, always keen with the star written aspects of divination, had seen that by sacrificing Severus, they could remain safe. But unlike Andromeda, his proverbial imprisonment, being chained to a rock as food wasn't something that scared him. He got caught up. Young, in awe of power, and impressionable, he willingly joined their forces and grew to regret it.
Though he had heavy bloodstains upon his past, Dumbledore had accepted him. For his teaching skills, his ability with children (though the children themselves never seemed to notice anymore), his repentance, his extreme skill at potions making. he didn't know why Dumbledore was so willing to forgive, but he didn't mind it in the least. He had originally applied for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position, the summer after Harry's initial defeat of Voldemort, but Dumbledore had turned him down. He thirsted to prove himself, to be able to provide the best of the wizarding world's youth with adequate defense against the forces of evil. Had he not been there? Had he not done so many of those things himself, and seen with his own eyes the things that did and did not fight against them? He knew the headmaster knew about all that, so why wouldn't Dumbledore let him teach the subject the past 13 years? He shuddered, thinking his personal experience may be exactly why he wasn't allowed the position.
The collected the rest of the ingredients from the garden, cast a Chilling Charm on the room, and set a real fire blazing beneath the cauldron. The potion was finished within a matter of minutes, and he drank a vile full of the bright orange liquid. He had always thought it tasted strangely like apricots. Apricots swelled, and pushed all the dark thoughts to the back of his mind. He had vague memories from his early childhood of apricot bush trees, with lean gray trunks and innocent white blossoms that tickled the nose to the sound of an afternoon story. His grandmother had been the only family member who ever selflessly, wholly loved him. She had loved apricots, and had planted the tree when Severus's parents were married. When she died, the tree cried out one last beautiful harvest, and shriveled up in mourning like that love. When he got married (a sneaky 'if' crept into his mind), he would plant an apricot tree in the yard in her memory, and never let it mourn.
But that time was not yet, and he filled a baker's dozen of glass vials with sun shaped toppers with the serum. He put out the fire, placed all thirteen in a cupboard, ran a few fingers over Andromeda's sleeping head, and left.
"My name is Harry Potter. May I speak to Remus, please? No, no, this doesn't hurt a bit!"A voice from the other room woke Remus Lupin from his thoughts about how positively awful iced tea was, but how somehow the company seemed to make that feeling disappear entirely.
"Remus! There's a head for you in the fireplace. Some chap named Harvey Porter, or something."
"Harry Potter?" Remus chuckled, raising an eyebrow.
"Ah yes, Harry Potter. That's the one!" smiled Bartleby Lupin, toddling off into the kitchen. He was a cheery man of about 65, with a little extra padding around his middle and a charming set of dimples. Eccentric didn't begin to describe him. Even Remus, who had known him for all 36 of his years, was still completely baffled by him on a regular basis.
He was on Remus's mother's side. He was almost like the opposite of Mr. Weasley, a muggle that was completely fascinated by all things magical in a cantankering sort of way. He didn't have a shed, but he had numerous magical things lying around the flat that he toyed with constantly. Remus and his parents had given most of them to him as Christmas or birthday gifts. He never quite understood why wizards, who didn't believe in Jesus, celebrated His birth. But that didn't mean he was going to refuse a bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey and an excuse to blow some Drooble's best blowing gum until his house was filled to the brim with twinkling bluebell bubbles that lasted for days.
"Hullo, Harry. How's your holiday?"
"Staying at Hogwarts is wonderful, even during the summer. Ron and Mrs. Weasley got to come up for supper one afternoon, and Fred and George pop by all the time now that they've gotten the store in Hogsmeade. But. we've got a bit of a problem. Dumbledore knocked over his pensieve and all his memories have leaked all over the floor. I can't figure out how to clean it up, and in the condition he's in Dumbledore is no help. He's been walking around for days with the sorting hat on because it helps him concentrate on all the memories he's still got in his head. It's been whining about how it can't write the song if it's occupied like this, but it's delighted to help. It yells Gryffindor much more than it needs to, though.
"Ah, yes. Getting to the point. He can't come to meet with you there, so you'll just have to Apparate to Hogsmeade and walk up to the castle from there."
James wouldn't have cleaned it up either. The contents of the brain of one of the most capable wizards in the history of the world were spilt all over the floor. Yet, he had the respect and the self control to leave it alone. Remus sighed.
"We'll all come up as soon as Sirius and Snape are here. Don't worry too much, Harry. Albus Dumbledore will be himself again in no time."
The green flames in the fireplace died down as Harry's head disappeared, and the door nearly burst off its hinges. Searing white light flooded into the room, a strange figure silhouetted with the biting pain of black space in burning retinas. An enormous shaggy dog carried in a tiny, weeping boy. He looked to be about four, small fists buried in black fur and red sand tears staining the fresh olive skin of his face.
It was going to be a long day.
Reviews of all kinds are welcome and very much appreciated. Happy writing, Potterheads!
A/N: First chapter in my response to the fanfic challenge proposed by the wonderful author Nytd. Go read her works, they're marvelous! Challenge rules will be posted at end of the completed story for reference. Enjoy!
He was in a second story bedroom of a large manor, curtains waltzing in the windows with the breeze. The infant in his arms was asleep, pale, and defenseless against the black velour sleeves of his robes. The babe always fell fast asleep when he picked him up, most likely seduced into comatose by the gentle, water-like qualities of his voice. He stopped humming.
"Works like a charm," he chuckled distantly.
"What would I do without you?" Narcissa Malfoy was exceedingly pretty when with those she found to be pleasant company. "I daresay you'll want to get back to the party." He laid Draco in his crib, removing a finger from the grip of his tiny fist, and set a blanket gingerly on his small figure. He closed the window, setting the dancing curtains to rest, feeling cool lips pressed against his cheek.
"Thank you," they whispered. With a nod, he left for the basement, through a maze of empty, brooding hallways.
The moment he stepped in the room, he was accosted by a blond in form fitting scarlet dress robes, the same hue as her lips. He pulled away from her lusty kisses, tainted with the breath of a muggle champagne. Lucius Malfoy was a hypocrite if there ever was one.
"Excuse me, McCarthy. A word, if you will." The blond sighed, and left to prey on some other unsuspecting Death Eater. A man with the largest shoulders that a human could possibly have turned towards him, looking slightly irritated, but still listening.
"What are we supposed to do about Chantal?"
"What do you mean?"
"Chantal Lestrange. You know that her parents were sent to Azkaban last week. The Malfoys will not permit her staying here much longer. I don't think Narcissa would mind so much, but Lucius would never stand for it. We can't just leave her to fend for herself. She is only a child."
"And you think I have the time to take care of her, do you?" McCarthy retorted, rather brutally. "I don't see anything wrong with letting her fend for herself. I suggest you go find somebody who cares, if it means that much to you."
Crabbe? Goyle? No, neither of them was smart enough to hold a child right side up. They both recently had children anyway. He surveyed the room quickly. Fincastle? He was much too involved, and he didn't have anyone at home who could care for her while he was away. Macnair? Too interested in killing things. Mulciber? Imperius curse specialist. He would have too much fun with a small child. Travers? That was ridiculous. Voldemort, perhaps? Out of the question. How could he even consider- There was a strange sensation on the back of his neck. Rookwood? Kissing him?
And there she was, offering him a tall flute of champagne. Every time he peered at her face she seemed to be nothing but a pair of brown eyes with graceful lashes gazing up at him. Athena Rookwood was the younger sister of Augustus. They both worked at the Ministry; Augustus for the Department of Mysteries, and Athena had just begun at the Council of Magical Law. Spies, but he had a feeling Athena was more of a spy for the ministry than for the group at the Malfoy Manor that evening.
"Ahh. Athena. How nice to see you," he smiled, thinking quickly. "Still wanting someone to warm a place beside you at night?" He knew it was awful to play with emotions like that. but he had to find a suitable home for Chantal. She eyed him cautiously.
"I thought you said you didn't want to get attached. I know you think," at this point, she pulled him farther towards a corner and whispered, "that this is all too risky. Was it just last week that you refused me for sake of not wanting to hurt anyone? Here you are, a Death Eater, saying you don't want to hurt anyone. That's a lie if I've ever heard one, not to mention you have the nerve to come to me a week later and deny it." The words sounded so painful, coming from someone else's mouth. A Death Eater, not wanting to hurt anyone. He'd been trying to hard to admit to himself that this was not what he wanted.
"No. I haven't changed my mind. But there's somebody over there in the corner who has been crying her eyes out here with the Malfoy's for the past week. She needs a home. She needs someone to take care of her, and." he trailed off. "She needs someone caring, even compassionate. I know that she neither wants to, nor will be able to in this much longer, Athena. To be honest," she laughed at him, "I don't think you want to be in this mess either."
She started longingly into his eyes, backing towards the doorway and whispering to him in a smooth, honeyed tone. "Obviously, you have enough care and compassion. You're the one out here pleading to find her a suitable new home. Get out of here and take care of her yourself." The door she turned to face opened, and in stumbled Peter Pettigrew, followed closely by Narcissa Malfoy with a wailing Draco in her arms.
"Lucius! What is going on? He just came screaming through the hallways, raving about how Harry Potter has just." Narcissa's words caught in her throat and she nearly choked on them. Draco stopped crying. The room was deathly quiet.
Peter Pettigrew clung to the railing of the stairs for support, lungs heaving to take in air as if he had been trapped underwater to the very height, breadth and width of his lungs. A yew wand fell from his grasp and clattered down the steps. Wild fire burnt in his eyes and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
"James and Lily Potter are dead." Peter looked up. No one dared to even consider moving. There was a pause so pregnant it could've had twins. "Master tried to kill the son, Harry, but it backfired. He is dead. Harry Potter killed." he broke down in dry, wracking sobs. Because of his lust for power, he had been assimilated into a life fancying hatred and prejudice. Because of his weaknesses, his childhood friends had been killed. Yet, Peter's were sobs of fear, not of self hatred.
The room echoed with a vast array of emotions. The words "Harry Potter" dripped from every mouth present. Many were scornful, spitting out the name as if a bite of rancid meat that deadened the taste buds. A few of them were laced with awe, reverence even. He made his mouth fit around the word, but somehow it felt neither right nor wrong. One small voice was shouting it in the general direction of his knees.
"I HATE HARRY POTTER!" Chantal cried, pounding her small fists against his thighs with surprising force. "I hate him! I hate him! I HATE HIM!" He folded her into his arms, shushing and whispering soft solace. He would be the one to take care of her. But who would take care of him?
Late July sunlight filtered through the muslin, Severus Snape wrapped in wet heat beneath the veranda's kiosk. He hated that dream. It wasn't really a dream, merely remembering that evening in his sleep. It had been exactly that. The emotions, the desire to escape it all, the silence that prickled the skin worse than any scream, the way he set to rest a screaming child, the way he held Chantal close in his arms as she let out torrents of fear and loneliness and naïve bitterness.
It was going to be a long day.
He slid out of bed into the fierce rays, rushing to get inside, yet graceful as always. The sun felt no guilt no matter how many innocent people met its touch and burnt, blistered and red with the scar of unfriendly embrace. It was particularly vicious in the desert, more of a challenge burning those who try to protect themselves. Severus whispered a curse word, realizing he was fresh out of Sunshade Serum. He would have to get more yarrow, and he was nearly out of hyssop. It's a good thing that the garden out back was very well taken care of, or he'd never find all the ingredients.
Severus was assisting at the apothecary located in Saudi Arabia, at the edge of a lush oasis home to a whole community of wizards outside of muggle Al Badi. Dumbledore had sent him there two weeks ago to wait for reinforcement and instructions as to what, exactly, he would be doing there. Two days before this painfully bright late morning, he found out that the reinforcements were none other than his two favorite people in the world: Remus Lupin, and Sirius Black. They would be meeting with Dumbledore at Bartleby Lupin's flat that afternoon at sunset to discuss the coming mission over tea.
He slipped on a set of thin, breathy robes the white color of beach sand. Were black robes not absolute death in the desert, he wouldn't have dared to wear something so light. A green, heatless fire smoldered in the fireplace, and his great horned owl, Andromeda, picked at the remains of a small mouse on her perch on the corner. He took a long draught of water, pulling out ingredients and thinking of how often he felt associated to Andromeda's mythical counterpart. Sure, he wasn't a girl. But he felt just as betrayed, just as vulnerable.
His parents had been prey to the Dark Lord and his supporters. They dare not join the side themselves. His mother, always keen with the star written aspects of divination, had seen that by sacrificing Severus, they could remain safe. But unlike Andromeda, his proverbial imprisonment, being chained to a rock as food wasn't something that scared him. He got caught up. Young, in awe of power, and impressionable, he willingly joined their forces and grew to regret it.
Though he had heavy bloodstains upon his past, Dumbledore had accepted him. For his teaching skills, his ability with children (though the children themselves never seemed to notice anymore), his repentance, his extreme skill at potions making. he didn't know why Dumbledore was so willing to forgive, but he didn't mind it in the least. He had originally applied for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position, the summer after Harry's initial defeat of Voldemort, but Dumbledore had turned him down. He thirsted to prove himself, to be able to provide the best of the wizarding world's youth with adequate defense against the forces of evil. Had he not been there? Had he not done so many of those things himself, and seen with his own eyes the things that did and did not fight against them? He knew the headmaster knew about all that, so why wouldn't Dumbledore let him teach the subject the past 13 years? He shuddered, thinking his personal experience may be exactly why he wasn't allowed the position.
The collected the rest of the ingredients from the garden, cast a Chilling Charm on the room, and set a real fire blazing beneath the cauldron. The potion was finished within a matter of minutes, and he drank a vile full of the bright orange liquid. He had always thought it tasted strangely like apricots. Apricots swelled, and pushed all the dark thoughts to the back of his mind. He had vague memories from his early childhood of apricot bush trees, with lean gray trunks and innocent white blossoms that tickled the nose to the sound of an afternoon story. His grandmother had been the only family member who ever selflessly, wholly loved him. She had loved apricots, and had planted the tree when Severus's parents were married. When she died, the tree cried out one last beautiful harvest, and shriveled up in mourning like that love. When he got married (a sneaky 'if' crept into his mind), he would plant an apricot tree in the yard in her memory, and never let it mourn.
But that time was not yet, and he filled a baker's dozen of glass vials with sun shaped toppers with the serum. He put out the fire, placed all thirteen in a cupboard, ran a few fingers over Andromeda's sleeping head, and left.
"My name is Harry Potter. May I speak to Remus, please? No, no, this doesn't hurt a bit!"A voice from the other room woke Remus Lupin from his thoughts about how positively awful iced tea was, but how somehow the company seemed to make that feeling disappear entirely.
"Remus! There's a head for you in the fireplace. Some chap named Harvey Porter, or something."
"Harry Potter?" Remus chuckled, raising an eyebrow.
"Ah yes, Harry Potter. That's the one!" smiled Bartleby Lupin, toddling off into the kitchen. He was a cheery man of about 65, with a little extra padding around his middle and a charming set of dimples. Eccentric didn't begin to describe him. Even Remus, who had known him for all 36 of his years, was still completely baffled by him on a regular basis.
He was on Remus's mother's side. He was almost like the opposite of Mr. Weasley, a muggle that was completely fascinated by all things magical in a cantankering sort of way. He didn't have a shed, but he had numerous magical things lying around the flat that he toyed with constantly. Remus and his parents had given most of them to him as Christmas or birthday gifts. He never quite understood why wizards, who didn't believe in Jesus, celebrated His birth. But that didn't mean he was going to refuse a bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey and an excuse to blow some Drooble's best blowing gum until his house was filled to the brim with twinkling bluebell bubbles that lasted for days.
"Hullo, Harry. How's your holiday?"
"Staying at Hogwarts is wonderful, even during the summer. Ron and Mrs. Weasley got to come up for supper one afternoon, and Fred and George pop by all the time now that they've gotten the store in Hogsmeade. But. we've got a bit of a problem. Dumbledore knocked over his pensieve and all his memories have leaked all over the floor. I can't figure out how to clean it up, and in the condition he's in Dumbledore is no help. He's been walking around for days with the sorting hat on because it helps him concentrate on all the memories he's still got in his head. It's been whining about how it can't write the song if it's occupied like this, but it's delighted to help. It yells Gryffindor much more than it needs to, though.
"Ah, yes. Getting to the point. He can't come to meet with you there, so you'll just have to Apparate to Hogsmeade and walk up to the castle from there."
James wouldn't have cleaned it up either. The contents of the brain of one of the most capable wizards in the history of the world were spilt all over the floor. Yet, he had the respect and the self control to leave it alone. Remus sighed.
"We'll all come up as soon as Sirius and Snape are here. Don't worry too much, Harry. Albus Dumbledore will be himself again in no time."
The green flames in the fireplace died down as Harry's head disappeared, and the door nearly burst off its hinges. Searing white light flooded into the room, a strange figure silhouetted with the biting pain of black space in burning retinas. An enormous shaggy dog carried in a tiny, weeping boy. He looked to be about four, small fists buried in black fur and red sand tears staining the fresh olive skin of his face.
It was going to be a long day.
Reviews of all kinds are welcome and very much appreciated. Happy writing, Potterheads!