Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter
Written for Quidditch Pitch
Prompt: She closed her eyes, and just for a moment allowed the illusion to consume her.
Written for Drabble Club
Prompts: Maybe one day it will be different. She had never felt so free.
Written for The Percy Jackson Character Challenge
Prompt: Write about someone who grew up.
Written for the Hunger Games Challenge #2
Written for the Emotions Challenge
Prompt: Jealous
You have no purpose in life. Everything is gone.
No.
You have one, last hope, one ray of sunshine in this world submerged in darkness.
Your grandson.
You cradle him in you arms, brushing your lips over his forehead. He nuzzles his head against your chest, and you hold back a strangled sob.
You love him.
He is your last hope, yet he reminds you of everything that went wrong.
Memories of what used to be surface, drawing tears from your eyes. They rush down your cheeks, and, one by one, drop into his waiting arms. Pit. Pat. But he sleeps peacefully, unaware of the world outside.
For once, you welcome the flood of memories. You close your eyes, and just for a moment, allow the illusion to consume you. One last time…
You are six.
You run through the meadows, rays of light warming your skin. The wind rushes past you, your brownish-black locks billowing. You inhale the deep aroma of spring, so fresh and pristine. Everything is different than a few months back; it is reborn. Poppies dot the field in their fiery, red glow. Tall grass scrapes at you knees, but it is soon forgotten in the bliss of it all.
You had never felt so free…
You are eight.
You scramble to your room as Father yells. You cringe as you hear the destruction that ensues.
In your hands is that which caused all the trouble. The forbidden book.
Father had always been seeking the Dark Arts. So naturally, he expected his children to do so as well. He demanded they studied them. He loathed anything that wasn't related.
Your eyes well with tears.
You are eleven.
In your hands is a crisp, white envelope. You carefully pry open the letter, making sure not to rip it. You remember a time when your sister received one of similar looks. You know what it contains, but have to make sure.
In big, bold letters it reads HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY.
You can't contain your elation. You squeal in delight.
You tell your entire family, only to be reprimanded of how "Of course you were going to get one!" and "You think one of the most purest families wouldn't?"
Your recent euphoria crumbles to dust.
You are twelve.
Your parents drop you off at platform nine and three-quarters. You struggle to comprehend, yet it looms right in front of you. You gather up your courage and walk into the wall, no, through it.
You are shocked to find a train there along with a horde of people. You pass by them, unnoticed. No one cares to ask who you are.
You board the train and sit near the window. No one sits with you. No one cares. So, you sit alone peering out the window, enjoying the view. You are welcomed with a dull stationary scene. You lean against the window, exasperated.
After a long wait, the train finally moves. You see other people talking, laughing, and enjoying themselves with their friends. You are envious of their joy, but you mask your emotions. You do not know why you are jealous of them—you just are.
A tall, blond boy stops chatting with his friends and glares at you. He sneers.
"Hey, mute!" he taunts, "You gonna talk or you just gonna sit there like an idiot, because that's all you're good at?"
His comrades join in chuckling with him.
You manage to put on an uncaring face, though, beneath the facade you are hurt. They continue to maim you, but you ignore them.
The ride finally comes to an end.
You are at the Great Hall.
Your name is finally called. You get out of your seat and walk to the Sorting Hat. The same boys snicker as you walk. You can dimly hear their conversation.
"There she goes again, being an idiot!" the tall boy says.
The others add, "If there were a House for stupid people, she would surely fit!"
You steam with anger. Wherever you are, you are never welcome.
"It has always been your fate," a voice whispers in your mind.
Ignoring the threatening curse, you step up as the hat is placed on you. You desperately hope to be in Slytherin to avoid shame from your family.
"Mmm, yes," a different voice speaks in your head.
You are placed in Slytherin.
You are running.
Behind you, you can hear their snickers of laughter. The voices slowly amplify: they gain on you.
You weave in and out between the trees. In and out.
You trail to the left hoping to lose them. Your heart hammers in your chest.
Suddenly it's quiet. You crouch down and hide in a bush. Did you lose them?
Thorns prick you, drawing blood. Not the best spot.
You cry out as the leader yanks you by your shirt, pulling you from behind the thornbush back into them.
"You think you can outrun us?" the leader starts. "No one can!"
His comrades join in laughing.
You cringe as the boys kick you one, two, three times. Pain shoots through you: your back is on fire.
Then they leave you in the forest to die.
Wherever you are, you are never welcome.
You awake to a stiff back.
Your eyes drowsily open. You are stunned to find yourself wrapped up in a blanket on a soft bed. It really feels like you are resting on clouds.
As your brain struggles to comprehend, you see a well groomed man enter the room.
You freeze. Those eyes.
You tear yourself away before your stare is apparent.
You muster your courage and ask the man what happened.
He replies, "I was out for a walk, when I stumbled upon you, banged up pretty bad. So I figured you need some help."
"Uh, thank you!" you manage to say while glancing at him.
That face mesmerizes you. You look at his build and notice it's bulky structure. You notice his high chiseled cheekbones. You notice his hair, well trimmed. It's short, but complements his earthen tone. You drink in every detail.
You are with him.
You love him, but you can't be with him.
Yet, you need him. You pull him closer; he is yours, now and forever. You won't let him go—he is yours. It echoes in your mind.
He is yours.
He is yours.
He is yours.
But at what cost?
You stand in the hall, near the family tapestry. Father and Mother are yelling.
Not between themselves, but at you.
They scream curses, threats, and talk of disowning.
They yell relentlessly like a tempest, damaging everything in it's path. You hear the sound of a wood splintering, glass shattering, all because of you.
Wherever you are, you are never welcome. It has always been your fate.
They burn the picture of you on the family tree. They destroy everything that ever featured you. You watch tearfully as moments of your past disappear, like a speck of dust in the thousands that lay scattered in the dirt.
You can hear Narcissa, the only one in the family, other than Sirius, who had ever been nice to you. She is shouting for Mother and Father to rethink their hasty decision, for you.
You hear them storming down the hallway coming for you. They will kill you, if that's what it takes.
You dash out of the dreaded estates. You run. You don't know where—you just keep running.
Wherever you are, you are never welcome… It has always been your fate.
You are in the meadows.
The place you would escape to from your parents wrath; your only refuge.
It used to bring you joy, but now only sorrow.
You shed your tears here until you are empty inside.
A new emotion takes root in your soul. Anger.
Anger at your elder sister's cruelty. Anger at your parents' blindness. Anger at your pathetic life.
Soon it rains, chilling you to the bone. It weeps for you, crying your thousand unshed tears. The coldness soon seeps into you. You welcome it.
Time passes as you reflect on your life. You think if loving him was worth the price. Soon darkness envelops the meadow. It cloaks you, leaving no sign you had ever existed.
You welcome it.
This time he is with you. He sits next to the bed caressing your hands. You ask him.
"Do you know how much I threw away for you?" You start. "My family disowned me once they knew. I was never supposed to be with you." You finish with tears welling in your brown eyes. You look at him, pained. Those eyes...
"I am sorry," his low voice said. "I never knew; you should have told me." He follows up saying, "We were never meant to be, weren't we?" And with that, he leaves the room, further deepening your worries. The room seemed to darken as he leaves.
Wherever you are, you are never welcome. It has always been your fate…
You are in a hospital bed.
You grip his hand tightly. Your knuckles are white with tension. Pain shoots through you. Your body resisted the dozing potion. Now you have to feel the pain.
Your body feels like needles are stabbing you everywhere. You are in agony. Your body burns in a fire that would not retreat. You push as hard as you can.
You are passing out. Almost unconscious, you can faintly hear him telling you it's done.
Then it's all over.
The pain ceases. The agony withheld. And a baby girl lying in a blanket nearby.
You name her Nymphadora.
You watch.
Dora runs around, laughing. Watching her brings you joy. You love her.
She plays around not knowing the dangers of the world. She is carefree.
Some people say that force is the only way to make others listen to you. But that is foolishness, for only love truly makes people listen.
Only love.
You cry tears of joy.
"You may now kiss the bride," a voice declares.
Remus kisses Dora passionately.
You watch as they melt over one another. You let them have their moment.
You fill with pride and accomplishment for your Dora and her Remus.
You never knew how short it would last.
You stand agape.
Dora stands at the door, tears rolling down her cheeks. In her arms rest a small lump.
You rush her in.
"What happened?" you ask.
You dread the answer.
She responds, voice shaken, "Remus abandoned me because he feared he passed lycanthropy to our son." She stifles a sob and slumps. "He left me."
You can't believe it. Though you knew it was the truth.
You are outside.
You gaze at the scenery around you. The wildflowers dot the meadow you overlook. You hear the rustling of the creek in the distance. You look at the horizon, contemplating its natural beauty. Only then do you see the flock of owls flying towards them.
What is it this time? you wonder. Your owl, whom you call Max, flies to you. Around his neck is a letter, an urgent one, given the circumstances.
He flies up, gaining altitude and then tucks into his signature dive, surpassing the other owls by a mile.
He then stoops and lands in front of you.
He cocks his head, as if expecting a reward.
You toss him and Eeylop Premium Owl Treat.
He hoots in gratitude.
You untie the letter from his neck, anticipation rising.
You pry it open easily.
Poorly sealed, you note in your head. The writing is scribbled, as if in haste. It is from Albus Dumbledore.
You can't believe your eyes. The letter describes how Voldemort has seized the Ministry of Magic and now is implementing Snatchers—people enforced to exterminate any Muggle-born wizards.
And that includes Ted.
You watch helplessly as Ted is mercilessly beaten. He limps to the floor, unmoving.
You watch as they turn their bony heads to you.
"That is Option 2; the hard way." The lead Death Eater shouts.
"Option 1 is to tell us everything you know about Harry, everything. We will know if you are lying. We don't want to hurt you, but we will if proves necessary."
Scoundrels, no doubt they would.
Their eyes bore into yours, searching for an answer. You meet their gaze.
"Well what is it?" he grumbles.
Finding a reserve of courage you say, "I choose Option 2 willingly."
They're on you in a second.
You hear the leader muttering, "We will find out. We always do!"
They kick you hard onto the floor. You scream, pain envelops you in a fire that would not retreat.
"Enough!" you hear the leader shout.
The torture is withheld. You gasp, sobbing on the floor.
You feel the cool wood beneath you. You feel the vibrations of someone stepping closer. Closer.
"Never!" you shout, hacking into a cough. "I will never bow to your evil wills!"
"Let's not be too hasty," he says, ramming his foot into your chest.
You explode into a coughing torrent.
"I don't want to do this to you," he maims.
You nearly laugh at this, if you were in the condition to, that is. Death Eaters not wanting others to suffer? One could only hope!
"I will never bow to you, you who destroy countless, innocent lives!"
A fist rams into your torso.
Everything goes black.
Maybe one day it will be different…
You wave goodbye.
You watch as Ted silently retreats into the forest. You bid him farewell and tell him to stay safe.
At your side is Dora. She asks you when he is coming back.
You reply, "Soon, once it's all over."
You bathe in the false hope. You never knew it was the last time you would ever see him, again.
You are heartbroken.
You manage to wear a calm face and reply "I understand." Though, beneath your facade you are broken. You are like glass. You have a hard coating, but given enough force, you shatter.
You close the door and slump.
You desperately wish it wasn't true, but you know it is. They all died...
Even the finest of swords have a breaking point.
Everything had been taken from you, everything. There was no reason left to live.
You blink your eyes and the illusion ends. It's all over. You check your watch. What felt like an eternity passed by in a few minutes. Your whole life, in mere moments. You long for the carefree days of your early childhood, but know that you will never be able to go back. It's over.
You think the one desperate word. Obliviate.
It echos in your mind.
You think of your entire life. Will you leave it all behind? Will you banish the nightmares of the past? Will you forsake it all? You are tempted to say yes.
Will you destroy all memories of your grandson? Will you give it all up?
Will you?
You pull out your wand.
There's no turning back.
"Obliviate." The word, crisp and clear, resonates across the room, dispelling the silence.
You wait, tense.
You start to feel dizzy. You crash to the floor.
NO!
As you fall, you realize forgetting was never what you really wanted.
You struggle to remember the words. You must remember.
"Finite In—" you start.
Your memory wipes; you never finish the words.
NO!
As you drift off, regret consumes you.
It's too late.
You can still hear the destructive word. It echoes in your head, over and over.
Obliviate.
Obliviate.
Obliviate.
Wherever you are, you are never welcome.
It has always been your fate...