DISCLAIMER: I claim none of dis. Seriously now, I only own my character, ::talking to self:: well duh shut up you, all existing characters are JK Rowling's and I shan't pretend to own them.
Twas a long hard day, it turned out the Geography teacher wasn't in, so I thought; what shall I do? Coursework? No! I'll take a webpage from Miss Rowling herself's site, so to speak, and write a story! This is dedicated to Mieko Belle, as it was her who wanted me to branch out into full-length fanfics in the first place.
I've added more now it's shaping up to be pretty fun to write, I may actually finish it! Depends on what you guys thing though…?
Harry Potter and the Forgotten Memory
It kills me now to think back on those days we spent together. Those three, so close to each other, like a family. I haven't felt that for decades, not since back when my family were around. It's all his fault of course. They fear his wrath, ha! They don't even know him. I do, I know the real him, what's in his head, I know what goes on behind those eyes, his fears, torments…his willingness to sacrifice innocent children for his own needs…I wish I'd never proposed that course of action. Yeah sure, I gave my consent; after all, what did I have left to live for? I needed purpose! But I think it was mainly those eyes…he's impossible to refuse when he fixes them on you, so piercing, so calculating, so penetrating…so twinkling…I shall forever curse that name: Albus Dumbledore.
They all love him, strongest amongst them, always ready to fight the good fight, but they don't see him how I see him, always using up resources before entering the fray himself. They don't understand him. There are many shades of grey. Merlin knows I love him too, he's such a character, skipping round this unmentionably dangerous place, humming to himself as though he were a toddler in a playpen, when he and I alone know of the terrible things that lurk in the bowels of Hogwarts. I heard from Minerva that he danced down the corridor to the transfiguration classroom with her! Such a jolly old soul. And yet if only they knew how heartless he was, to condemn me to this fate, Fawkes agrees with me, he's my only friend left now, after dear Albus took me away from them. Of course Fawkes understands me, yes, nice, pretty Fawkes, my only friend, nice Fawkes….
I'm going mad now, obsessive compulsive! I can't bear these staring contests with Dippit's painting anymore, half the time I think he's fallen asleep with his eyes open, so now I'm back to trying to count all the feathers on Fawkes' tail…nice Fawkes…my friend…my only…I'm all alone now, (except for Fawkes and the paintings), sitting here all alone in Dumbledore's office, trapped, and yet I know all the passwords. He's left me here again, he doesn't care about how bored I get, after all, I'm only a memory…
That's all I am, a memory, preserved in a small insignificant object. A ring. It was a spell my friends and I found out about during my fifth year at Hogwarts, but that's getting ahead of myself. For you to truly understand my story we must go back fifty-seven years to when I was ten years old, the year I first came to Hogwarts. Those were dark times, almost as bad as when Voldemort was at full strength…but then he is now, isn't he…Anyway, back then the dark wizard Grindelwald was gaining power, wizards from all over Europe came together to fight him, and many were sent to St. Mungo's almost on arrival. Albus was of course only a mere eighty-one years of age, his hair was still auburn! He was one of the most fierce and determined of Grindelwald's opposition. There came a sort of stalemate between the two cliché factions of good and evil, and whilst the aurors kept Grindelwald's supporters busy, Dumbledore returned to his job as transfiguration teacher at Hogwarts.
I wish he hadn't. My parents were aurors out fighting the battle halfway into Europe and, during one of the most horrific battles they went missing in action. With me having no real family left the ministry were forced to act, their orphans of war policy stated that any children left without parents or carers as a result of the war were to be sent to one of the schools for looking after. Dumbledore knew of my potential however, from a very early age I had been enthralled by magic as if I was a muggle born getting my first glimpse of my future as a wizard. I hungered to master the spells sometimes only so that I could begin learning a new one. I had completed the basic level Miranda Goshawk course by age eight. I was ready for Hogwarts, and Dippet (on a word from Albus) let me begin schooling a year in advance.
* * *
So that summer I was taken to buy my school things. I already owned all of the required books and equipment; I just needed my own wand. Until now I had used a child's practise wand. I was used to its chunky grip and sluggish handling and I was dubious about getting a real one, but I knew my own wand would have more power and give me more capabilities. Mr. Ollivander was disapproving. His wands were highly precious to him and he didn't like the idea of selling one to a minor. My wand made itself known on the third try. I was in the back room so as not to cause more damage, my second try had involved fire and a rather important book of sales…Cedar and dragon heartstrings, that sounded good to me, I held it out straight and was reprimanded for my technique. This was so patronising, I could conjure a not half bad patronus with a practise wand and here I was getting tips on how to hold one! Still, I suppose teachers and mentors are always hardest on the best students. I gave it a twirl as instructed. Then a very odd thing happened. An ethereal sparrow and a ghostly worm came fluttering and flopping out of the wand accompanied by a cloud of greeny-blue smoke. The worm began digging into the ground and the sparrow tried to extricate it. The two evaporated in more of the same smoke before I saw the outcome. Mr. Ollivander found this most strange, and gave me a very queer look as he handed it over and took my galleons. The whole thing was rather disturbing to tell the truth.
* * *
I spent my time leading up to the start of term alone in my house. It was mine now, no one to share it with… My parents had purchased a beautiful cottage in the south of England and enchanted the inside to the size of a mansion. It retained its cosy feel nonetheless, and I was quite happy to stay inside all day moping over my parents or practising spells. Occasionally I got a floo call from the ministry, but only for them to make sure I wasn't dead or depressed. The truth is I was very depressed, but nevertheless I had asked to be allowed to stay at home until the beginning of term rather than go straight on to Hogwarts as a refugee. I liked my home, even if it did remind me of mum and dad, I felt I owed it to them to remember them, and that it would be disrespectful to put them out of my mind.
As the weeks drew on I realised my ticket for the train should have been owled by now, I was starting to worry. By the day I was supposed to leave I was extremely worried that I had been forgotten about. That morning I had fallen asleep in front of my dad's muggle television. He kept it because he liked to keep an eye on muggle affairs, he felt it his duty as an auror. I was rudely awoken when a young wizard of about twenty came tumbling out of the fireplace knocking the coffee table over. He got up and crossed the lounge to shake my hand vigorously, whilst dusting off his in stripe robes and adjusting the badge on his bowler hat. The badge was emerald green and said 'HEAD BOY'. " Hello, are you from Hogwarts?" I asked.
"Err… yes…I'm head boy, surely you've seen me around the school? No? Oh well, I'm here to talk to you about your transportation." I began to say that I had been expecting an owl, but he continued without much of a pause, "no doubt you have been expecting your ticket for the Hogwarts express, I am sorry to say you shan't be getting one. The train is to be full up with orphans and war heroes. Professor Dippet feels that as all students have had flying lessons they can put them to good use and give up their seats on the train. Fly above the clouds, clear skies!" with this cryptic remark he pointed to a cylindrical package on the floor, adjusted his lime green bowler hat to a more jaunty angle, helped himself to floo powder from the jar on the mantelpiece, and stepped back into the fire.
I began to wish I had mentioned that there had been a mistake and that I was one of the orphans and that I wasn't a student yet and couldn't fly a broom. But then the parcel was the wrong shape for a broom…so what could it be? I tore open the paper slowly, knowing full well in the wizarding world it was NOT a clever idea to dive headfirst into unknown waters. Whatever it was was wrapped in a layer of protective something-or-other - it looked like a rug. I undid the strings and let the thing unravel to reveal the mystery within. I found more of a mystery than I had hoped for; there was nothing there. The rug was a black rectangle without any corners; it curved at each end. There was a white M.O.M. emblem embroidered in the centre. "Now what do I do?" I thought, "I should probably owl Hogwarts and explain about the mix up…" At the word up a very strange thing happened. The edges of the carpet rippled all along its length and it glided across the room as if it were a giant flat fish. It circled the ceiling once, then came back to hover in front of me. Instantly I realised how naïve I had been. There are of course more than one ways to fly than on a broom, and this was one of them. Professor Dippet expected a ten year-old boy to board this over playful enchanted doormat (which was now flying figure of eights around me and the sofa) and ride it across the entire length of Britain to a castle I'd never seen. He must be mad, but then he was a Hogwarts headmaster… its like a job requirement.
I instructed the carpet to heel, which it did, with put on hurt and mock sheepishness, and a not so appropriate 'who, me?' gesture. I remembered reading about magic carpets in a history of charmable objects, a book my mum liked to read; she loved charming things to be like animals and to have personalities. I found the book in a bookcase, and sat down on the floor to read. 'the flying carpet is one of the more questionable of charmable items, not only because it is created by using the spirit of the lethifold, one of the most dangerous of magical creatures, (hunting instincts and aggression removed of course), but that spirit is then infused into an ordinary carpet, which obviously falls under the muggle protection act' I edged away from the carpet and read on. 'Whilst useful these "creatures" can be boisterous and hard work, most wizards prefer the reliability and inanimateness of a good old broom any day.' There was an indignant 'humpf' from behind me. The carpet had glided over and was reading over my shoulder. It bristled and went to lie on a chair when I slammed the book shut. "Great," I thought, "I've never got on well with magical beasts and here I am stuck having to travel across the country aboard an overacting drama queen amongst animate objects."