Harry The Innocent
By: CNJ
PG-13
1: The Probable Truth About Harry
Harry:
My eyes opened late that
night and I woke up damp with sweat and shivering, remnants of yet another
nightmare shattering. I lay there, trying to stop shaking and slow
my breathing. It was a rather mixed-up dream, but a basilisk was
after me and dead bodies lay around. Somewhere in the background,
I was hearing evil laughter. Lately, my dreams have been getting
worse and I don't know what to do about it. I've always been nightmare-prone,
but now it's getting out of control. I don't know why I have so many
awful dreams, but a probable truth has been bothering me now for the past
couple of years and is now pushing itself on me for real this year, now
that I'm sixteen and right in the middle of year Six at Hogwarts.
Most others don't know that
truth about me, but my close friends, Ron and Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger,
Cheria Radwin suspect it, but we've never discussed it...I'm a tad...sensitive.
The more I go through in life, the more I suspect it. It's
something that embarrasses me; I don't like feeling everything so strongly
and feeling "odd." I wince at pain and rarely see others show as
much pain as I seem to feel; maybe it's just that others are good at hiding
it, I hope.
Just the other week in early
January, my friends and I had spent a Saturday at Hogsmeade, a village
students visit on weekends. By five, I was tired and achy and just
wanted to head back to the dorm and lie down and read, but my friends were
ready for a night on the village. I didn't let on that my feet were
killing me and I felt achy and rather overwhelmed, so I forced myself to
stay with them and ended up fainting a little later on as we were on our
way back to the dorms. My friends had to help me back, in fact, Ron
practically had to carry me back, much to my embarrassment.
I also get upset over things
like hearing others badmouthed and at some teasing and just stay upset
for hours afterward. Oh, outwardly, I can appear calm and go on with
classes and Quidditch practice and talk to friends, but inside, a storm
brews inside like a sea and once I'm alone, I find myself brooding.
I really wonder if that is normal. The darkest corner of my mind
wonders if I'm somehow weak, different, abnormal and strange, even here
in the magical world. I hope to Merlin I'm not that odd.
No, Harry, you're not
abnormal, I tried to tell myself. That's what the Dursleys,
those awful muggles you had to live with for fourteen years would love
for you to believe. Thank Merlin I'm free of them now and spend
holidays with my Great-Aunt Miranda, who is a witch and my late father's
aunt. My dear parents perished in the hands of an evil wizard who
goes by the name of Voldemort. I was just a year and three
months...oh, dear, how I wish I could remember them; try as much as I will,
I just can't and it sometimes saddens me.
Turning on a bedside lamp,
I leaned over and pulled out my parents' photo album and began to leaf
through it, hoping to calm myself. It worked because my shivering
stopped, my heart rate returned to normal and my nervousness faded.
It was replaced with a quiet sadness as I watched my parents wave from
their wedding picture. I softly fingered Mum's dark green wedding
robe, then Dad's matching dress robe...God, how beautiful they were.
Turning a few pages, I saw
my own baby pictures...me crawling around in the kitchen pulling together
spare pots and pans while Mum balanced a checkbook, then got up to start
dinner. Dad feeding me with me dripping most of it down my
chin, then both of us laughing...Mum holding me by the legs and pretending
we were a clock on the wall ticking away. Aunt Miranda told me that
I'd delighted in that game and Mum would levitate me into the air close
to the ceiling and sing Tiiiick tock...Harry's a clock on the
wall...another one of me sucking my thumb while sitting on a blanket
on the floor. I blushed a little at the sight of me as a baby.
There are also some pictures
of Mum and Dad in their Hogwarts days...they actually didn't start going
out together until November of their seventh year. They had their
groups of friends as well and I suspect they'd had all sorts of experiences
and adventures. In Mum's first year, she and her two close
friends, Amelia Kovacs and Zara Vinn battled a dragon and won.
Dad's third year was when he and his friends informally dubbed themselves
The Marauders.
I turned to the last page
and as I looked over those photos, I felt a wash of sadness...their last
night alive. It had been early November and they'd gone to a post-Halloween
masquerade party. Most of their friends and even Dumbledore and McGonagall
had been there. Mum and Dad had also taken me along and I saw one
photo of Mum lifting me in the air...I'd been dressed as a leprechaun.
I know what happened afterward...we'd
gone home, feeling happy...once we got home, we'd changed into regular
clothes and Mum had taken me upstairs to get me ready to sleep...that's
when Voldemort had broken in...oh, no, it's hurting me even now to think
of how they died...Dad calling to Mum to take me and run...Mum shielding
me and her love infusing me, which is why I survived. Mum had saved
me life that night, so she'll always be a hero in my eyes.
Is it me or do most others feel the strange tightness inside of me thinking
about long-dead parents? I wondered as I put away the album and turned
out my lamp. Am I really sensitive? Is there something different
about me?
More later!