None of the characters of HP are mine…duh.
This Side of the Face
Part One: Harry Potter… "Tragic little hero."
"Tragic little hero." What a sad, poor little trooper I am. My heroic face, as they always
say in the papers. "How brave Harry Potter is-that he can face his haunting past and agonizing
fateful future with nothing more than a sad smile in the direction of the camera and a small wave
at his adoring public." God, I wish that they'd never found out.
Sometimes I thank God that He took my parents, but left me with Dumbledore. Who
else's parents would give them an invisibility cloak along with the late night instructiuons to the
Tranquility Arena? Surrounded by all of the pictures of my parents I've collected over the years,
the simulated smells and mannerisms of my parents, even the scent of the perfume my mother
wore swirling around me, filling my mind, pausing reality for an hour at a time so that I could be
with my parents, hear them talk to me, reassure me…
And the midnight conversations that we had-the private training sessions where
Dumbledore treated me as a person-even just any old person, as long as I didn't have to be Harry
Potter for a while. The trips to London for 'special' supplies, the curing potions for any ailments
I had, even the discussions of Voldemort. He always treated me like an adult, never watered
anything down. "Harry, Voldemort's getting closer." "He's gaining power…getting
stronger…more supporters." And then the fateful, "Harry, Voldemort killed again. It was your
cousin, Harry. Dudley was killed." That year the Dursleys didn't show up at the train station to
pick me up at term's end. And when I finally hitchhiked my way to their house I found it empty,
deserted. The Weasleys took me in, of course, but I felt so bad, imposing on them. With Mrs.
Weasley gone, the whole family's changed. Ginny's the only one who actually spoke to me and
cared about me.
It's so much harder without Ron. But he hasn't spoken to me for a couple of years now,
and with Hermione transferred to Beaubaxtons, there's no one to act as a go-between. Not that
he'd ever forgive me anyway.
I'll never forget the day the paper came out. I overslept, woke up in a panic and
practically flew down the stairs to the Great Hall. It's almost time to start classes, and I'm
expecting an empty room. But every student in the school is still there as I walk in, whispering
so that it sounds like a thousand serpents, a room full of Parseltongues. And they all freeze,
staring at me. I hear several people crying, girls sobbing hysterically. As I walk by the Slytherin
table Malfoy stands up and tosses me a rolled up Daily Prophet. Somehow I already know
what's inside. One glance at the headline is all I need, as a million needlelike eyes pound into
my skin. THE BOYS WHO LIVED MUST DIE! And I sit down hard on the nearest bench,
staring around me. I've known this for ages. Dumbledore told me in my second year that the
only way that Voldemort could truly be defeated would be through my own death. But he also
told me that there are other methods of restraining him, from enslavement to a permanent sealing
curse. He can still live but be defeated, it's just that there's still a chance…
But he promised me that it would remain a secret, which no one else needed to know.
And when the whole world knows a secret, somehow it loses its sacredness.
Half the world is trying to save me, the other trying to kill me. And all the while I wear
my mask. My tragic little hero face. Well, now you've seen behind the face. Does it scare you
as much as it scares me?
So? What do you think? I'll probably do Draco next-wanna give any suggestions of other students to do?
This Side of the Face
Part One: Harry Potter… "Tragic little hero."
"Tragic little hero." What a sad, poor little trooper I am. My heroic face, as they always
say in the papers. "How brave Harry Potter is-that he can face his haunting past and agonizing
fateful future with nothing more than a sad smile in the direction of the camera and a small wave
at his adoring public." God, I wish that they'd never found out.
Sometimes I thank God that He took my parents, but left me with Dumbledore. Who
else's parents would give them an invisibility cloak along with the late night instructiuons to the
Tranquility Arena? Surrounded by all of the pictures of my parents I've collected over the years,
the simulated smells and mannerisms of my parents, even the scent of the perfume my mother
wore swirling around me, filling my mind, pausing reality for an hour at a time so that I could be
with my parents, hear them talk to me, reassure me…
And the midnight conversations that we had-the private training sessions where
Dumbledore treated me as a person-even just any old person, as long as I didn't have to be Harry
Potter for a while. The trips to London for 'special' supplies, the curing potions for any ailments
I had, even the discussions of Voldemort. He always treated me like an adult, never watered
anything down. "Harry, Voldemort's getting closer." "He's gaining power…getting
stronger…more supporters." And then the fateful, "Harry, Voldemort killed again. It was your
cousin, Harry. Dudley was killed." That year the Dursleys didn't show up at the train station to
pick me up at term's end. And when I finally hitchhiked my way to their house I found it empty,
deserted. The Weasleys took me in, of course, but I felt so bad, imposing on them. With Mrs.
Weasley gone, the whole family's changed. Ginny's the only one who actually spoke to me and
cared about me.
It's so much harder without Ron. But he hasn't spoken to me for a couple of years now,
and with Hermione transferred to Beaubaxtons, there's no one to act as a go-between. Not that
he'd ever forgive me anyway.
I'll never forget the day the paper came out. I overslept, woke up in a panic and
practically flew down the stairs to the Great Hall. It's almost time to start classes, and I'm
expecting an empty room. But every student in the school is still there as I walk in, whispering
so that it sounds like a thousand serpents, a room full of Parseltongues. And they all freeze,
staring at me. I hear several people crying, girls sobbing hysterically. As I walk by the Slytherin
table Malfoy stands up and tosses me a rolled up Daily Prophet. Somehow I already know
what's inside. One glance at the headline is all I need, as a million needlelike eyes pound into
my skin. THE BOYS WHO LIVED MUST DIE! And I sit down hard on the nearest bench,
staring around me. I've known this for ages. Dumbledore told me in my second year that the
only way that Voldemort could truly be defeated would be through my own death. But he also
told me that there are other methods of restraining him, from enslavement to a permanent sealing
curse. He can still live but be defeated, it's just that there's still a chance…
But he promised me that it would remain a secret, which no one else needed to know.
And when the whole world knows a secret, somehow it loses its sacredness.
Half the world is trying to save me, the other trying to kill me. And all the while I wear
my mask. My tragic little hero face. Well, now you've seen behind the face. Does it scare you
as much as it scares me?
So? What do you think? I'll probably do Draco next-wanna give any suggestions of other students to do?