Sixteen Candles, Chapter Eleven
Looking back on that day, I found the defining moment of my life – well, up to age sixteen, of course – in those short twenty four hours. It wasn't what I expected at all, but once it was said and done, I was a much happier person for it.
My father more than lived up to my expectations – which was more or less quite unusual, seeing as how I had never met him in my memory before this. A parentless child, as most children tend to do, blow things way out of proportion; with some, it's the fight over that red block, for others the heights of the adults around them. For me, however, I always believed my parents were much more human than I had always made them out to be in my mind.
By the time I was four and able to fully grasp the fact my parents had died and that I didn't have the same relationship with Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon that Dudley did, I started to dream. In my mind, I had the image of what my family would be like had it not been for the car accident, as I thought was the contributing factor in their deaths. The three of us – after my experience with Dudley, I never wanted siblings – were always laughing, always happy, and they were never mad at me.
I had everything I wanted in that little family buried deep inside my mind, and by the time I was eight I learned how to feel guilty. The Dursleys had always blamed me for every tiny thing – including the weather – that had gone awry, so the first time the idea perhaps my parents had died in the car accident due to me passed through my mind, I stopped cold, my entire being frozen over with panic.
I remember the exact moment in time that happened; where I was, who I was with, and what I was doing. I was in Literature at the time, trying desperately to stay awake as the professor droned on and on about some sort of writing – cursive, even though I didn't know it at the time – when a flash of green appeared in front of my mind, replacing the image of Professor Martin. I had always associated this green flash to the imaginary faces of my parents.
My Mum was beautiful in my mind, but even more so in reality. She had dark hair, just as I did, and her eyes were the exact colour of mine, as they really were. My father did truly look as he really was, which surprised me even more when I saw his image for the first time in the mirror. The night I first saw my parents' reflection, before I felt euphoria set in from finally having a set imagine, I felt betrayal. For so many years before, I had formed an image of them in my mind, and to me, they were my parents. They looked the way I said they did, they acted the way I pretended they did – it was as if they were puppets and I was the puppeteer.
The day I saw the flash of green in Literature class, that image flashed before my eyes and the impact of my loss came crashing down at all once. Had I, as a small child, somehow caused them to perish? Had they perhaps been taking me to day care, or to a friend for babysitting? Were they going out to dinner to celebrate my first birthday?
I had no answers, and it wasn't until three years later, when Hagrid came crashing – quite literally – into my life, when I eventually learned the truth.
The guilt still weighed upon me, however; my mother had died to save me. She had given her life to protect me, in all my infant glory, and had shown an amount of courage and strength I was sure I could never possess.
Everything was so entirely different in this world, I was almost too afraid to speak in fear of finding out what I had said was too telling, or perhaps not Harry enough.
I had lost myself, but gained everything I had ever wished for.
I volunteered to help Mum with the breakfast dished before my friends came, and she seemed quite surprised for the second time that morning.
"Did my sister manage to train you that well?" she asked perkily, her green eyes twinkling in a way that reminded me incredibly of Professor Dumbledore.
"She didn't exactly train me, Mum," I chose my words carefully. "She more or less beat and threatened her way into me."
CRASH.
The plate in my mother's hands hit the floor before I even noticed it had dropped with a startling noise, making me jump right out of my socks.
"She did WHAT to you?!"
I stared at her angry features, not quite sure what to say.
"Harry…" her voice was sharp and her words almost urgent, "Tell me, what did she do to you?"
"It was just a vision, Mum," I said quietly, "Although it sure felt real."
"Harry…" she repeated, a warning tone conflicting with the soothing tone she was trying to speak in, "What did that awful sister of mine ever do to you?"
I shrugged, bending over carefully to pick up the shards of glass, gathering the pieces in my palm.
"She just made sure I would follow her orders. I lived in a cupboards under the stairs for the first ten years of my life, which might have been a good thing seeing as I can now stand spiders – OW !"
I looked down at my right hand, which had been picking up the shards. With a slightly dazed expression on my face, I slowly stood up, eyes still locked on my hand.
"Mum…" I said, half-frightened out of my wits, "Mum… the glass… my hand…"
Sticking right through the center of my right index finger was one of the larger, sharper pieces of glass. It was cut down to the bone, sticking up in a way that was almost mocking.
Mum, obviously used to these sorts of things, quickly and carefully extracted the pieces of glass from my partials severed finger, but when she turned around to grab a towel, my skin joined together once more, looking as if for all the world there had never been a piece of glass stuck in it, never mind the fact it had been a mere second before.
I felt no pain as I gaped at my hand, and it wasn't until later I realized one very important fact with the cut.
There was no blood.
Looking back on that day, I found the defining moment of my life – well, up to age sixteen, of course – in those short twenty four hours. It wasn't what I expected at all, but once it was said and done, I was a much happier person for it.
My father more than lived up to my expectations – which was more or less quite unusual, seeing as how I had never met him in my memory before this. A parentless child, as most children tend to do, blow things way out of proportion; with some, it's the fight over that red block, for others the heights of the adults around them. For me, however, I always believed my parents were much more human than I had always made them out to be in my mind.
By the time I was four and able to fully grasp the fact my parents had died and that I didn't have the same relationship with Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon that Dudley did, I started to dream. In my mind, I had the image of what my family would be like had it not been for the car accident, as I thought was the contributing factor in their deaths. The three of us – after my experience with Dudley, I never wanted siblings – were always laughing, always happy, and they were never mad at me.
I had everything I wanted in that little family buried deep inside my mind, and by the time I was eight I learned how to feel guilty. The Dursleys had always blamed me for every tiny thing – including the weather – that had gone awry, so the first time the idea perhaps my parents had died in the car accident due to me passed through my mind, I stopped cold, my entire being frozen over with panic.
I remember the exact moment in time that happened; where I was, who I was with, and what I was doing. I was in Literature at the time, trying desperately to stay awake as the professor droned on and on about some sort of writing – cursive, even though I didn't know it at the time – when a flash of green appeared in front of my mind, replacing the image of Professor Martin. I had always associated this green flash to the imaginary faces of my parents.
My Mum was beautiful in my mind, but even more so in reality. She had dark hair, just as I did, and her eyes were the exact colour of mine, as they really were. My father did truly look as he really was, which surprised me even more when I saw his image for the first time in the mirror. The night I first saw my parents' reflection, before I felt euphoria set in from finally having a set imagine, I felt betrayal. For so many years before, I had formed an image of them in my mind, and to me, they were my parents. They looked the way I said they did, they acted the way I pretended they did – it was as if they were puppets and I was the puppeteer.
The day I saw the flash of green in Literature class, that image flashed before my eyes and the impact of my loss came crashing down at all once. Had I, as a small child, somehow caused them to perish? Had they perhaps been taking me to day care, or to a friend for babysitting? Were they going out to dinner to celebrate my first birthday?
I had no answers, and it wasn't until three years later, when Hagrid came crashing – quite literally – into my life, when I eventually learned the truth.
The guilt still weighed upon me, however; my mother had died to save me. She had given her life to protect me, in all my infant glory, and had shown an amount of courage and strength I was sure I could never possess.
Everything was so entirely different in this world, I was almost too afraid to speak in fear of finding out what I had said was too telling, or perhaps not Harry enough.
I had lost myself, but gained everything I had ever wished for.
I volunteered to help Mum with the breakfast dished before my friends came, and she seemed quite surprised for the second time that morning.
"Did my sister manage to train you that well?" she asked perkily, her green eyes twinkling in a way that reminded me incredibly of Professor Dumbledore.
"She didn't exactly train me, Mum," I chose my words carefully. "She more or less beat and threatened her way into me."
CRASH.
The plate in my mother's hands hit the floor before I even noticed it had dropped with a startling noise, making me jump right out of my socks.
"She did WHAT to you?!"
I stared at her angry features, not quite sure what to say.
"Harry…" her voice was sharp and her words almost urgent, "Tell me, what did she do to you?"
"It was just a vision, Mum," I said quietly, "Although it sure felt real."
"Harry…" she repeated, a warning tone conflicting with the soothing tone she was trying to speak in, "What did that awful sister of mine ever do to you?"
I shrugged, bending over carefully to pick up the shards of glass, gathering the pieces in my palm.
"She just made sure I would follow her orders. I lived in a cupboards under the stairs for the first ten years of my life, which might have been a good thing seeing as I can now stand spiders – OW !"
I looked down at my right hand, which had been picking up the shards. With a slightly dazed expression on my face, I slowly stood up, eyes still locked on my hand.
"Mum…" I said, half-frightened out of my wits, "Mum… the glass… my hand…"
Sticking right through the center of my right index finger was one of the larger, sharper pieces of glass. It was cut down to the bone, sticking up in a way that was almost mocking.
Mum, obviously used to these sorts of things, quickly and carefully extracted the pieces of glass from my partials severed finger, but when she turned around to grab a towel, my skin joined together once more, looking as if for all the world there had never been a piece of glass stuck in it, never mind the fact it had been a mere second before.
I felt no pain as I gaped at my hand, and it wasn't until later I realized one very important fact with the cut.
There was no blood.