Title: Through the Looking Glass
Author: FawkesnFlame and FatnSassyQuattaHoss
E-mail: BlKPercheron@aol.com or gallery_minstrel@yahoo.com
Rating: currently G
Category: Mystery
Keywords: anything with the name Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, or Ron Weasley
Summery: Harry's uncle is abusing him and Dumbledore and Severus Snape come to save him and he spends the rest of the summer at Hogwarts recuperating. But when Ron and Hermione come back, they're mad at him, and so is most of the school actually. Why are they mad at him? And what is this strange mirror that he receives for Christmas? Will Ron, Hermione and the rest of the school ever forgive him? And why does he keep seeing his parents in the mirror? If it's not the Mirror of Erised, than what is it?
Spoilers: None as of yet!
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, or anyone else associated with the Harry Potter books. Those belong to JKR.
Ch. 1 Why Me?
Harry Potter was no ordinary boy, not by his own choice of course. He had defeated the dark lord, Voldemort, at age one. He alone had survived the killing curse. He alone had defeated the dark lord. He alone was the wizarding world's only hope. And that was just the thing, he was alone. Completely alone. Utterly alone. Sure he had friends, who doesn't. Friends, pish, friends make you weak; friends make you depend upon others; friends were no help, but he desperately needed a friend. He just didn't know it. The weeks after the tournament had been the worst. No, his uncle's beatings had not made it bad. Or the pain, the soft hollow snaps as a limb broke. Or the chores, the illness, the starvation; no, those were good things, those things brought him back to reality. The chores, the pain; he was grateful. The more of them he got, the less he had to sleep. The less he had to see Cedric's face; hear his voice; watch as the older boy fell.
And his parents; he'd learned much about them through his dreams, all things he didn't want to know. How they ended, what they were thinking, whether or not they cared. And of course these being nightmares, they never did. And the others, all the other people who had died because he had a target pinned to his back. No, not pinned, imprinted like a tattoo: like that horrid scar that caused him so much grief. What he wouldn't do for a family: people who cared. It was the one thing he wanted - wanted more than defeating the dark lord, wanted more than leaving the Dursleys, wanted more than his own life. Hell, he wanted anything besides his life.
To be looked on as Potter, perfect Potter, Potter the golden boy, Potter who was going to save them all. The same Potter who wished he was dead right this very instant. Right this very instant though; he knew he wouldn't be thinking anything for a while. He could feel the cracked ribs, the blood leaking over his scalp, sticky and warm, entwining itself in his black strands. The many cuts and bruises, some bandaged with ripped pieces of bed sheet or some with old clothing. He was sure his legs would hurt, if he could feel them, but his uncle had been incredibly pissed off when Harry couldn't finish his chores. He had decided that if Harry was useless for work he'd at least make sure that his punching bag didn't get away. His right arm was rapped in an old pillowcase, and tied up in a makeshift sling about his bruised neck, the imprints of fingers painfully clear.
He gave a hollow laugh as he looked at the clock, and managed to gasp out, "Happy birthday to me," before falling into the blackness that had become his life.
@!!!@!!!@!!!@!!!@!!!@!!!@!!!@!!!@!!!@!!!@!!!@!!!@!!!@!!!@!!!@!!!@!!!@!!!
Harry woke up what he could only assume was days later. It might've been weeks, or only hours, who knew? He opened his eyes; everything was blurry, it had been for weeks now. His glasses had long since disappeared. Probably along with his school things in the trash. It was too quiet, much too quiet. If it were morning, Dudley would be whining for his mother to cook him bacon. If it were any other time, he'd either be demanding some other food, or watching TV.
There was no noise at all, and it was unnerving him. Harry almost went into cardiac arrest when he heard something flapping about the window. He looked up and saw the form of a snowy owl. His eyes closed and he took deep breaths, or as deep as he could, considering he had a chest full of broken ribs. He looked up. And, surprisingly, she was still there, looking at him worriedly, it reminded him distinctly of Mrs. Weasley. He could make her out through a reddish haze, and was sure she must be real.
"Go get help Hedwig," he managed to pant out, before almost throwing himself down on a pillow. She hooted at him and took off, hopefully to get help, hopefully.
Author: FawkesnFlame and FatnSassyQuattaHoss
E-mail: BlKPercheron@aol.com or gallery_minstrel@yahoo.com
Rating: currently G
Category: Mystery
Keywords: anything with the name Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, or Ron Weasley
Summery: Harry's uncle is abusing him and Dumbledore and Severus Snape come to save him and he spends the rest of the summer at Hogwarts recuperating. But when Ron and Hermione come back, they're mad at him, and so is most of the school actually. Why are they mad at him? And what is this strange mirror that he receives for Christmas? Will Ron, Hermione and the rest of the school ever forgive him? And why does he keep seeing his parents in the mirror? If it's not the Mirror of Erised, than what is it?
Spoilers: None as of yet!
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, or anyone else associated with the Harry Potter books. Those belong to JKR.
Ch. 1 Why Me?
Harry Potter was no ordinary boy, not by his own choice of course. He had defeated the dark lord, Voldemort, at age one. He alone had survived the killing curse. He alone had defeated the dark lord. He alone was the wizarding world's only hope. And that was just the thing, he was alone. Completely alone. Utterly alone. Sure he had friends, who doesn't. Friends, pish, friends make you weak; friends make you depend upon others; friends were no help, but he desperately needed a friend. He just didn't know it. The weeks after the tournament had been the worst. No, his uncle's beatings had not made it bad. Or the pain, the soft hollow snaps as a limb broke. Or the chores, the illness, the starvation; no, those were good things, those things brought him back to reality. The chores, the pain; he was grateful. The more of them he got, the less he had to sleep. The less he had to see Cedric's face; hear his voice; watch as the older boy fell.
And his parents; he'd learned much about them through his dreams, all things he didn't want to know. How they ended, what they were thinking, whether or not they cared. And of course these being nightmares, they never did. And the others, all the other people who had died because he had a target pinned to his back. No, not pinned, imprinted like a tattoo: like that horrid scar that caused him so much grief. What he wouldn't do for a family: people who cared. It was the one thing he wanted - wanted more than defeating the dark lord, wanted more than leaving the Dursleys, wanted more than his own life. Hell, he wanted anything besides his life.
To be looked on as Potter, perfect Potter, Potter the golden boy, Potter who was going to save them all. The same Potter who wished he was dead right this very instant. Right this very instant though; he knew he wouldn't be thinking anything for a while. He could feel the cracked ribs, the blood leaking over his scalp, sticky and warm, entwining itself in his black strands. The many cuts and bruises, some bandaged with ripped pieces of bed sheet or some with old clothing. He was sure his legs would hurt, if he could feel them, but his uncle had been incredibly pissed off when Harry couldn't finish his chores. He had decided that if Harry was useless for work he'd at least make sure that his punching bag didn't get away. His right arm was rapped in an old pillowcase, and tied up in a makeshift sling about his bruised neck, the imprints of fingers painfully clear.
He gave a hollow laugh as he looked at the clock, and managed to gasp out, "Happy birthday to me," before falling into the blackness that had become his life.
@!!!@!!!@!!!@!!!@!!!@!!!@!!!@!!!@!!!@!!!@!!!@!!!@!!!@!!!@!!!@!!!@!!!@!!!
Harry woke up what he could only assume was days later. It might've been weeks, or only hours, who knew? He opened his eyes; everything was blurry, it had been for weeks now. His glasses had long since disappeared. Probably along with his school things in the trash. It was too quiet, much too quiet. If it were morning, Dudley would be whining for his mother to cook him bacon. If it were any other time, he'd either be demanding some other food, or watching TV.
There was no noise at all, and it was unnerving him. Harry almost went into cardiac arrest when he heard something flapping about the window. He looked up and saw the form of a snowy owl. His eyes closed and he took deep breaths, or as deep as he could, considering he had a chest full of broken ribs. He looked up. And, surprisingly, she was still there, looking at him worriedly, it reminded him distinctly of Mrs. Weasley. He could make her out through a reddish haze, and was sure she must be real.
"Go get help Hedwig," he managed to pant out, before almost throwing himself down on a pillow. She hooted at him and took off, hopefully to get help, hopefully.