Chapter 1
This is not a story about Harry and his friends going off to Hogwarts and having a wonderfully fun time, except for the evil that seems to be ever present and Draco with the brand-new Firebolt. So why is this a Harry Potter fanfic? Because it's about real magic, and Harry. How he inspired people to go on with their lives after depression through the art of literature. This is a pretty much true story. Some of the names have been changed for protection, and the plot has been twisted up a little, just to make sure there's no legal trouble. But other than that, this is like reading a diary. There are plenty more stories about how people have used their talents to help others. All you have to do is look for them.
Note to disclaimers: The copies of Harry Potter sit on my shelf, not on my screen. I own those books, not the characters or the stories. As for the rest of the story, have you ever heard of someone owning human lives? Maybe in other times, other places, other lives.... but not in mine.
Trinity sat outside early that morning, crying gently as the leaves swished across her face. Her scarf was wrapped tightly around her neck and mouth, the burgundy and blue dancing in the wind. Her oaken hair fell in her face and she brushed it out of her eyes frustratedly. There still wasn't enough money in her pocket, but that wasn't what she was crying for. The stone wall she sat on was hard and cold, not at all comforting for a sad and confused girl. She thought her parents loved each other, then why was she so mistaken?
Every night they had kissed and hugged, and smiled at each other. They both came to all her school activities. Her mother volunteered, her father was president of the PTA*. They lived considerably well off, and the love their family had seemed to glow off them as each gentle smile towards each other passed. A smile held so much. Like photo albums, they shone with colour** and glory. Like photo albums, they told stories of happiness and sadness, but of life. Like photo albums, they sat on the shelf, only taken out certain days. Like photo albums, they were memories of the past. The past was not the present, nor was it the future. The present seemed to be the future. That's the way it seemed.
Ted and Maria Poirier's life seemed to be the type you found in a fairy tale. Maria was a beautiful young immigrant to the country. Ted was a handsome and successful colledge student of a well-off family. He was walking home one evening and saw two men crowding by a gorgeous young Spanish woman. The woman seemed to not like their presence, and was calling for help. Heroically, Ted drove them off.
They spent time together, quickly falling in love. Perhaps that was it, too hasty. They were soon married, not wanting to wait. Both their families approved happily, and they gave birth to their only child, Trinity.
Trinity was born into happiness. Trinity continued in happiness. Trinity had spent all her life in happiness, until now.
There were times when her father would be so late to come home from work, when her mother would sit up for hours, spending it all stroaking Trinity's face for comfort, wondering when Ted would be home atlast. When they got into arguments, vicious and out of control, usually with her mother giving in. When they'd fight, for the good of something, they'd say. If Ted would take more time off then he would be able to spend more time with the family he was obligated to. Why should he, wasn't saving her life enough? Didn't that make her obligated to him? Often he'd yell he should have left her with the men, and Maria would lie crying at his feet. These would be at times when Trinity snuck back from her friend's house early, when she'd been so quiet they'd forgot she was still home.
She didn't know what he did to her when she wasn't home. Maybe he'd kick her, or punch her. She only saw him hit her. But such large bruises couldn't come from hitting alone, which Maria cleverly covered with her pants and shirt, or the exact way she'd pull her sock up just so no one could see her lower leg. Or the long gloves that covered up to her elbows, that hid the red scratch. Or the way her hair permed just to fall over her cheeks. Mrs. Poirier had a lot of make-up, mainly foundation. She didn't wear a lot for looks. Make-up is used to look different. In plays it is used to appear to be somebody else. Maria prentended to be someone else, someone with a normal life, who didn't have to worry about her husband beating her up. A perfect use of make-up.
Trinity often dreamed of renting an appartement, moving out over night. Her sudden intrest in cleanliness didn't make her parents suspect anything. The big boxes that were filled with all her important things looked nice and tidy. But they had a much more dramatic use. She waited for her mother to say the words, "Baby, we're leaving." She asked why they hadn't left yet when her father was late arriving home.
"Give me time, baby, give me time. Just a bit more money, then we'll go for good," her mother promised.
That's why Trinity had a bank account, started when the abuse started. She still needed more in order to support her and her mother for a month, but it was growing, if not working.
There were time when all this seemed impossible. Times when she felt like running off a cliff into the sunset and not looking back, but falling forever. But she always had a friend to lean on.
A friend who always cared, and agreed to what you said. The type you could count on, the type you didn't need to be cool or rich or popular or good-looking to be friends with. The type of friend who was so popular, but always had time for you and never let anything get to his head. The type who could relate to you, and give advice. The type who had friends who liked you too, and all lead intresting lives and told you everything, and never made you feel left out.
Do such wonderful friends exist? No, this friend didn't exist to so many people. This friend wasn't real flesh and blood. But there were so many who saw the life and depended on this friend, to whom they talked to or told secrets to or even just hung out with. The light was so strong, anyone could see it. Anyone who cared. Because so many didn't see this friend, while so many did. After all, most aldults don't like saying they are friends with paper.
This friend was remarkable, and Trinity adored him, so it was no suprise she turned and went to see him now. You see, this friend, he was called Harry.
*= PTA means Parent Teacher Association
**= How many Americans cried, "She spelt 'color' wrong!" Well, I spell it C- O-L-O-U-R, cuz I'm Canadian.
So, do you like it? Do you want more? Do you like it? I very much appreciate constructive critacism, or asking for more of what you like. I can't change the story, it would be like changing life to me. How would you feel if Columbus murdered people instead of founded lands, or there wasn't Christmas? I can't change the plot, but I can change the style of writing. So tell me, waddya think?
This is not a story about Harry and his friends going off to Hogwarts and having a wonderfully fun time, except for the evil that seems to be ever present and Draco with the brand-new Firebolt. So why is this a Harry Potter fanfic? Because it's about real magic, and Harry. How he inspired people to go on with their lives after depression through the art of literature. This is a pretty much true story. Some of the names have been changed for protection, and the plot has been twisted up a little, just to make sure there's no legal trouble. But other than that, this is like reading a diary. There are plenty more stories about how people have used their talents to help others. All you have to do is look for them.
Note to disclaimers: The copies of Harry Potter sit on my shelf, not on my screen. I own those books, not the characters or the stories. As for the rest of the story, have you ever heard of someone owning human lives? Maybe in other times, other places, other lives.... but not in mine.
Trinity sat outside early that morning, crying gently as the leaves swished across her face. Her scarf was wrapped tightly around her neck and mouth, the burgundy and blue dancing in the wind. Her oaken hair fell in her face and she brushed it out of her eyes frustratedly. There still wasn't enough money in her pocket, but that wasn't what she was crying for. The stone wall she sat on was hard and cold, not at all comforting for a sad and confused girl. She thought her parents loved each other, then why was she so mistaken?
Every night they had kissed and hugged, and smiled at each other. They both came to all her school activities. Her mother volunteered, her father was president of the PTA*. They lived considerably well off, and the love their family had seemed to glow off them as each gentle smile towards each other passed. A smile held so much. Like photo albums, they shone with colour** and glory. Like photo albums, they told stories of happiness and sadness, but of life. Like photo albums, they sat on the shelf, only taken out certain days. Like photo albums, they were memories of the past. The past was not the present, nor was it the future. The present seemed to be the future. That's the way it seemed.
Ted and Maria Poirier's life seemed to be the type you found in a fairy tale. Maria was a beautiful young immigrant to the country. Ted was a handsome and successful colledge student of a well-off family. He was walking home one evening and saw two men crowding by a gorgeous young Spanish woman. The woman seemed to not like their presence, and was calling for help. Heroically, Ted drove them off.
They spent time together, quickly falling in love. Perhaps that was it, too hasty. They were soon married, not wanting to wait. Both their families approved happily, and they gave birth to their only child, Trinity.
Trinity was born into happiness. Trinity continued in happiness. Trinity had spent all her life in happiness, until now.
There were times when her father would be so late to come home from work, when her mother would sit up for hours, spending it all stroaking Trinity's face for comfort, wondering when Ted would be home atlast. When they got into arguments, vicious and out of control, usually with her mother giving in. When they'd fight, for the good of something, they'd say. If Ted would take more time off then he would be able to spend more time with the family he was obligated to. Why should he, wasn't saving her life enough? Didn't that make her obligated to him? Often he'd yell he should have left her with the men, and Maria would lie crying at his feet. These would be at times when Trinity snuck back from her friend's house early, when she'd been so quiet they'd forgot she was still home.
She didn't know what he did to her when she wasn't home. Maybe he'd kick her, or punch her. She only saw him hit her. But such large bruises couldn't come from hitting alone, which Maria cleverly covered with her pants and shirt, or the exact way she'd pull her sock up just so no one could see her lower leg. Or the long gloves that covered up to her elbows, that hid the red scratch. Or the way her hair permed just to fall over her cheeks. Mrs. Poirier had a lot of make-up, mainly foundation. She didn't wear a lot for looks. Make-up is used to look different. In plays it is used to appear to be somebody else. Maria prentended to be someone else, someone with a normal life, who didn't have to worry about her husband beating her up. A perfect use of make-up.
Trinity often dreamed of renting an appartement, moving out over night. Her sudden intrest in cleanliness didn't make her parents suspect anything. The big boxes that were filled with all her important things looked nice and tidy. But they had a much more dramatic use. She waited for her mother to say the words, "Baby, we're leaving." She asked why they hadn't left yet when her father was late arriving home.
"Give me time, baby, give me time. Just a bit more money, then we'll go for good," her mother promised.
That's why Trinity had a bank account, started when the abuse started. She still needed more in order to support her and her mother for a month, but it was growing, if not working.
There were time when all this seemed impossible. Times when she felt like running off a cliff into the sunset and not looking back, but falling forever. But she always had a friend to lean on.
A friend who always cared, and agreed to what you said. The type you could count on, the type you didn't need to be cool or rich or popular or good-looking to be friends with. The type of friend who was so popular, but always had time for you and never let anything get to his head. The type who could relate to you, and give advice. The type who had friends who liked you too, and all lead intresting lives and told you everything, and never made you feel left out.
Do such wonderful friends exist? No, this friend didn't exist to so many people. This friend wasn't real flesh and blood. But there were so many who saw the life and depended on this friend, to whom they talked to or told secrets to or even just hung out with. The light was so strong, anyone could see it. Anyone who cared. Because so many didn't see this friend, while so many did. After all, most aldults don't like saying they are friends with paper.
This friend was remarkable, and Trinity adored him, so it was no suprise she turned and went to see him now. You see, this friend, he was called Harry.
*= PTA means Parent Teacher Association
**= How many Americans cried, "She spelt 'color' wrong!" Well, I spell it C- O-L-O-U-R, cuz I'm Canadian.
So, do you like it? Do you want more? Do you like it? I very much appreciate constructive critacism, or asking for more of what you like. I can't change the story, it would be like changing life to me. How would you feel if Columbus murdered people instead of founded lands, or there wasn't Christmas? I can't change the plot, but I can change the style of writing. So tell me, waddya think?