Like a bad storm, I'm falling.
She burns!
Today's on fire, the sky is bleeding above me
And I walk faster
I walk these lines of blaspheme everyday
She's the only one who knows what it is to burn
No sympathy.
Safe in here, from the world outside
What's the price to pay for glory?
I'm falling faster down to her
She's the only one who knows what it is to burn
Today is fine, and she burns
And she burns.
She BURNS!
(some lyrics from FINCH)
A/N: yeah, I was listening to some music and I felt really inspired to write some angst. weird, motivated for angst, but oh well. I've got a great idea for what this story could become, but I'd like to hear what you think about it right now.
--------------------------------- story time ------------------------------- -------------------------
WHAT IT IS TO BURN
Chapter 1 : A Rude Awakening
Slowly, almost painfully Harry opened his eyes. The first thing Harry saw was the toneless sky beyond his window. It was gray, and haunting. Much like his dreams the night before. It looked as though there was no sky as it is commonly known, but rather a damp blanket had been thrown carefully over the world, slowly smothering its innocent victims while whispering sweet words in their ears. Harry shut his eyes tightly, and opened them again not bothering to move from his face down position on the bed. He preferred his day to start off like this.
The house was silent, dark, and abandoned. A mere shell of what it usually was. Number four Private Drive was usually a busy household. Loud and annoying is what Harry would call it, although it was anything but that this week. The Dursleys had left for Spain the day before. As Harry was informed, one of Vernon's Uncles had died there and they left to attended his funeral, and perhaps vacation for a bit. Harry wasn't completely sure of what exactly had happened since he hardly paid attention to his boisterous 'family'. All he knew was that he had the house to himself for an entire week. No Vernon to abuse him, no Petunia to order him about, and no Dudley to punch him in the ribs when his parents were ignoring him.
Harry would've smiled at the thought of being alone if his mind wasn't so preoccupied. He couldn't stop thinking about death.. about Cedric's death, about his parents, and mostly his own. It was hell being a fifteen-year-old boy, let alone a celebrity who's own life was in constant mortal danger. He was tired of it. No one should be born just to suffer a life with no love and support. Why would God, if there was such a thing, ever create a person to live such a pathetic existence? Wouldn't it just be easier if he died? The thought stayed with him as he stared into the gray outside.
Suddenly the doorbell buzzed, shattering the suffocating stillness like bottle being smashed on the hard pavement. Harry blinked and looked at the watch he stole from Dudley. It was about ten in the morning. Harry rose stiffly from the warm bed, grabbed his glasses, and headed slowly downstairs to the front door, which rang again impatiently. He already knew who was standing outside, he thought to himself, slightly slowing down. It would be Mrs. Figg, the widowed neighbor with slightly blue hair and brown tea-stained teeth. She wore an old, moth eaten shawl that was an odd shade of stale yellow, which clashed terribly with the orangey-pink lipstick she was constantly advertising. She was probably holding a cup of tea in one hand, and the daily newspaper in the other. How she could ever stand to leave her cats long enough to check in on Harry was a mystery in itself, but somehow she managed. Like the Dursleys would ever leave Harry alone completely unsupervised, he thought miserably. Harry quickly opened the door as she laid onto the buzzer for the third time.
"Oh, hello deary," she flashed her tainted teeth and released the siren, "I thought you might still be asleep."
Harry stepped back as she let herself in. Indeed she looked exactly how he had pictured her. Maybe a bit more tousled than usual. He took her shawl, and placed it on the coat hanger in the uncomfortably small entryway. She surveyed him silently as he shut the door softly.
"It looks as though I did wake you up." She said curtly, "Well I'm sorry, but it is ten. I waited till I finished feeding the cats before I headed over. Go upstairs and change, I'll just busy myself by watching some programs on the telle."
Harry headed silently upstairs, as he heard the door to the parlor open and the animated voices of some soap opera characters speak to each other. So much for a quiet morning alone, he thought despairingly as he stepped into the bathroom.
After taking his time changing into some jeans and a comfortable old shirt, he headed back downstairs, back to the old woman who now occupied the bottom floor like some unstoppable rebel force. He pushed the door to the parlor, and cautiously looked in. The television was blasting an advertisement for laundry detergent. A solitary teacup rested on the tiny table before the sofa, the paper placed next to it. But there was no sign of Mrs. Figg.
Boring, yeah kinda but it gets better, trust me..
(some lyrics from FINCH)
A/N: yeah, I was listening to some music and I felt really inspired to write some angst. weird, motivated for angst, but oh well. I've got a great idea for what this story could become, but I'd like to hear what you think about it right now.
--------------------------------- story time ------------------------------- -------------------------
WHAT IT IS TO BURN
Chapter 1 : A Rude Awakening
Slowly, almost painfully Harry opened his eyes. The first thing Harry saw was the toneless sky beyond his window. It was gray, and haunting. Much like his dreams the night before. It looked as though there was no sky as it is commonly known, but rather a damp blanket had been thrown carefully over the world, slowly smothering its innocent victims while whispering sweet words in their ears. Harry shut his eyes tightly, and opened them again not bothering to move from his face down position on the bed. He preferred his day to start off like this.
The house was silent, dark, and abandoned. A mere shell of what it usually was. Number four Private Drive was usually a busy household. Loud and annoying is what Harry would call it, although it was anything but that this week. The Dursleys had left for Spain the day before. As Harry was informed, one of Vernon's Uncles had died there and they left to attended his funeral, and perhaps vacation for a bit. Harry wasn't completely sure of what exactly had happened since he hardly paid attention to his boisterous 'family'. All he knew was that he had the house to himself for an entire week. No Vernon to abuse him, no Petunia to order him about, and no Dudley to punch him in the ribs when his parents were ignoring him.
Harry would've smiled at the thought of being alone if his mind wasn't so preoccupied. He couldn't stop thinking about death.. about Cedric's death, about his parents, and mostly his own. It was hell being a fifteen-year-old boy, let alone a celebrity who's own life was in constant mortal danger. He was tired of it. No one should be born just to suffer a life with no love and support. Why would God, if there was such a thing, ever create a person to live such a pathetic existence? Wouldn't it just be easier if he died? The thought stayed with him as he stared into the gray outside.
Suddenly the doorbell buzzed, shattering the suffocating stillness like bottle being smashed on the hard pavement. Harry blinked and looked at the watch he stole from Dudley. It was about ten in the morning. Harry rose stiffly from the warm bed, grabbed his glasses, and headed slowly downstairs to the front door, which rang again impatiently. He already knew who was standing outside, he thought to himself, slightly slowing down. It would be Mrs. Figg, the widowed neighbor with slightly blue hair and brown tea-stained teeth. She wore an old, moth eaten shawl that was an odd shade of stale yellow, which clashed terribly with the orangey-pink lipstick she was constantly advertising. She was probably holding a cup of tea in one hand, and the daily newspaper in the other. How she could ever stand to leave her cats long enough to check in on Harry was a mystery in itself, but somehow she managed. Like the Dursleys would ever leave Harry alone completely unsupervised, he thought miserably. Harry quickly opened the door as she laid onto the buzzer for the third time.
"Oh, hello deary," she flashed her tainted teeth and released the siren, "I thought you might still be asleep."
Harry stepped back as she let herself in. Indeed she looked exactly how he had pictured her. Maybe a bit more tousled than usual. He took her shawl, and placed it on the coat hanger in the uncomfortably small entryway. She surveyed him silently as he shut the door softly.
"It looks as though I did wake you up." She said curtly, "Well I'm sorry, but it is ten. I waited till I finished feeding the cats before I headed over. Go upstairs and change, I'll just busy myself by watching some programs on the telle."
Harry headed silently upstairs, as he heard the door to the parlor open and the animated voices of some soap opera characters speak to each other. So much for a quiet morning alone, he thought despairingly as he stepped into the bathroom.
After taking his time changing into some jeans and a comfortable old shirt, he headed back downstairs, back to the old woman who now occupied the bottom floor like some unstoppable rebel force. He pushed the door to the parlor, and cautiously looked in. The television was blasting an advertisement for laundry detergent. A solitary teacup rested on the tiny table before the sofa, the paper placed next to it. But there was no sign of Mrs. Figg.
Boring, yeah kinda but it gets better, trust me..