Lost Lightning
Outside, the wind blew hard. The sounds of a thousand wailing banshees reached his ears, the nails of age-old witches scratched his windows, and he shivered as he felt the imaginary breaths of Dementors tickle the nape of his neck. He worried his bottom lip at the memory of the Kiss.
He usually slept facing the window, but the lightning would occasionally flash so brightly that it was impossible for anyone to remain sleeping under such conditions. Then he turned under the covers to face the wall opposite the window, but the crooked shadows cast from the twisted branches outside were nothing of comfort. And now he lay in bed on his back, staring at the ceiling of his Godfather's old bedroom.
Summer was nearing its end, but as of late, even things as simple and pure as the winds, clouds, and trees were playing along with the pathetic fallacy that accompanied the Dark Lord's new reign.
He'd spent all summer alone in this house and he was used to the quietness, but who doesn't want company on a stormy night? But it would be nothing short of selfishness if he were to call anyone over at this hour.
The young man with jet-black hair now sat up in his bed and leaned across the bedside table to switch on a lamp. He almost smiled then, remembering how his friend always teased him and his insistence of doing things the old-fashion way—the Muggle way. But petty thoughts as these were pushed aside for now and would be long forgotten by the end of tomorrow.
With another call of thunder, he jumped and seconds later a lost flash of lightning followed, illuminating a rickety old table at the far end of the room.
He'd cleaned the house for the most part, but since he'd decided to stay at number twelve Grimmauld Place, he hadn't touched anything in the room he sat in now. Everything was as he'd found it when he'd arrived, with the exception of the bed.
Upon the table that he looked at now sat a pair of oversized nail clippers, a gray towel slightly smudged in a couple spots, randomly scattered silvery-gray feathers and a pamphlet entitled "How to Handle Hypocrites, Hippos, and Hippogriffs". The scarred boy felt his eyes begin to sting and he quickly looked away.
The rain suddenly began to fall down harder. Such tiny drops of rain, yet together they created a racket. He scoffed—and they'd asked him to get a good night's sleep. No one would be able to sleep tonight. Even if it hadn't been raining. Even if the night were as clear and mysterious as the first night, sixteen years ago, that he'd spent on the porch of number four Privet Drive—no one would be able to sleep tonight.
Tomorrow would be the first day of change. For as long as he could remember, the events around him occurred in a steady, predictable pattern, but tomorrow, a wrench would be thrown into the churning gears of fate.
He would be the wrench.
He was always the wrench—the reason behind everything and the reason for everything. And when something becomes stuck in the gears and causes the wheels to stop turning, that something—the wrench, must be sought out, captured, and then destroyed so that the same mistake does not happen again.
He never had a choice. Had it been a choice of free will, it would have been his fault. However, it was fate, and therefore it was someone else's fault.
He never had a choice. It was fate.
Another flash of lightning and its accompanying thunder roared its presence almost at the same time. The already hectic storm drew nearer.
The orphaned boy brought his knees to his chest and held his face in his left hand. He felt the tips of soft, bristly hairs speckling the skin on his cheeks.
About time.
Author's Note: Poo... this's what happens when Joya tries to go dark like Jonah... then fails miserably? @_@ And if anyone got confused at the abrupt ending, the 'about time' refers to it being 'about time' for Harry to 'grow up', the peach fuzz symbolizing his becoming a man... ^^; Anywho, my first Harry ficlet! Hope everyone at least halfway enjoyed it! :3
Outside, the wind blew hard. The sounds of a thousand wailing banshees reached his ears, the nails of age-old witches scratched his windows, and he shivered as he felt the imaginary breaths of Dementors tickle the nape of his neck. He worried his bottom lip at the memory of the Kiss.
He usually slept facing the window, but the lightning would occasionally flash so brightly that it was impossible for anyone to remain sleeping under such conditions. Then he turned under the covers to face the wall opposite the window, but the crooked shadows cast from the twisted branches outside were nothing of comfort. And now he lay in bed on his back, staring at the ceiling of his Godfather's old bedroom.
Summer was nearing its end, but as of late, even things as simple and pure as the winds, clouds, and trees were playing along with the pathetic fallacy that accompanied the Dark Lord's new reign.
He'd spent all summer alone in this house and he was used to the quietness, but who doesn't want company on a stormy night? But it would be nothing short of selfishness if he were to call anyone over at this hour.
The young man with jet-black hair now sat up in his bed and leaned across the bedside table to switch on a lamp. He almost smiled then, remembering how his friend always teased him and his insistence of doing things the old-fashion way—the Muggle way. But petty thoughts as these were pushed aside for now and would be long forgotten by the end of tomorrow.
With another call of thunder, he jumped and seconds later a lost flash of lightning followed, illuminating a rickety old table at the far end of the room.
He'd cleaned the house for the most part, but since he'd decided to stay at number twelve Grimmauld Place, he hadn't touched anything in the room he sat in now. Everything was as he'd found it when he'd arrived, with the exception of the bed.
Upon the table that he looked at now sat a pair of oversized nail clippers, a gray towel slightly smudged in a couple spots, randomly scattered silvery-gray feathers and a pamphlet entitled "How to Handle Hypocrites, Hippos, and Hippogriffs". The scarred boy felt his eyes begin to sting and he quickly looked away.
The rain suddenly began to fall down harder. Such tiny drops of rain, yet together they created a racket. He scoffed—and they'd asked him to get a good night's sleep. No one would be able to sleep tonight. Even if it hadn't been raining. Even if the night were as clear and mysterious as the first night, sixteen years ago, that he'd spent on the porch of number four Privet Drive—no one would be able to sleep tonight.
Tomorrow would be the first day of change. For as long as he could remember, the events around him occurred in a steady, predictable pattern, but tomorrow, a wrench would be thrown into the churning gears of fate.
He would be the wrench.
He was always the wrench—the reason behind everything and the reason for everything. And when something becomes stuck in the gears and causes the wheels to stop turning, that something—the wrench, must be sought out, captured, and then destroyed so that the same mistake does not happen again.
He never had a choice. Had it been a choice of free will, it would have been his fault. However, it was fate, and therefore it was someone else's fault.
He never had a choice. It was fate.
Another flash of lightning and its accompanying thunder roared its presence almost at the same time. The already hectic storm drew nearer.
The orphaned boy brought his knees to his chest and held his face in his left hand. He felt the tips of soft, bristly hairs speckling the skin on his cheeks.
About time.
Author's Note: Poo... this's what happens when Joya tries to go dark like Jonah... then fails miserably? @_@ And if anyone got confused at the abrupt ending, the 'about time' refers to it being 'about time' for Harry to 'grow up', the peach fuzz symbolizing his becoming a man... ^^; Anywho, my first Harry ficlet! Hope everyone at least halfway enjoyed it! :3