Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his characters are J.K. Rowling. The style of writing that I'm trying to mimic is by Dalton Trumbo.
Author's Note: This is a one-shot, and I think I really need to point out right now that yes, I know the difference between the 1st, 2nd, and both 3rd personas. What I'm doing is mimicking the writing style of Dalton Trumbo in his book, Johnny Got His Gun, where it's written in 3rd Person Singular, but switches abruptly to thought without warning.
This fic is honestly supposed to be different from the way I usually write things. The grammar is slightly off (note how many conjunctions I use as compared to my other stories), and I do not plan on fixing any of it. I'm trying to get back into writing and thought maybe this would help. It changes tenses (as in past-tense, present-tense) all over. Try to follow.
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Growing Up
When you are depressed, you never think about the good things in life. It is always about who is out for you; who wants to kill you. Who wants you dead.
Life was not always bad for him. Well, yes, it was, but it was not before he had been placed in the hands of the Dursleys. Why can no one understand my emotions?
Harry Potter sat in a large chair at 12 Grimmauld Place. This place is revolting; full of pureblood nonsense and hate. That's what it smells like in here; hate.
Remus Lupin is in the chair adjacent to Harry. He is growing older and older each day, but while he is not even forty, I think he feels sixty. The werewolf sits with his reading glasses on as his eyes flow through the pages of the anger-filled book that he has recommended more than once to Harry. "I keep reading it, over and over, and I think about him," he always says.
He is wrapped in a quilt next to the fire. Remus says that it is cold, and yes, it does feel a little drafty, but bloody hell it's Christmas for Christ's sake! Can't he look, or even act, happy?
No. He does not have to force himself to, and neither does he, Harry.
Homework. What teacher would give us homework on the Christmas break? Oh, that is right: Professor Severus Snape. What a jerk. How much I loath him for all he's done; I blame him for my loneliness.
Ron and Ginny Weasley are lying on their stomachs below Remus's feet. They are playing chess. Wizard's chess that is. Ron keeps beating her, and she lets out a cry of defeat each time. "That's not a legal move!"
"Yes it is! Are you blind?"
If they keep bickering, I might have to throw my three-hundred-ninety-four page book at them. It is starting to get irate, and Remus doesn't look too happy to hear it either.
I have become so much like him; silence has taken me over as well as grief. There is a single gray hair in Harry's messy, black hair, but he does not care. He dips the tip of his quill into the inkbottle once more. It is sitting on a small table next to the chair he is in; for what purpose, Harry does not know. Maybe it is there to place drinks when one is actually enjoying the company of others.
Fuck the others. Fuck the world. Fuck company.
But he's so ethereal. The way he reads by the fireplace, the way he is like me; the way that I am like him.
Harry wonders things that would make his friends' skin crawl if they ever heard it. If someone had opened his head and took a listen to the disgusting thoughts inside, they would hate him. I want him; I need him.
How did he know? He had never said, Remus are you gay? No, he had never asked Remus, will you fuck the shit out of me because I'm my dad's son? Did you ever fancy my father? You take quick glances at me from time to time, but that does not mean anything, does it?
How did he know? Because, he thought, we know our kind. There are those girls who write stories about homosexual lifestyles where the two boys do not know how to tell the one they lust after; they are afraid that they will destroy whatever friendship they had if they do. Harry snorted to himself. Yeah, right.
Ginny wrote one of those once, and Harry had found it. He laughed so hard that it almost made him vomit.
We know our kind. We know who is normal, and we know who is a freak. I'm a freak. I'm what people of the world today call "unnatural"; they say that I am the Devil's handiwork. They say that God didn't create me because I have a penis, and I fancy a man of thirty-seven-years-old who has a penis, too. Well, Goddamnit, I am infatuated with that thirty-seven-year-old man. Call me a freak, call me unnatural, hell, even call me the Devil's handiwork, but don't tell me that it's only lust; it's love, damnit, love.
L-O-V-E.
Love.
Those girls laugh and giggle when they find it appealing that two boys cannot admit their feelings for each other. They find it "cute" that we can't come out of the closet and say I like boys. Well, I'm out. I want him. I'm not afraid that he isn't a fag just like me.
I'm afraid he'll reject me.
Harry pulls his quill back to the parchment, writing the importance of the Polyjuice Potion and the ways to avoid being caught while in another's form. How boring. Had he not been through this before? Jotting down all of what he remembers from his second year, he looks back at Remus.
I wonder if anyone knows what it's like to be me? Doubt it. So many emotions fill Harry's head that it is hard to concentrate. He closes his eyes as he hears Ron and Ginny get up from their position and exit the room. Only two people are left: Harry and his lust, Remus.
Will he ever look at me with anything other than sadness? Can't he look at me, and stop seeing my parents and love me? Why won't he hold me in those weak arms? Yes, they're weak, but so strong; I feel as if nothing can hurt me in them. Voldemort can't get to me while your arms are around me…
Voldemort.
Why was Voldemort after him? Why victimize a child just because he was destined to be able to defeat him one day? Why victimize a child who could not defend himself against a fully trained wizard? He stole my childhood from me. He stole my parents and my brother. I chastise him, and blame Voldemort for all of my pain, my agony, my unnaturalness.
What was Harry thinking, his "unnaturalness"? Being gay was normal, but then again, it was not every day that you saw a sixteen-year-old kid with a lightning bolt scar on their forehead, and it was not every day that you met a kid whose parents had been murdered when he was just a year old to get to him. That was unnatural. Everything about him was unnatural except the fact that he was a fag.
If I could relive my life-what the hell? He could not relive anything. Nevertheless, if he had…how many things would he change?
If James and Lilly Potter had survived, would Harry still have fallen in love with his once-professor, Remus Lupin? Would Harry still feel lonely all the time, and that no one could understand? Would he find even waking up in the afternoon more of a chore than a simple pleasure of life?
"Are you alright, Harry?" Remus asks him.
Harry jerks his head up from the shock of hearing something other than the softly turning of small paper and the light cackling of the fire. His thought is lost as the man stares into his eyes. Those beautiful amber eyes always took his breath away.
"You haven't written anything in almost five minutes," says Remus. "Do you need any help?"
"Yes," says Harry, but he did not need help with his Potions; he needed help with life, but how could he tell this man that his infatuation was closely becoming an obsession.
Remus stands up and marks the place in his book by folding the corner of the page. Johnny Got His Gun, Harry reads the title. It is a paperback, and its cover is a deep black with a dark cream picture of the "V" for victory sign on it. The back is the same cream shade as the sign on the front, but Harry does not look at the book for long.
The man pulls the quilt along with him as he places the book on the chair and takes a few steps to where Harry is sitting. Remus kneels at the boy's side, and Harry feels a rush of excitement. Touch my knee, please, he pleads internally.
Remus does, but leans on the boy's leg. He looks tired, but then again, he has never looked like he has woken up from a refreshing nap. Maybe it's his lycanthropy? On the other hand, maybe it is the many horrors that he's seen in his life? The two of us have been through so much in the past fifteen years that would make any sane person end up six feet under from their own shredding of veins and spilling of blood. How does he do it?
"Potions were never my forte."
"It's not mine, either."
I stare at his eyes, and he looks into mine. He knows I'm like him, so why doesn't he act?
"I'm afraid, Remus," I say slightly above a whisper. "I really am." I want you. I need you.
"You're strong," says he. "And if you feel afraid, you can always talk to me about it." He's referring to the fact that we're both fags; we're both unnatural.
The tears well up, and Harry feels his book and his parchment and his quill fall to the ground and he wrap his arms around Remus's neck. The man embraces him, slowly moving his hand through the boy's unruly hair to hold his head. Erotic. "I miss him. I miss all of them."
"I do, too."
His words, so simple, yet so wise. His words roll off his tongue as if he is an angel. My angel. I sob loudly, and my angel with the amber eyes and sandy-blonde, but gray turning haired man holds me tighter. Remus feels my pain. He knows what it's like to bleed.
"I love you."
Harry sobs once more, wondering if he has said what he thought he said.
"I really love you, Harry."
It was not he who spoke the first time. No-yes! It was what Harry had wanted to hear for so long, but not like this. Not while he's crying like a child who had stubbed their toe, sobbing about how the most simple of things hurts. No! Don't tell me you love me now, Remus! Tell me when I can throw you down and fuck you! Tell me that you love me when no one is around, and we're in an enclosed room-
The door shuts and locks itself, and Remus pulls out of the embrace and looks Harry in the eye. "I love you." I love you, too.
Harry moves closer to the man's face. His glasses are askew, and slightly wet from the tears that he has been crying. However, as he pulls close, Remus pushes himself forward and forces his tongue into the boy's mouth.
Illegal.
Unnatural.
The taste of ginger sweeps through Harry's mouth of as feels the kiss deepen, and Harry tries to move his tongue, too, but Remus is too strong. Touch me. Make me a man, please!
Remus is still holding Harry, and he is still kneeling on the ground. Harry pushes himself towards the ground. He is now on top of the werewolf, but the werewolf does not like being submissive. Pushing the boy over, Remus straddles Harry's privates. They are both clothed, but Harry feels the man's erection brush up against his own. He's big.
The two are still kissing, but the man wants more, as does Harry. I want more. I want you. I need you. If I can't have you, I think I'll die. Don't leave me, ever. Do what your instinct tells you to do and love me. Love me the way you never loved any other man…but I'm not a man. I'm a child; a lonely child searching for my soul mate. Are you he? Will you let me take care of you? Will you take care of me in return?
Their hands move in a way that resembles bickering for a new toy, but that new toy is nothing but themselves. Clothes are torn, and the quilt that Remus had is now beneath them, wrinkled into nothing but a small ball of thick cloth. Finally, they are down to nothing, and Harry sees how Remus's hair is now almost as unkempt as his own is; the only difference is that it is sandy-brown and gray. Not black. How awkward it would be to make love with yourself.
Remus kisses the boy, and Harry moans into it. He is afraid, but trusts the man. How couldn't he?
They are still kissing. Remus uses his hands, his wonderful hands, to spread the boy's legs. With his right hand, he grabs the quilt, and uses his other hand to lift Harry's pelvic area to put the quilt under the boy.
Leverage.
They are the same height, but Harry feels as if he is still a child. A virgin; but what is wrong with being a virgin at sixteen? Just because his friend, Dean Thomas, had lost his virginity at twelve doesn't mean that they all had to, right? A sixteen-year-old virgin boy, the boy-who-lived, Harry James Potter, was about to have the thirty-seven-year-old Marauder, werewolf, and ex-Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Remus John Lupin, penetrate his ass, pull it out, and push back in until he came.
Unnatural.
If the wizards ever heard about this, they would abandon all hope for him.
I don't care.
Illegal.
Erotic.
Harry moved his own hands through Remus's hair once more. Hair was sexy, and so were eyes. They both pulled off each other's glasses and the man pushed himself into the boy, grabbing hold of Harry's erection. It hurt. I'm sure Remus didn't mean to hurt me. He told me he loved me.
Erotic.
Don't stop. Don't pull away. Make me yours…
"You're mine."
"I love you, Remus."
Harry holds his cries in, and then soon turned to pleasurable moans. They share them.
"Louder," pants Remus. His old body is starting to give way. He has done this before, but with whom? I don't care. I'm with him now and that's all the matters.
I follow his request (or was it an order), and feel my moans grow slightly louder, but not loud enough for anyone but him to hear. He moans, too, in sheer pleasure, and when we both cum at our peak in our split-second orgasm, we both feel the ecstasy flow through our brains; it is like touching the God who created all things unnatural.
All things illegal.
All things bright and beautiful.
Remus collapses onto Harry's chest. His face is touching the wooden floor as he breathes his hot breath onto my neck. He kisses me where his lips are, and I feel pure. I feel as if all my sins have been forgiven. I feel like I belong. I don't feel like a fag.
I feel like a man.
We stay there for a long time, gently talking about nothing. Remus pulls the quilt out from underneath Harry and wraps it around both of them. It is late as it is; no one will find them until morning.
Molly will kill us. She'll call us freaks; fags.
But we won't care.
We've made love.
We have a bond.
Remus tells me he loves me, that he has loved me forever. He tells me that since the first time he held me in his hands the day I was born, he wanted to make me his.
"We know our kind," he says. "We're born this way, Harry. I knew when you looked at me for the first time that we would share each others sweat and cum, and we have. I love you more than life."
"Shut up," Harry says. "Go to sleep and dream about doing this in the morning before anyone wakes up."
The smell of hate is still in the room, but it is not a stench that we made. No, it smells like sex, the starchy fragrance will stain the room so that anyone who walks in will say hey, someone fucked in here. No, we made love. We gave ourselves to each other. We found each other at last.
Remus smiles. "Maybe they'll catch us. Be a nice way to tell them. Maybe they'll realize the man that you are now." He pushes himself up, and kisses Harry once more. How I love him. How I would die without him-wait.
He called me a "man".
-Fin
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Reflection: Confusing? Interesting? If you liked the way it was written, you can always check out that book that I mentioned in the story, Johnny Got His Gun by Dalton Trumbo. I even give you a nice description of it. Go. Read. Now.
Aside from this, I don't know. If you didn't understand it very well, I apologize, but when I reread it to beta, it sounded really well written for someone who hasn't ever tried mixing the personas on purpose. 2nd Person is so hard to write, let alone understand, so hopefully I did well. While writing, I noticed that I slipped a lot from 2nd Person to 3rd Person. Bad Kristina…bad, bad, bad. It's probably because the last 10 fics that I've written have been 3rd person. Well, I challenged myself…now to continue on both Puppeteer and Candlelit Smile.