Pretty Little Shell
Disclaimer: Harry Potter, and all of the original characters in the books belong to J.K. Rowling. This fanfiction, all of the events, and the created characters all belong to me. Yeah. Don't steal [like you would want to]. I'm open to constructive critism but not flames. All flames will be laughed at.
Author's Note: When I started reading the Harry Potter books, I found Harry Potter to be an extremely dull character. All he really seemed to do was save people. However, when I read the 5th book, it gave me a lot more insight to Harry, and now I quite like him. So I've decided to write a fanfiction about his sixth year at Hogwarts. Yeah.
Chapter One:
It seemed funny to Harry that a year ago, when he was 15, he was going to all sorts of great lengths to hear the news, such as hiding in flower bushes, to reassure himself Sirius, his beloved godfather, was still free from the Ministry of Magic's grasps.
Nowadays, however, Harry hated the news. He loathed it. Now that Sirius was dead, there was report after report about his godfather being killed by a policeman. Harry knew this wasn't true, that the ministry had made this up specifically for the muggle news, but still...it still drove the idea back into him: Sirius Black, quite possibly his favorite person in the world, was dead.
Dead. Gone. Harry would miss him. Every inch of him. His long, dark hair. His mischevious, twinking eyes. His laugh, which to Harry sounded remarkably like a dog barking. The way he'd unhesitantly prodded his wand into the chest of the man whom he'd always tormented as children - Severus Snape. Yes, Harry had decided, that had always been the shadowed side of Black, he had tormented a kid for no reason as a youth. But we all have dark sides, don't we?
Harry sighed. He was sitting in Arabella Figg's tea parlor, alone. Mrs. Figg, a squib, had invited him to tea that day, out of something which was so obviously pity. It reeked of cabbage as usual, and every once in a while a random cat would walk by, meowing loudly.
"Harry!" Mrs. Figg chimed loudly, arriving finally with a tea pot in her left hand and a plate of tea sandwiches on her right. She the plate of sandwiches down on the table and plunked the tea pot down after.
"Hello," Harry replied quietly. Mrs. Figg snatched his cup and immediately flooded it with warm tea.
"How are you?!" Mrs. Figg exclaimed, her voice ringing irratatingly in Harry's delicate ears. It sounded like 10 long fingernails taking a lengthy trip down a blackboard. She took a large gulp of her tea. Harry glared down at his own full cup, and though his mouth was rather dry, he couldn't seem to take a sip of it.
"I'm fine," Harry mumbled.
"Harry...I heard about Sirius," she began. Her gnarled, veiny hands sat twisted together like horrible, mishapen snakes in her lap.
'Well, I suppose you have,' Harry thought a little angrily. Who HADN'T, what with these FUCKING muggles blasting their shit on the television all the time!
"He was a great man, the sort of man, who well, you know, wouldn't be content to sitting inside all day..." continued Mrs. Figg. Harry had heard it all before...time and time again. But it didn't change the fact that he was dead, right? Gone and dead. Dead behind that foul curtain, laying there, with only Heaven knows who else. Harry shuddered to think about it.
"You hardly knew him!" Harry snarled, and it was all he could do to keep his fist formed around the steaming mug of tea. "YOU HARDLY KNEW HIM AT ALL!"
Drinking wine. Such an easy, basic task. One would think it remarkably easy for the most skilled, strongest, and most certainly the most lethal wizard in the world, drinking wine. But no. Not tonight. Voldemort's long, milky hands were trembling so hard he wasn't even able to bring the wine to his lips without spilling it all over his blood red robes.
Yes. Blood red. One would think that, Voldemort, being as so dismal as he is, would have preferred black. Most villians do, you see. Voldemort usually did. Black represented death. But crimson, of course, represented pain and bloodshed. And pain and blood were SO much more fun than death, weren't they? Voldemort liked to drape himself in such detrimental things as these.
"I go through all the trouble of getting you out of Azkaban...I should have left you to starve..." Voldemort stated. His hands had begun trembling madly again.
"My Lord, I-I'm sorry," another man proclaimed quickly. A voice once known as eloquent, powerful, and quite silver-tounged was now shaky, shrill and a bit insane sounding. Lucius Malfoy clutched his blonde head, which was now streaked scarlet with dried blood, his face facing the hard wooden floor.
"You have no news for me?! At all?! I should have left you to starve, to rot, to become a shrivled bit of nothing!" Lord Voldemort got to his feet instantly, knocking his half-empty glass of wine to the floor, the burgundy liquid splattering about the ground.
Voldemort snatched Lucius roughly by his silver-blonde head, bringing his face alarmingly close to his own, distorted one. Pale gray eyes met his own livid red ones.
"Lick it up."
Lucius hastily obeyed, obviously scared for his life, and Voldemort stalked over towards the window, which was shut tightly, hearing nothing but the noises of his servant lapping up the wine he had spilled.
Oh, if Draco could see his strong, powerful, Death-Eater father now.
Harry awoke, breathing in the same familiar cabbage scent. Damn, it had happened again. Well, not that Harry had expected it to stop. He groaned and fell back upon the hard wood floor.
"Oh, Harry!!" Mrs. Figg cried, grabbing his wrist and pulling him in to the sitting position, "Are you okay?!"
"Fine," Harry groaned in response. He rubbed the back of his head. "I should go now." Harry slowly, but purposefully stood up.
"Oh, Harry, don't leave just yet! You didn't get to try my sandwiches!" Mrs. Figg cluthced his arm, staring sadly up at him, rather scaring Harry than compelling him to stay longer.
"The Dursleys will be expecting me to help them with, er, dinner," Harry lied. He became painfully aware that it was only 3 in the afternoon. Mrs. Figg looked crestfallen, and Harry pretended not to notice.
"Well, tomorrow then, Harry?" she questioned, smiling an orangey-pink lipstick smeared smile.
"Er, maybe, I'll see if I can make it," Harry replied quickly, backing out of her door, out onto the walkway, and on down the streets. Mrs. Figg cried a good-bye after him, and finally her front door was shut with a resounding thud.
Lucius sat lazily at the dinner table, gazing out across the dining room, his silver eyes blank. "Wine, dear?" Narcissa asked softly, her voice empty, as usual.
Lucius' eyes narrow, remembering the events of earlier that day. No, he would certainly not have wine. He'd had enough wine for today, thank you. "Water."
"Of course," Narcissa replied. She sat down at the table, thrusting the gleaming white gold goblet at her husband. He gazed up at her. Narcissa was beautiful. There was no other way to describe it. She was 38, yet she hardly looked a day over 25. Her long, flaxen fell down her back in a brilliant casade, and her ice blue eyes were, yes, vacant, dull and had a look of eternal boredom about them, but people overlooked that. Her high cheeks were a delicate shade of pink, her lips full, and her nose had a sort of aristocratic upward tilt to it.
Lucius said nothing, as usual at the dinner table. Because he didn't love her. He didn't love anyone, really. Did Narcissa please him? Yes. Did he find her enjoyable? Yes. Did he appreciate her? Yes. But did he love her?
No.
"Draco's staying with his friend, Pansy, until school starts, so I went ahead and got his school stuff with him today," Narcissa stated boredly, more to the wall than to her husband. They both knew Lucius couldn't have cared less.
"Fine," was all Lucius had to say on the matter.
"Draco, do you love me?" Pansy asked, leaning forward to stare at the blonde. Her pug-face was repulsive, but Draco had to admit, her body wasn't bad. Draco let his gaze wash over her, all of her. No, not at all bad.
Draco averted her gaze and stared out over the horizon. The Parkinson manor was a well-kept place, and she and he were sitting out in the gazebo in her yard, watching the sun set. It would have been perfect, had he been with anyone else but her. Preferably the one he loved..
"Draco!" Pansy cried, tugging on his arm.
"What?" he asked, trying to look as if he hadn't heard her.
"Do you love me?" she repeated, batting her eyelashes.
"Yeah, 'course I do," Draco replied half-heartedly, glancing out again over the horizon. The sun had all melted away but one teeny sliver.
"Then show me," Pansy ordered, grabbing Draco's chin, forcing him to pay attention to her. "Show me, Draco."
Author's Note: This is just random crap...at what happens to be happening...like over the summer or whatever. Yeah, I guess a plot will start to form next chapter..whatever.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter, and all of the original characters in the books belong to J.K. Rowling. This fanfiction, all of the events, and the created characters all belong to me. Yeah. Don't steal [like you would want to]. I'm open to constructive critism but not flames. All flames will be laughed at.
Author's Note: When I started reading the Harry Potter books, I found Harry Potter to be an extremely dull character. All he really seemed to do was save people. However, when I read the 5th book, it gave me a lot more insight to Harry, and now I quite like him. So I've decided to write a fanfiction about his sixth year at Hogwarts. Yeah.
Chapter One:
It seemed funny to Harry that a year ago, when he was 15, he was going to all sorts of great lengths to hear the news, such as hiding in flower bushes, to reassure himself Sirius, his beloved godfather, was still free from the Ministry of Magic's grasps.
Nowadays, however, Harry hated the news. He loathed it. Now that Sirius was dead, there was report after report about his godfather being killed by a policeman. Harry knew this wasn't true, that the ministry had made this up specifically for the muggle news, but still...it still drove the idea back into him: Sirius Black, quite possibly his favorite person in the world, was dead.
Dead. Gone. Harry would miss him. Every inch of him. His long, dark hair. His mischevious, twinking eyes. His laugh, which to Harry sounded remarkably like a dog barking. The way he'd unhesitantly prodded his wand into the chest of the man whom he'd always tormented as children - Severus Snape. Yes, Harry had decided, that had always been the shadowed side of Black, he had tormented a kid for no reason as a youth. But we all have dark sides, don't we?
Harry sighed. He was sitting in Arabella Figg's tea parlor, alone. Mrs. Figg, a squib, had invited him to tea that day, out of something which was so obviously pity. It reeked of cabbage as usual, and every once in a while a random cat would walk by, meowing loudly.
"Harry!" Mrs. Figg chimed loudly, arriving finally with a tea pot in her left hand and a plate of tea sandwiches on her right. She the plate of sandwiches down on the table and plunked the tea pot down after.
"Hello," Harry replied quietly. Mrs. Figg snatched his cup and immediately flooded it with warm tea.
"How are you?!" Mrs. Figg exclaimed, her voice ringing irratatingly in Harry's delicate ears. It sounded like 10 long fingernails taking a lengthy trip down a blackboard. She took a large gulp of her tea. Harry glared down at his own full cup, and though his mouth was rather dry, he couldn't seem to take a sip of it.
"I'm fine," Harry mumbled.
"Harry...I heard about Sirius," she began. Her gnarled, veiny hands sat twisted together like horrible, mishapen snakes in her lap.
'Well, I suppose you have,' Harry thought a little angrily. Who HADN'T, what with these FUCKING muggles blasting their shit on the television all the time!
"He was a great man, the sort of man, who well, you know, wouldn't be content to sitting inside all day..." continued Mrs. Figg. Harry had heard it all before...time and time again. But it didn't change the fact that he was dead, right? Gone and dead. Dead behind that foul curtain, laying there, with only Heaven knows who else. Harry shuddered to think about it.
"You hardly knew him!" Harry snarled, and it was all he could do to keep his fist formed around the steaming mug of tea. "YOU HARDLY KNEW HIM AT ALL!"
Drinking wine. Such an easy, basic task. One would think it remarkably easy for the most skilled, strongest, and most certainly the most lethal wizard in the world, drinking wine. But no. Not tonight. Voldemort's long, milky hands were trembling so hard he wasn't even able to bring the wine to his lips without spilling it all over his blood red robes.
Yes. Blood red. One would think that, Voldemort, being as so dismal as he is, would have preferred black. Most villians do, you see. Voldemort usually did. Black represented death. But crimson, of course, represented pain and bloodshed. And pain and blood were SO much more fun than death, weren't they? Voldemort liked to drape himself in such detrimental things as these.
"I go through all the trouble of getting you out of Azkaban...I should have left you to starve..." Voldemort stated. His hands had begun trembling madly again.
"My Lord, I-I'm sorry," another man proclaimed quickly. A voice once known as eloquent, powerful, and quite silver-tounged was now shaky, shrill and a bit insane sounding. Lucius Malfoy clutched his blonde head, which was now streaked scarlet with dried blood, his face facing the hard wooden floor.
"You have no news for me?! At all?! I should have left you to starve, to rot, to become a shrivled bit of nothing!" Lord Voldemort got to his feet instantly, knocking his half-empty glass of wine to the floor, the burgundy liquid splattering about the ground.
Voldemort snatched Lucius roughly by his silver-blonde head, bringing his face alarmingly close to his own, distorted one. Pale gray eyes met his own livid red ones.
"Lick it up."
Lucius hastily obeyed, obviously scared for his life, and Voldemort stalked over towards the window, which was shut tightly, hearing nothing but the noises of his servant lapping up the wine he had spilled.
Oh, if Draco could see his strong, powerful, Death-Eater father now.
Harry awoke, breathing in the same familiar cabbage scent. Damn, it had happened again. Well, not that Harry had expected it to stop. He groaned and fell back upon the hard wood floor.
"Oh, Harry!!" Mrs. Figg cried, grabbing his wrist and pulling him in to the sitting position, "Are you okay?!"
"Fine," Harry groaned in response. He rubbed the back of his head. "I should go now." Harry slowly, but purposefully stood up.
"Oh, Harry, don't leave just yet! You didn't get to try my sandwiches!" Mrs. Figg cluthced his arm, staring sadly up at him, rather scaring Harry than compelling him to stay longer.
"The Dursleys will be expecting me to help them with, er, dinner," Harry lied. He became painfully aware that it was only 3 in the afternoon. Mrs. Figg looked crestfallen, and Harry pretended not to notice.
"Well, tomorrow then, Harry?" she questioned, smiling an orangey-pink lipstick smeared smile.
"Er, maybe, I'll see if I can make it," Harry replied quickly, backing out of her door, out onto the walkway, and on down the streets. Mrs. Figg cried a good-bye after him, and finally her front door was shut with a resounding thud.
Lucius sat lazily at the dinner table, gazing out across the dining room, his silver eyes blank. "Wine, dear?" Narcissa asked softly, her voice empty, as usual.
Lucius' eyes narrow, remembering the events of earlier that day. No, he would certainly not have wine. He'd had enough wine for today, thank you. "Water."
"Of course," Narcissa replied. She sat down at the table, thrusting the gleaming white gold goblet at her husband. He gazed up at her. Narcissa was beautiful. There was no other way to describe it. She was 38, yet she hardly looked a day over 25. Her long, flaxen fell down her back in a brilliant casade, and her ice blue eyes were, yes, vacant, dull and had a look of eternal boredom about them, but people overlooked that. Her high cheeks were a delicate shade of pink, her lips full, and her nose had a sort of aristocratic upward tilt to it.
Lucius said nothing, as usual at the dinner table. Because he didn't love her. He didn't love anyone, really. Did Narcissa please him? Yes. Did he find her enjoyable? Yes. Did he appreciate her? Yes. But did he love her?
No.
"Draco's staying with his friend, Pansy, until school starts, so I went ahead and got his school stuff with him today," Narcissa stated boredly, more to the wall than to her husband. They both knew Lucius couldn't have cared less.
"Fine," was all Lucius had to say on the matter.
"Draco, do you love me?" Pansy asked, leaning forward to stare at the blonde. Her pug-face was repulsive, but Draco had to admit, her body wasn't bad. Draco let his gaze wash over her, all of her. No, not at all bad.
Draco averted her gaze and stared out over the horizon. The Parkinson manor was a well-kept place, and she and he were sitting out in the gazebo in her yard, watching the sun set. It would have been perfect, had he been with anyone else but her. Preferably the one he loved..
"Draco!" Pansy cried, tugging on his arm.
"What?" he asked, trying to look as if he hadn't heard her.
"Do you love me?" she repeated, batting her eyelashes.
"Yeah, 'course I do," Draco replied half-heartedly, glancing out again over the horizon. The sun had all melted away but one teeny sliver.
"Then show me," Pansy ordered, grabbing Draco's chin, forcing him to pay attention to her. "Show me, Draco."
Author's Note: This is just random crap...at what happens to be happening...like over the summer or whatever. Yeah, I guess a plot will start to form next chapter..whatever.