A/N: Okay, I feel a little bad posting this chapter because, well, it's so short it shouldn't even count as a chapter. But a few things are explained in here about Ron, Harry, Hermione, and ominous voice THE YEAR WHERE EVERYTHING SHOT TO HELL. i.e., sixth year. Bear with me here, guys. This story really does have a plot to it. And I'll update quicker than I did last time.
Someone was asking about why exactly I put this in the Romance section...yes, there will be the obligatory romance...
Chapter Two: Accessories and Ornaments
[harry]
Any person crossing the threshold into the Dursley home would promptly die of hypothermia from the drastic change in temperature. The warmest days of summer were heavy over Privet Drive, the lemon yellow sky pressing down on their backs and threatening to suffocate them all in one fell swoop. Something you would fail to notice if you decided against leaving the chilly interior of house number six. No, summer days like these screamed out for hyperactive air conditioners, apparently, and thus theirs was turned up as far as it could go and then some. If rain was the appropriate weather for ducks, then this was surely designed for ice cubes and polar bears [clearly the case, seeing as his uncle was beginning to resemble one more and more. Harry has come home for the summer holidays to find that half of Uncle Vernon's hair had turned white, to the man's dismay. The next month was spent trying every hair product out on the market and some illegal stuff found only in Argentina, each with disastrous results. Not to mention the fact that he weighed that of a small elephant; his body fat alone could keep him from freezing in the Arctic.]
He tugged at the sleeve of his third layer of sweaters, shivering to himself as he clattered down the oak stairs. Aunt Petunia shot him a dirty look, but said nothing. There was no use in her wasting anymore of her precious breath lecturing her good-for-nothing nephew on the proper way to descend the stairs.
Good-for-nothing. A term that could be attached to most things relating to him these days. Good-for-nothing friend, good-for-nothing godson, good-for- nothing student. He was still waiting for the moment in which he would actually serve a purpose to those around him.
He brushed back his disheveled hair and pulled the steaming kettle off the stove. Part of his nightly routine. Pour a cup of tea, retreat to his bedroom, try to dissipate completely. Harry Potter does not live here. He has been erased, thank you very much. Come back again tomorrow.
It was easier than he thought it would be. Letting himself disappear. All it took was a little practice, but hell, that was what sixth year had been about. Sixth year had been bad in a good way. Or good in a bad way. Take your pick.
Sixth year had been arguments and isolation and school books hurled at each other. Sixth year had been the color of charcoal, permutated occasionally with dark static and coffee colored stains. Sixth year had been everything and nothing and whatever falls in between.
But why should he be the one constantly putting up with everyone else when they just didn't understand? Their immaturities, their petty bickering, their constant terror of exams. Right. Because exams were the things to be afraid of, and not the real world. Priorities in all the correct places.
Sixth year had been about cutting back to the bare necessities. Only things that were completely vital, things he absolutely needed. Ron and Hermione had been accessories. Nice to have around, but when it came down to it, just ornaments.
It was like boiling water. Slight simmers of arguments with Ron escalated into not talking for days at a time. It would be Hermione's teary pleas at the breakfast table that kept the three of them together as long as they did, but even she eventually tired of constantly begging them to talk.
"You can't keep lashing out at everyone around you because Sirius is gone," she told him quietly as they sat alone in the common room one night. "It wasn't my fault and it wasn't Ron's fault. I would appreciate it if you stopped acting like it was the two of us who killed him."
It was the one and only time she brought up Sirius; after that, all conversations consisted of polite small talk and questions about homework.
Because it was easier to blame those around him for what happened than to accept that he was the one to blame, he screwed up, he should've listened. And stopped trying to be a hero.
He had long since decided to abandon the title of Boy Who Lived.
Harry Potter, Resident Hero. He was now Harry Potter, Resident Jerk.
Or just Harry Potter.
It didn't really matter, anyway: no one seemed to mind too much when he began to drift on his own. As it turned out, Ron's company was much preferred to his own.
Any eggshells he had been walking on with his best friend were completely broken after George's funeral, back in the common room after the Weasleys had insisted that Ron and Ginny return to school to finish up the rest of their year. He can't even remember what he said to Ron, something about them all having to make sacrifices in this war, a comment that was either meant to be comforting or caustic. Probably a little of both.
Funny, how when you want to remember something, you seem to simply close your eyes, hoping that the images will be projected onto the inside of your eye lids. He could see nothing of that night whenever he squeezed his emerald orbs shut, just black. What would sounds look like, if they could be seen? Shouts of "Don't you ever compare what happened Sirius to with what happened to my brother, how dare you pretend to understand what I'm going through," would be murky gray; "You want to talk about pain, about suffering, I've gone through more than the lot of you, I don't exactly see the name 'Ron Weasley' written in all the history books, goddamn it," would be angry red; Tears and "Stop it stop it just stop it neither of you mean any of this, please, Ron, Harry, we used to be friends best friends let's go back to that please let's go back to being friends again," and the sound of breaking porcelain as Hermione smashed a flower vase against a nearby wall would be dark ocean blue.
And that was it.
Maybe it was inevitable that the three would fall apart. They could spend their days walking around with a smile and complaining light heartedly about Charms homework and arguing over why the Chudley Cannons are in a losing slump, but in the end, they had just seen too much to keep pretending that everything was fine.
It was Hermione who now served as the only link between Ron and Harry, insisting on keeping up her friendship with each one of them, despite the fact that they refused to speak to each other. He was beginning to get the impression that she had become slightly delusional when it came to the break up of their trio, ending many of her letters to Ron with, "Harry and I look forward to hearing from you," or "Harry and I are worried about you," ["No, Hermione, you don't understand. I don't look forward to hearing from him and I'm not worried about him." "Yes, you are. You just don't know it." "You're off your rocker, do you know that?"]
Of course, she was off in...Bulgaria, was it? Some place where it's freezing cold and they have to wear fur in the summer? What exactly do they do in Bulgaria, anyway? Ice fishing? Oh, the excitement.
He picked up the abandoned parchment on his bedside table, running his fingers over the letter he received annually. No magic over the summer holidays. New school books. Start of term is on this date. The Hogwarts Express will be leaving at this time. Remember this, this, and that. This and this is not allowed. See you at school. Cheers.
Someone was asking about why exactly I put this in the Romance section...yes, there will be the obligatory romance...
Chapter Two: Accessories and Ornaments
[harry]
Any person crossing the threshold into the Dursley home would promptly die of hypothermia from the drastic change in temperature. The warmest days of summer were heavy over Privet Drive, the lemon yellow sky pressing down on their backs and threatening to suffocate them all in one fell swoop. Something you would fail to notice if you decided against leaving the chilly interior of house number six. No, summer days like these screamed out for hyperactive air conditioners, apparently, and thus theirs was turned up as far as it could go and then some. If rain was the appropriate weather for ducks, then this was surely designed for ice cubes and polar bears [clearly the case, seeing as his uncle was beginning to resemble one more and more. Harry has come home for the summer holidays to find that half of Uncle Vernon's hair had turned white, to the man's dismay. The next month was spent trying every hair product out on the market and some illegal stuff found only in Argentina, each with disastrous results. Not to mention the fact that he weighed that of a small elephant; his body fat alone could keep him from freezing in the Arctic.]
He tugged at the sleeve of his third layer of sweaters, shivering to himself as he clattered down the oak stairs. Aunt Petunia shot him a dirty look, but said nothing. There was no use in her wasting anymore of her precious breath lecturing her good-for-nothing nephew on the proper way to descend the stairs.
Good-for-nothing. A term that could be attached to most things relating to him these days. Good-for-nothing friend, good-for-nothing godson, good-for- nothing student. He was still waiting for the moment in which he would actually serve a purpose to those around him.
He brushed back his disheveled hair and pulled the steaming kettle off the stove. Part of his nightly routine. Pour a cup of tea, retreat to his bedroom, try to dissipate completely. Harry Potter does not live here. He has been erased, thank you very much. Come back again tomorrow.
It was easier than he thought it would be. Letting himself disappear. All it took was a little practice, but hell, that was what sixth year had been about. Sixth year had been bad in a good way. Or good in a bad way. Take your pick.
Sixth year had been arguments and isolation and school books hurled at each other. Sixth year had been the color of charcoal, permutated occasionally with dark static and coffee colored stains. Sixth year had been everything and nothing and whatever falls in between.
But why should he be the one constantly putting up with everyone else when they just didn't understand? Their immaturities, their petty bickering, their constant terror of exams. Right. Because exams were the things to be afraid of, and not the real world. Priorities in all the correct places.
Sixth year had been about cutting back to the bare necessities. Only things that were completely vital, things he absolutely needed. Ron and Hermione had been accessories. Nice to have around, but when it came down to it, just ornaments.
It was like boiling water. Slight simmers of arguments with Ron escalated into not talking for days at a time. It would be Hermione's teary pleas at the breakfast table that kept the three of them together as long as they did, but even she eventually tired of constantly begging them to talk.
"You can't keep lashing out at everyone around you because Sirius is gone," she told him quietly as they sat alone in the common room one night. "It wasn't my fault and it wasn't Ron's fault. I would appreciate it if you stopped acting like it was the two of us who killed him."
It was the one and only time she brought up Sirius; after that, all conversations consisted of polite small talk and questions about homework.
Because it was easier to blame those around him for what happened than to accept that he was the one to blame, he screwed up, he should've listened. And stopped trying to be a hero.
He had long since decided to abandon the title of Boy Who Lived.
Harry Potter, Resident Hero. He was now Harry Potter, Resident Jerk.
Or just Harry Potter.
It didn't really matter, anyway: no one seemed to mind too much when he began to drift on his own. As it turned out, Ron's company was much preferred to his own.
Any eggshells he had been walking on with his best friend were completely broken after George's funeral, back in the common room after the Weasleys had insisted that Ron and Ginny return to school to finish up the rest of their year. He can't even remember what he said to Ron, something about them all having to make sacrifices in this war, a comment that was either meant to be comforting or caustic. Probably a little of both.
Funny, how when you want to remember something, you seem to simply close your eyes, hoping that the images will be projected onto the inside of your eye lids. He could see nothing of that night whenever he squeezed his emerald orbs shut, just black. What would sounds look like, if they could be seen? Shouts of "Don't you ever compare what happened Sirius to with what happened to my brother, how dare you pretend to understand what I'm going through," would be murky gray; "You want to talk about pain, about suffering, I've gone through more than the lot of you, I don't exactly see the name 'Ron Weasley' written in all the history books, goddamn it," would be angry red; Tears and "Stop it stop it just stop it neither of you mean any of this, please, Ron, Harry, we used to be friends best friends let's go back to that please let's go back to being friends again," and the sound of breaking porcelain as Hermione smashed a flower vase against a nearby wall would be dark ocean blue.
And that was it.
Maybe it was inevitable that the three would fall apart. They could spend their days walking around with a smile and complaining light heartedly about Charms homework and arguing over why the Chudley Cannons are in a losing slump, but in the end, they had just seen too much to keep pretending that everything was fine.
It was Hermione who now served as the only link between Ron and Harry, insisting on keeping up her friendship with each one of them, despite the fact that they refused to speak to each other. He was beginning to get the impression that she had become slightly delusional when it came to the break up of their trio, ending many of her letters to Ron with, "Harry and I look forward to hearing from you," or "Harry and I are worried about you," ["No, Hermione, you don't understand. I don't look forward to hearing from him and I'm not worried about him." "Yes, you are. You just don't know it." "You're off your rocker, do you know that?"]
Of course, she was off in...Bulgaria, was it? Some place where it's freezing cold and they have to wear fur in the summer? What exactly do they do in Bulgaria, anyway? Ice fishing? Oh, the excitement.
He picked up the abandoned parchment on his bedside table, running his fingers over the letter he received annually. No magic over the summer holidays. New school books. Start of term is on this date. The Hogwarts Express will be leaving at this time. Remember this, this, and that. This and this is not allowed. See you at school. Cheers.