Jessica paced the small space that was known as her room. The attic. It wouldn't have been as bad if there were actually some room up there but alas, it was quite spartan and quite small. Her small cot was smashed into one corner and random old things she had been allowed to keep over her 15 years. Her largest collection was books. Her brother stepbrother hated books. So, like everything else from years past, they were sent to the attic. Along with her. The unused and the unloved.
She was mad. No, no just mad. She was seething. Those idiot people downstairs who dared to call themselves her parents were fighting. Over her. Again. Jessica sighed. She was getting quite tired of all of it. It was all because a simple letter that she had received. But she never saw it. That woman who dared to call herself a mother had gotten the mail that day and went off on Jessica the moment she had came home from work.
Jessica was adopted when she was barley a month old and was very happy until she turned five. Her 'parents' were having a baby. They thought they could not, therefore adopting a girl. But now there was a new apple of their eyes and Jessica was sent to the attic, with all the used and misused paraphernalia that no one cared about anymore.
Jessica plopped down on her small little cot in the corner of the room. She was tired of this family, this house, this life. She had contemplated running away for years. Even tried it once or twice, though on the day she had left she would always return before dusk out of fear.
She was afraid. Afraid of the consequences of her actions. And of everything else. She had lived with these people too long that she even feared other people, thinking they were all alike. All like the people who resided floors below. At age fifteen, that was a lot to fear.
She also feared her dreams. But she also welcomed them with open arms. She had always had dreams. Dreams about a strange boy and his horrible but fascinating life.
He seemed to grow as she grew. Getting older as she did herself. He had amazing adventures, wondrous friends, horrible teachers, infuriating enemies and so much that she wished she had. He had magic.
She started pondering what it would be like to have friends. She already knew what enemies were. They were everywhere, all the time.
She pondered until she could not think anymore, then closed her eyes and fell asleep.
Across a continent and an ocean, a 16-year-old boy woke up, unhappy even before the day began. And Jessica, in her dreams, agreed with him.
Harry rolled off his bed, annoyed that it was daytime already. He sighed and tugged on a pair of pants, an overly large t-shirt, and a pair of shoes.
The Dursley's weren't being their normal, pestering selves this summer. He assumed they were still scared of Moody. Though, Harry had thought, anyone in their right mind would. He was nutters.
Harry grabbed a chocolate frog from the pile that Ron the night before. It was, in fact, Harry's birthday today. He trudged down the stairs to make breakfast before the Dursley's got up. He was hopping to get back up stairs without any contact with them. His idea was he was going to station himself in his room for the day and read some of the new books Hermione had gotten him. It would take his mind off . . . things.
Harry finished making breakfast, and closed his door just as he heard his Uncle leave his own room. Harry grinned a little and flung himself onto the bed, grabbing another frog. He started flipping though the first book, examining the wand motions for some advanced defense. While he was reading he shuddered and his head shot up. He kept getting the feeling that he was being watched. He shrugged it off. He should be used to it, he reasoned with himself. He decided he was just jump because of all the excitement over the death eaters, Voldermort and such. He went back to flipping through the book and moved on to the second and third books Hermione had given him. His mouth dropped open and his eyes sparkled with amazement.
"Man, Hermione . . ." He couldn't even finish his sentence to no one. The books were titled Beginners Guide To Dark Magic and the second was Advanced Dark Magic.
Harry blinked a few times; assuring himself that one of his friends had not sent him two books pertaining to the Dark Arts. When he looked back at the books, neither title had changed. Harry sighed, not quite knowing what to do. He opened the first book and jumped with surprise when a letter addressed to him in Hermione's writing fell out. Harry picked it up carefully and examined it closely. Yes, it looked like Hermione's handwriting and there looked to be nothing wrong with the letter. It looked like a normal, everyday letter.
He opened it cautiously.
Dear Harry,
I'm sure when you saw the titles of these two books you thought you were either going mad or I was possessed. Neither is true. Yes, those are two books about the Dark Arts. I know you don't have any books like this and I know you will either be wary to read them or incredible angry that I though you might want them. The truth is, Harry, you have to fight fire with fire. If you are to defeat You-Know-Who then you will probably have to kill him. And to kill him, you need the dark arts.
It doesn't make you evil to use them, Harry, but be careful. Many great wizards have been corrupted by the seduction of the dark arts. But I believe you will need these in the future.
Now, Harry, remember to change the title when we are on the train. I went to great lengths to get those without being detected. I would have to give you a good talking to if one of the teachers took these.
There is an interesting spell on page 85 of the beginners' guide. Something about blocking yourself from the radar that tells the Ministry's if it youth are doing spells. Maybe you should look into it . . .
Good luck and I hope to see you soon.
Love,
Hermione
P.S Lupin just informed me that we will be getting you so u can stay a month here so be packed!
Harry closed the books and looked at them with a mixture of disgust and curiosity. He still had not told Ron or Hermione about the prophecy, but not that he thought of it, it was quite logical. Evan if he had never heard the prophecy, Harry knew he would have to kill Voldermort or be killed by him. The only difference was he had never heard it so plainly.
Harry looked around his little room, analyzing the damage. Evan though he had always thought he did not own a lot, the things he had acquired over the years was almost too much to think about. Clothes, books, quills, parchment, owl feathers, and other random things were everywhere. He sighed, annoyed. No one, not even him, enjoyed the task that was before him.
Harry smiled broadly and started the first book. He would have to learn and learn quickly, he thought. The war had already begun. He would be ready next time. And he would make sure no one was taken again on the account of him.
An ocean and a continent way, Jessica Callaway, his blood sister, was seeing the exact pages he was and learning exactly what he was. Just as she had been doing since she could dream.
AN: Right, well, this is just an idea of something that was in my head for the past months and I got so bored today that I typed it out. If you don't like it, don't read it. I'm really not in the mood to have people tell me how bad my writing is. I already know, so don't waste your time. If you like it, tell me. If you don't, well, don't read the next chapter (if there is one).
Reviews are welcome. So is CONSTUCTIVE criticism. Different from a Flame. No Flames please.