-1Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter. Anything relating to the fictional character Neal Donahue, Rejections or the 'series' Scars are mine - Gryffin's just borrowing them for a bit, but no one else can without permission.
Summary: A man with no memory of before he's eighteen muses on rejection in its many forms. But when he finds some clues to his past, he wonders. Did he reject it, or did it reject him?
Notes: Written when I was in a particularly grumpy mood (I'd been 'unsuccessful' for my uni a few weeks before and rejected for a part in a play with the same words - I don't think they took my cold into account - I got another part, but I was angry at the time). Writing is therapy.
Rejection
By Tanydwr
How many ways can they reject you?
"You were unsuccessful."
Nice, straight to the point, only slightly euphemised.
"It's not you, it's me."
Not so good when you find out that they'd been going behind your back for a year with someone else and they get married six weeks later.
"You are both exceptional candidates. It's hard when it's such a close call, but we had to make a decision. Another time, perhaps… You were just pipped to the post."
He'd heard them all.
He 'unsuccessfully' tried to get into university.
His girlfriend told him that it was her problem that she had cheated on him with someone else. Maybe, but if she'd had to find love somewhere else, didn't that mean he'd done something wrong?
And he was beaten to the promotion he wanted by someone who actually was not as exceptional as they appeared. His opponent had, however, a vagina, and that was what his boss prized over competence, obviously. That, and her mile-long legs.
The problem was that he'd lost his memory at eighteen. He'd woken up in a hospital with vague images in his mind and sense of himself. He'd had a lot of terrible injuries when they brought him in - he had been found dumped in a ditch near the edge of a military base. Many believed that he'd been kidnapped and tortured, and the military had taken someone dumping someone on their ground very personally. But there was nothing to find him. His DNA was not linked to anyone, his fingerprints were not on the system, so he clearly didn't have a criminal record, and he'd had no identification on him save for a gold ring engraved with a griffin with ruby eyes and several tattoos. They'd tried to track down identification through that, to no avail. No one recalled tattooing a young man with a red and gold phoenix, a white stag, a black dog ("Padfoot" someone had joked, for the local 'ghostly' black dog), a silvery werewolf and an emerald green lily.
But no one knew him. So he took some night classes to re-learn things he'd forgotten - he'd had next to no idea how to use a computer, and no driving licence. However, he'd maintained an exceptional imagination and he'd a fascination for computers. Before he realised it, he was part of a large company, helping design computer games. A hand for art had proved useful as he designed characters and creatures. Several phoenixes were his, as were the recent forms of the centaurs on the Narnia games, and he'd created some very original characters and concepts.
Alianne had stolen one of these and it had helped her gain her promotion. Why she needed - or wanted - it, he didn't know, since she did have a talent for the story-writing of the plot-based games, as well as her 'feminine assets'.
But she'd been fascinated with the idea of a true 'magical wand' that used a creature's magic to help a 'witch' or 'wizard' filter and focus their own. Particularly the idea of someone needing a specific wand. Of course, it had been called into question with the recent Harry Potter series, and they'd modified it.
It had begun to come up in several programmes, but he didn't care anymore. He just wanted to survive. To live.
His name had come from next-to-nothing. Just a spark of recognition when he was looking through books of names.
Evan Gryffin. The spelling of Gryffin had confused him, but it felt right. And it surely had a connection to the ring he'd been found wearing. One of the few relics of the past.
Yes, he had more than one. He'd been carrying a knife in his boot with the same crest. A few tests proved that his body remembered how to use a knife, even his mind didn't. He'd honed that skill with others.
He was a black belt. In several forms.
And yet he couldn't keep a girlfriend. Jenny had been his for eighteen months, but had apparently been cheating on him for twelve of those eighteen. He didn't understand why she hadn't broken it off sooner.
Before that were several short relationships - a few months at most.
Few women could understand a man who could only remember seven years of twenty-five years of life. One or two were purely attracted to his look and that all he really remembered were several lethal abilities, creating an exotic past for him, and being disappointed to find him 'normal', if eccentric.
But there were idiosyncrasies. He favoured candles and torches. He had a cupboard full of herbs and plants for herbal remedies, not to mention teas. He always slept with a window open. He actively rejected the idea of witches and wizards being automatically evil and ugly, but had a theory that the outside only showed the inside when the person allowed it to. Some of his most evil villains were suave, smooth, family men who donated a lot of money to charity, then controlled government with bribery. He empathised more than anyone else could understand with Frodo Baggins and Luke Skywalker, sharing in their grief of seeing a mentor killed that had disturbed many - including himself. More than once he'd wondered at the horrors his life had held.
But sometimes he had a horrid feeling of complete rejection. But he wasn't sure of it. Had he rejected something or been rejected? Has he rejected someone?
And there was a last thing.
Why was Evan Gryffin inextricably attracted to redheads?
XXXXX
A few weeks later:
When Evan didn't design, he took to writing as a further form of expression and therapy.
Unsurprisingly, his first manuscript was rejected. Twenty-seven times. He decided to send it to one more company, then give up if they didn't accept it. He could 'publish' on the Internet.
But Unknown Unlimited Books came through for him, and, with a few changes, requested the first book and an outline of the 'series' it seemed to be the first of.
Evan grinned when he read it, particularly the sum they were offering for the rights to publish his books. This was something no one could take from him.
So he made a few changes and sent the necessary documentation off.
Did he want a penname? No. It was unusual enough that most would assume it to be a penname anyway. In any case, his name was also on many boxes for computer games. He didn't expect to be famous, but it would be nice for people to enjoy the books and recognise him as a designer on the game.
So Rejection, the first of Evan Gryffin's magical Scars series, was released.
XXXXX
A year later:
Evan had been unable to believe the popularity of Rejections. People were screaming for more about Neal Donahue, the scarred champion, deserted by his people in his time of need. But, like Evan himself, Neal's past was a shady, vague mass, where the truth was ambiguous and unknown.
As expected, a scar was playing an equally big part in the next book. Neal had left his homeland, and was now searching to release a land from a tyrannical kind by finding the true king. He had been charged with it by a young sorceress, begging him to protect her family and restore the king. This book, Evan decided, would be where Neal fell in love. A sister of the sorceress, with an unknown, unrecognised, ancient magic. And the king would be hiding somewhere utterly unknown. But recognisable by a scar - the scar resulting from the tyrant's attack on the family. A lightning scar across his heart, and one across each cheek, the surest sign of hatred.
The lightning scar derived from Evan's own - on his forehead. He had numerous others, but the shape of his had always amazed him. The doctors knew it was old, from the time he was a small child. They had suggested a car crash, and that had sounded familiar to Evan, who blurted out "parents". They believed him to have survived a crash that killed his parents. Unfortunately, that avenue had not brought up any options.
He was risking a book-signing in Foyle's - London's, and Britain's, largest bookshop. He had loved it, the minute he walked in, recognising large displays from familiar authors.
He frowned as he saw the display for 'Harry Potter'. Some had accused him of borrowing ideas from it, but he had not read it before writing - he'd never had time. Still, the author was a lovely woman, who'd laughed when she met him and pointed to his scar. He'd wondered how she'd written the stories.
"Harry just stepped, nearly fully formed, into my head." She had replied.
Yes, some of Neal's exploits had also just 'stepped' into his head. Like magic itself.
The display was showcasing the up and coming final book of Harry's adventures. He considered reading them, then decided to leave it until the last book had been published.
Besides, he had his own work to do and he didn't want to be accused of 'stealing' again. Though people were fairly sure he wouldn't, with the reaction he'd given.
"Mr Gryffin?" A voice asked.
Evan turned to see an attractive brunette smile at him.
"Yes, Miss…?"
"Mrs. Mrs Weasley."
He blinked at the name.
She gave a rueful smile. "I know, I know. We never thought anyone else had the surname, and then she came up with it in the book. I'd say your name is also unusual."
He nodded. "It shouted out to me, though. And it's appropriate for a fantasy writer."
"A penname then?"
He shook his head. "Let's just say that I do share several key traits with my hero."
She smiled. "A scar that perhaps fixed itself on your mind?"
He gave a nod. "They are a very physical representation of the past. Care to keep a secret?"
She raised a brow.
"Neal's scars hold the key to his past." He sighed, running a hand through his hair, worn longer than average to use the weight to keep it vaguely neat. The woman's eyes widened as she caught sight of the scar on his forehead. He noticed and grinned ruefully. "One of the keys to my own, I'm afraid. We think it's from a car crash my parents died in, and I survived."
"Think?"
"I have retrograde amnesia. I don't remember anything from before I was eighteen. We determined I was born in 1980, but that's it. But a lack of parents would explain why there's been no search for me. They think I was kidnapped. I was dumped on the edge of a military base near Salisbury Plain."
"Stonehenge?"
"Your guess is as good as mine. So, where am I and where are my books?" He rubbed his hands together with a gleeful grin.
Mrs Weasley smiled. "This way."
It was later that day as he was greeting fans and signing books that he overheard a conversation.
"…Evan Gryffin here." She paused. "Yes, the one you liked. He had 'great realism', remember? 'Truly knows how Neal feels', you said? Not surprising. He's been suffering from retrograde amnesia since he was eighteen." Another pause, and there was a sound like yelling on the other end. "No need to shout. Yes, eighteen. He thinks his parents died in a car crash. He's black-haired, green-eyed, quite good-looking, and he has a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead."
Evan smiled at the fan as he inscribed a book, hiding his widened eyes. Did his scar truly have a link to his past?
"Yes, he's had some part in designing those computer games your brother likes so much." Pause, a laugh. "When he's being childish, he is your brother, not my husband, Ginevra."
Interesting name, Evan considered. Pretty though.
"You're coming then? Good. I'll see you in a bit."
Evan smiled and inscribed, Scars are a physical link to the past, just as love is mental, and signed it, before handing it back to Cathlin Jones.
XXXXX
After the book-signing:
"Mr Gryffin?" Mrs Weasley asked with a smile after everyone had left. "Would you care for some tea?"
He nodded. "What types do you have?"
"Earl Grey, Green, Chinese and lemon." She replied with a smile.
"Prepared, aren't you? I'd like lemon, please." He smiled at her as they entered her office and she put on the kettle.
"We have all sorts in here. I've got six kinds of coffee as well." She grinned. "I'm afraid it's bagged."
"That's fine."
A few moments later, after exchanging idle chitchat, the tea was ready, and Evan drank it hot.
There was a knock at the door. Mrs Weasley opened it to reveal a redhead.
Evan instantly felt himself attracted. She was petite and slim, with large, deceptively innocent brown eyes, porcelain skin sprinkled with freckles, and hair as fiery red as any he'd seen.
"Mr Gryffin?" She asked, her eyes wide.
He stood, and caught her hand in his, bringing it to his lips in a kiss. He had a naturally romantic nature. "Evan, please, milady. And you are?"
She giggled. "Ginevra Weasley." She smiled. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Evan."
"As am I, Ginevra." He sighed. "A beautiful name. 'Woman of the people', I believe. Italian?"
She shrugged. "I thought it was an Italian version of Guinevere."
"Many names have several origins. Evan can be Gaelic meaning 'well born young warrior', or it's a Welsh version of John."
Ginevra stiffened at the first meaning, and Evan raised a brow.
"I'm a great fan of your books." She responded. "My brother enjoys your company's games. Ever since he saw a computer…"
Evan laughed in particular.
"Anything in particular?"
"He loves your villains. Knows some like it too."
"Really?"
"Yeah, he works in law enforcement, close to the government."
"And you?"
"I like your names." She regarded him closely. "They all seem to mean something."
He nodded. "They do. I think a name is very important. And in my 'universe', as it were, names are often chosen specifically. For Neal, his name is just about all he remembers clearly of his past, other than a great rejection of his people. Names reveal hidden aspects to people. Close aspects that might not otherwise be explored. And of course, some have different meanings in different languages."
"And your spells. They're Celtic based?"
"A lot of them. I've always been attracted to Celtic history, languages, styles, knot work, legends, names, the works. Neal and Donahue are both Gaelic, and the spells are based on a range of Celtic languages, mixed with some of my own 'spice'."
"What inspired you to write?"
"It was therapy. It was a way of getting out images, thoughts and feelings without risking them being stolen or subjected to ridicule." He grinned. "Mind you, I think the title was a good one. It took me twenty-eight tries to get published."
"Ms Rowling took something in the region."
"A few less, I think." He grinned again. "Her Harry was more popular than my Neal."
"I don't know." Ginevra mused. "Neal has some very individual characteristics."
"Paranoia?"
"No, I think his hero complex with that sense of trying to understand why other rejected him is extremely interesting." She smiled.
Ginevra now stood, looking out of a window onto a dusty alley nearby.
Evan didn't see her fingering a wand.
"I guess it's a part of me. Sometimes I feel like my entire life's been full of rejections. I couldn't get into university, my girlfriend of eighteen months dumped me after cheating on me for a year, and I got passed over for a job because my rival had a vagina."
The women looked at him, disgusted.
"Sorry, but it's true. The boss fancies her arse off. Of course, I don't necessarily have to continue working for them." He smirked. "Zeus knows they won't be getting the rights to any more of my truly original concepts." He sighed. "I guess the 'wand' concept wasn't as original as it seemed, after getting a few calls from Harry Potter fans, but at least Alianne gets the rap for that, not me."
Ginevra suddenly twisted, yelling, "Refectio."
Evan had no time to move, and white light hit him in the face. His eyes swam, and he saw a book open in his mind, and suddenly he recognised them. Something was released and all he could sense was pure hope and a pray that they would not be rejected for others' wrongs.
He glared at them. "What the hell was that?"
"A memory-restoring spell developed for retrograde amnesia due to a patient's repression of memory or a spell's 'locking away' of memory." Mrs Weasley - Hermione, he now knew - replied.
"Why?"
"Because we realised who you were. And you had the right to know the truth. Even if you weren't Harry, you still deserved to know your past." Ginevra - Ginny, of course - approached him, hopefully. "You remember us, don't you?"
Evan - Harry? - prayed he would not be rejected, and caught her lips with his own. Instantly they were both on fire, passion racing through their veins and hot hunger setting their appetites ablaze. Ginny responded in kind, wrapping her arms around his neck as he pulled her close.
When he finally released her, she looked dazed as she muttered, "I'll say he does."
Hermione smiled, and he caught her in a firm hug.
"You married Ron?" He asked. "I always thought I'd be best man."
"You were. We decided you were best man in absentia, and Charlie fulfilled your best man duties, with plenty of tips from me and Ginny in his speech." Hermione smiled. "What happened?"
"When Voldemort died, the mental shock from the breaking of the bond split my memories - they got locked away to protect my mind." He replied. "But there were always vague senses - pictures, descriptions, ideas, stuff that was academic, physical, rather than personal. What's happened while I was away?" He asked, then turned bitter. "Ministry seize my vault?"
Hermione shook her head. "They're unable to do so. Ancient Magic and whatnot. Most people believe you're dead. You just need to prove to the goblins you're alive, and they can help. With the new systems, you needn't even bother going to Gringotts - there's all kinds of cards and such you can use like a Muggle card."
"Chip and PIN." He grinned. "Fun."
Hermione nodded. "What will you do now? Are you going to return?"
He shook his head. "I'm starting to understand why rejection has always been so hard on me, and my childhood is a prime example. I'm not going back to become their bad guy every time something goes wrong. However, I think it's time they got shook up a bit."
"What are you going to do?"
"Do? I'm going to speak to the Queen and Prime Minister about adopting the American style of wizarding government."
"What's that?"
"The wizarding 'ministry' becomes part of the Muggle one, and has to work in far more co-operation. Hopefully, we can get both governments to improve." Harry smirked.
"And afterwards?"
"I have an identity set up here, don't I? Evan Gryffin is going to finally get over Jenny and begin dating Ginevra, and gain friends by doing so. And he will stay Evan Gryffin until necessity means that Harry Potter must be brought back to bring honour to the magical people."
"You're going to turn yourself into legend. Like Zorro." Hermione murmured.
He smirked roguishly. "Something like that." He turned to the window. "But to be quite honest, it's payback.
"I'm rejecting them."
XXXXX
Nine months later, shortly after Evan Gryffin's release of his second novel, Acceptance, the society pages showed some secret pictures of Evan Gryffin's wedding, complete with redheaded bride, redheaded best man, redheaded brothers-in-law, mixed hair-coloured wives, redheaded nieces and nephews, a grey-and-brown-haired man in the Gryffin side sat with his pink-haired wife and several pictures of deceased loved ones who could not make it.
One could only wonder what Evan Gryffin had to do with the found-innocent escaped convict Sirius Black who died nine years before.
And why he received a wedding card from the royal family.
XXXXX
A/N: The End! A little story I wrote while in a bad mood. Unfortunately, the themes of the bad mood couldn't be translated into another story. I have a tendency to do 'angry-writing' and this fit the bill, even if it does end reasonably happily for Harry/Evan.
Hope you enjoyed, please tell me what you think!
Lol, Tanydwr