*The Absolutely Unfortunate Harry Potter*
The Absolutely Unfortunate Harry Potter by Pseudonymous Entity
Summary: Harold James Potter -who much prefers 'Harry' thanks- is the only utterly ordinary member of the great Potter family. He doesn't have political ambitions, or a high IQ. He isn't even tall enough to get the cereal off the top shelf. There's a bitter and vengefull demon living inside of him though. That's something, isn't it?
Characters: Harry Potter
Warnings: ?
AN: Hints here and there...
NOTE: Contains a conglomeration of inspiration from three or four novels outside of Harry Potter. Props if you're part of their fandoms.
Ever Yours, Pseu [The clever, magnificent and ridiculously good looking]
"There's a place that I know, its not pretty there and few have ever gone
If I show it to you now will it make you runaway
Or will you stay even if it hurts
Even if I try to push you out will you return, and remind me who I really am
Please remind me who I really am..."
-Dark Side
Chapter Two
On Founder's day, there were only two places where everybody who was anybody would be.
On Main Street in Godric's Hollow, or doing whatever it was people who didn't know any better did on that day. You know, those people who couldn't find them because they did already know that they were there. Poor sods.
There, under the ropes of warm twinkling lights draped between Godric Gryffindor Academy and the courthouse, and sprawling along the lawns on either side, the steps of the two red and white brick buildings were overtaken by straw-stuffed cushions, folding chairs, beanbags, and blankets. Every last available spot claimed by the village's residents for that evening's Candlelight Parade.
The tourists who wandered into Godric's Hollow to see the famous festival were too entranced by all the glitter and glam pasted over the rows of identical buildings to realize they needed to claim their own spots long before sundown. It wasn't uncommon to find people crowded at the edges of the lawn and the streets or perched on tree limbs or having found their way to the roof buildings and automobiles just to get a glimpse.
Usually, Harry would do anything -anything- to get away from the village. Founder's Day was the exception. The day when the ancient, gossipy town with its cobblestone streets and Victorian townhouses woke up from its sleep and -suddenly- there was to be found a strange, stirring magic inside of it. You could feel the shift. Or Harry could. Transforming a place as stiff and unyielding and unchanging as a rock, into dazzling labyrinth of fairy lights and autumn garlands. Orange and Gold leaves spiraling through the air on lovely breezes. Large pumpkins and gourds growing in the gardens. Apple trees and cider too!
They didn't do Halloween or Samhain. They had Founder's Day.
Here, in the dark midnight hours of October, the trees of Main Street set themselves ablaze, they leaned over the streets and met one another creating a canopy of fire-like hues that shined and dazzled. Harry still hadn't found its match in any shade of paint or any colouring pencil. The leaves that fell were rescued and stuffed into mini scarecrows and luck dolls guests got to take home from the celebration. Momentos.
The very best part was firstly -Harry's annual gift from Sirius- and the mist which crept along the bushes and the cobblestone, glowing just enough mask everything secretly ugly and rotten. That's what Godric's Hollow was, and, if you listened closely and didn't overlook him, you'd hear Harry say that was exactly what the Potter's were too. Secretly Ugly and Rotten under all of their polished medals and expensive degrees.
A breeze darted past Harry then, swirling around his bike and his arms and through his hair. It slid up the sleeves of his school jumper and nearly swept away his notebook. Harry grabbed it, steering with one hand, and pressed against his side out of fear of it flying away in the glimmering leaves.
Nearby there were children tossing silver rings over pumpkin stems, their parents watching from a short distance away. They were gathered in front of an orange and white striped tent that sold sweets, cobblers, strawberry tarts and hot wine. It was then that Harry first noticed him. He wasn't standing amongst one of the adult clusters sipping hot spice wine and watching after a child or younger relatives in amusement, nor was he looking about and snapping pictures excitedly like a tourist. Rather he stood lazily on the opposite side of the street just down from another food stall selling cinnamon nuts and roasted chestnut cakes.
He was broomstick thin. Harry almost mistook him for some sort of odd decoration. He had pale skin and a long nose, set in a thin face. The stranger's face only flickered into emotion long enough to sneer down at the poor man who tried to pass him some sheets of bank paper to use for the bonfire found at the centre of the square. He was dressed all in black slacks and long black tunic with an even longer unbuttoned overshirt of some kind over it, underneath both a with long sleeve shirt Harry could see peeking out at the collar and the end of his tunic's sleeves.
His shoes were unpolished. Harry thought the man was lucky his grandmother Dorea wasn't around to see it. She'd have tossed him into the bonfire instead of a slip of paper listing her regrets from the previous months.
The bonfire. That -not the Candlelight Parade- was the real reason for the festival. A time where the residents let the flames eat up every negative feeling or thought or secret they had and free themselves from it. That's what grandmother Dorea says anyway. Harry thought most people just came down to cook their marshmallows and corn cobs. He daren't say that of course.
Harry's lips turned upward at the edges, envisioning saying something disrespectful to grandmother. He did on occasion, have his moments with his grandmother. He was probably her least favourite relative. If anything that was what Harry was known for out of all the Potters. For being rebellious, alarming, sarcastic, and flippant. He really ought to have that made into a jacket. He'd wear it proudly every day.
The stranger then did something sort of interesting. His dark eyes glanced around he still for a moment until the man at the food stall was busy with a customer. Then he snatched a bag of cinnamon nuts right off the cart! He must have felt eyes on him because he turned and look directly at Harry with a wicked grin and winked.
Harry blinked. That happened.
A low rolling sound reverberated through his bones. Eyes wide, Harry stumbled off of his bike from where he'd been standing and people watching, climbing onto the stone bench nearby and then balancing on the high thin length of stone that was the backrest. He searched about over the heads of the huge crowd of volunteers lighting the candles for the parade. Was it five already? That much time had passed?
A tall girl with very long hair was pulled away from the crowd by her friends, the lot of them dressed in the Academy jumpers, blazers, scarves and skirts. Harry's heart started hammering in his chest -but only a little!- when he realized he'd been so focused on riding his bike around the crowd and doodling in his stupid notebook that he'd lost track of her completely.
Rose-Marie Potter. His twin.
Thankfully there she was by the hay maze, not lost or getting into mischief, not that that was her problem, and unscathed. Harry leapt down and burst through the nameless tourists and guests waiting in line to carve a pumpkin or paint a pumpkin or toss a silver ring on a pumpkin stem. There was a quartet of string musicians playing a long deceased -but no doubt famous- composer's songs in the white and blue gazebo, above them a banner was strung between one side of the gazebo and the other. It read Celebrating 325 Years of Potter History.
Just as the number they were playing finished or paused and the crowd began to applaud, all of the street lamps began flickering on. Harry immediately slipped and tripped over one of the carved gourds shining with candlelight lining the streets and sidewalks. With a glare and curse, Harry kicked it off his foot and booted it away from him. His smiled in satisfaction when it hit against the rock wall of a fountain and smooshed.
Ding...Dong...
The clock. The time! They'd have to run for it. Harry began shoving his way through the crowd without even bothering to avoid people any longer, fighting through a sea of elbows, fizzy drink coolers, lanterns and baby buggies. Several people cursed and yelled things at his back but Harry ignored them. Or he did until a claw-like hand came out of nowhere, grasped the back of his neck and yanked him so hard he dropped his bookbag. Looking up Harry's stomach turned into a knot of wriggling worms. The hand's owner smelled like old cotton and cough syrup.
"Mister Potter." An older man with short-clipped hair and a stiff jacket was speaking. He addressed Harry slowly and whispery and managed to make it sound like an insult on its own. "Care to explain this excessively rude and unbecoming behaviour for a child of your status and family reputation? Let alone a child wearing his school uniform and therefore representing his school, those who attend it and those who teach at it, to these poor unfortunate tourists you've trampled over?"
Professor Binns.
The sort of man who assigns a second-year student detention every day for the first week of school because that student may have been daydreaming during his class. Harry had had to write out essays on disrespect, being inconsiderate, and honour. The twelve-year-old thought the professor might actually break a ruler over Harry's head when, for the essay topic of insolent, Harry turned in a paper with only the words: I prefer Smart Aleck, sir.
Seriously, if Harry could choose between watching grass grow or paint dry over sitting in on one of Professor Binns' history lessons, the grass and the paint would be about a hundred thousand times more interesting. Said professor took that moment to pinch the side of both of Harry's shoulders to garner a reaction out of his troublesome student. "What do you have to say for yourself, Potter?"
"I'm sorry. I'm a bit confused. Since when am I, a child of my status and my family's reputation, required to say anything to you outside of class?" Harry really needed to think before he opened his mouth. If Rose-Marie hadn't suddenly appeared, Harry thought his teacher's brain would just explode right then and there all over his school uniform and the poor unfortunate tourists they were just talking about.
"Harold there you are!" His sister exclaimed. Her friends Tracy, Lavender, and Pansy railed behind her. The looks of contempt he could see over her shoulder were for him. Rose turned her bright hazel eyes on Mister Binns. "Oh sir, hello. How are you enjoying our little festival? My grandmother has asked me to pass along a greet and a thank you for all of your hard work this year." She ended it with a small sweet smile.
The clawed hands released him. The professor's eyes widened, his lips parted, his cheeks turned a pleased pink. "Miss Potter. I do apologize, I didn't see you over there." Then he, along with everyone else, moved aside to create a path for her.
She set her hand on top of Harry's head as had become her habit ever since she'd shot three and a half inches taller than him and stayed there. Girls grew faster -twins or not- and it was just another way his life was were obviously never destined to be identical twins. Not with his dark hair and green eyes, and she with her red hair a hazel eyes. If no one knew any better, you might not think they were related at all.
Harry remembered though, how it used to be. How close they once were, how much she once valued him and his company. He remembered the rooms at Saint Mungo's, the endless parade of nurses and specialists. Going to school on his own and then returning to show her pictures he'd drawn in his notebook of the things he'd seen that day. The way his blood ran icy every time her skin tinged gray or breathing became uneasy. He remembered when they were much younger, crawling out of his bed in the middle of the night to check on her.
To make sure her heart was still beating.
PseudonymousEntity
2018
Notes: Thoughts, Theories, Questions, Comments and Limmericks always welcomed
An: Secrets everywhere...
Ever Yours, Pseu