Important ( yet kinda unrelated) Notice: It has NEVER been mentioned in the books that a pensive is a way of STORING, or REMOVING memories. It is like a video camera (you being the camera), video (being the memory) and a TV (the pensive)-you may have a permanent record, but in your mind it is still there. It is a way of being able to 'experience' the memories after they have happened so that the viewer may gain knowledge of what happened-things they may not have noticed when the event was actually happening...exactly what Dumbledore uses it for. This is the theory I base all pensive and memory scenes on. It is totally different to what everybody else is writing- believe me, I have read over 300 stories and not once has this theory been used- other people write it as if the characters are LITERALLY taking the memory out of their head, so it is no longer in their head. I don't believe this. Maybe I'm wrong...or maybe I'm very observant. If you got a problem, deal with it. I had to deal with 300 stories worth of this.
Sitting On The Baby By HPOD sufferer
Date: Thursday, 2nd June, 10:34PM
Rating: K+ (Scary and Supernatural themes may scare young children, includes character death), sexual implications (very minor)
Summary: Sirius bounded into the compartment, making to sink into the seat next to Lily. The seat in which a sleeping baby...well, slept. Eyes popping, James grabbed his friend's wrists, stopping him from sitting. Sirius Black was frozen in a strange, half-sitting, half-standing position. Lily grabbed the baby quickly, and James released his friend. "You know," said Lily " Baby sitting doesn't usually consist of actually sitting on the baby."
A baby has appeared. Where from? Why? Who does the baby belong to? Harry travels to Marauder Era. AS A BABY! Something went seriously wrong on that Halloween night.
Chapter 10: An Eventful Morning
Tonight I had no sleep, so in the morning I won't wake,
All words I say will not be remembered; honesty you can't take.
I'll say it wrong- all phrases I said, it isn't true,
I know it will break your heart, right in two.
But you set me right, onto my merry way,
I know you will, and I believe all you say.
The Harry we know dislikes attention. All he wants is to be normal. He is nothing like his father who craves admiration.
But that was after certain events that made Harry think that way. People are designed by the way they grow up- they are what other people make them to be. So far, Harry had grown up with loving people and he wanted all their attention. So being put on a chair by a man who he had had all to himself moments before (it did not matter that Harry was asleep) did not agree with the little boy.
"WAHHHHHH!" He yelled. It did not work. Dumbledore continued to move away towards that box thingy over there. No fair.
"WWWWWWWWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
No response.
Harry thought as hard as a boy his age could on how to get the man to pay attention to him. No intelligent thoughts came. Harry frowned in frustration- was he the son of a marauder or not! He watched as Dumbledore ran his hands over the rim of the pensive, his orange beard shining oddly.
Orange beard...
The next moment Dumbledore's fingers got a slight orange tinge to them, but the old man didn't notice. With a wicked grin on his face, Harry concentrated hard, keeping his eyes locked on his target. The orange grew stronger and crept under the mans sleeves- the only indication that it had travelled was when the man's neck started to turn orange as well. It was a rather nice orange, Harry thought, the colour of mangoes or papayas. As soon as a picture of a papaya appeared in Harry's little head, some black spots appeared of the Headmaster's skin. With a squawk, the man jumped, holding his hands up at eye level.
He turned to Harry. Harry grinned happily. Finally!
The man-turned-papaya stared at Harry, wondering why he had ever asked to take care of him. One thing was for certain-Harry would not remain with him much longer.
But Dumbledore was still tired.
With a yawn he held his arms out to Harry, who crawled into them gratefully and he headed for his sleeping quarters. Gently he lowered Harry into the elaborate cot he had conjured earlier, and peered down at the boy through the floating mobile of planets. The boy's eyes drifted shut, and his small lips parted in a baby yawn. Dumbledore had to admit, as much as little ones were bothersome, they were positively cute! He suddenly found it hard to walk away, eyes riveted on his charge. The small chest moved up and down. Saturn dipped low.
I have some very unfortunate news, Mr and Mrs Potter.
Harry's minuscule thump disappeared between his lips.
It has come to my attention that your son...
Harry's fringe was parted, the curious lightning-bolt shaped scar clearly visible.
...along with another young boy...
Dumbledore wondered what the boy's future would hold. Who would be his friends? Would he come to Hogwarts? What house would he be in?
...has recently become the focus of Voldemort's attentions.
Dumbledore stretched out a orange hand with black spots towards the scar.
I am afraid you will need to go into hiding, to protect your son.
A long, slightly wrinkled finger landed on the smooth pale skin, tracing towards the angry red welt.
It would be best if you used the Secrecy Charm to ensure no one finds you. I would be happy to oblige if you...
His finger tip finally reached the cut, and he traced it ever so carefully as not to wake little Harry Potter.
"ANHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
Harry tossed onto his back like a fish out of water, gasping in fear and pain. His eyes were scrunched up, his face turning red. As if burnt, Dumbledore drew his hand away, eyes widening behind his half-moon glasses. Harry whimpered, and his eyes shot open.
Dumbledore's hand clutched at thin air until it came to rest on the edge of the cot, the rest of him still as if paralysed.
The shining light of the killing curse receded to be replaced with familiar emerald in his eyes. The scar continued to stand out clearly on Harry's head, almost black in colour.
But it was the look Harry gave Dumbledore as he woke that frightened the old man.
The sneering rage disappeared to be replaced by the innocence of youth. Exhausted, Harry flopped back onto the cot, his thumb finding its way back to his mouth. His breathing slowed.
And with his, so did Dumbledore's.
Surely it was just a dream. Surely it was a trick of the light.
There was no way Voldemort could or would be possessing a baby.
It was with this thought in mind and heart that the Headmaster fell asleep.
When Dumbledore awoke, it was one in the afternoon, or lunch time byHogwarts standards. With a grumble (believe it or not, Dumbledore was capable of grumbling) the man sat up and rubbed his eyes. Finding that he had fallen asleep in his clothing, he did a quick cleaning charm and reached into the cot, scooping up the still asleep baby. With his wand tucked away, the Headmaster proceeded to the Great Hall.
Lily yawned. She had been excused along with James halfway through class that morning to go and get some rest. It was now lunchtime, yet still Lily felt her eyelids droop.
She met the Headmaster at the doors to the Great Hall. The man looked...old. Of course, Lily always knew he wasn't a spring chicken but- well, he didn't act old. But his skin was a considerable tone lighter and saggier. His robes were not as elaborate at normal.
Oh, and he looked like a walking papaya.
Lily did a double-take, staring blatantly at the orange Headmaster. He spotted her, and without a word, placed Harry in her slack arms wordlessly. Then, shaking his head, he disappeared into he Great hall.
By the time Lily had made it into the Hall, he was seated, looking decidedly brighter (in orange-ness and mood), talking animatedly with Professor McGonagall. For some reason, little yellow ducklings were marching on the desk in front of him, and Lily got the sneaky suspicion that they were talking about baby fashions, for some odd reason.
Snorting, Lily slipped into her normal seat. Alice did not dare give a comment on Harry's appearance, and solemnly gave her a bowl of mashed apple instead. Harry however, decided he didn't want apple. He decided he wanted to go on to bigger and better things...bigger meaning big, and better meaning...a sausage. Not any sausage, mind you. A huge sausage. It went on for a good three feet. With no qualms, Harry crawled onto the table and stuck the end, as much of it as he could possible fit, into his mouth. He sat there, sucking happily.
"I would say he's demented," James said, plonking himself, ever so annoyingly, beside Lily. "But that might hurt his feelings."
Lily took a deep breath to tell him to get lost, and gagged.
He smelt, in short, like he'd just gotten out of bed. Lily isn't ignorant, mind you- but James smelt really, really, really, really, really (times by one hundred) bad. Like dirty clothes, un-showered men, sweat, wood, and for reasons that a neither here nor there, fur.
Lily's nose tried the impossible feat of climbing up her face, but ending up having to settle for being wrinkled much like a prune.
"Ever heard of a shower, James?" She cringed.
He turned, blearily, to look at her. "Yes..."
"Why ever did you not take one then? You smell worse than Snape's hair!" Lily exclaimed.
James just stared at her, mouth sagging slightly-he happened to be shocked at the comment about Snape. Lily thought he looked like one of those googly-eyed fish she'd seen in the pet shop, his over-round glasses hanging precariously or the edge of his nose, and his black hair. Shiny jet black hair.
Lily shook her head.
"It doesn't!" James asked hopefully.
Lily nodded.
Confusion was written evidently across James's face. "Does that mean I do smell, or I don't smell?"
"You smell."
"Oh," was all she got in response. James turned to his place, and dug into his own share of the magnificent sausage.
It was when he was cleaning up his plate when James finally commented, "Hogsmeade weekend next week."
Lily fought against sighing, rolling her eyes or some equally un-head girl behaviour. "So? It's not like it involves the two of us, together."
James looked extremely hurt. "But you said- I mean, I thought..."
Alice leaned to whisper in Lily's ear. "You asked him out to the Three Broomsticks this morning, don't you remember?"
Lily whipped around. "I WHAT!"
Lily had unfortunately forgotten the events of this morning during her morning nap...Alice had taken advantage of this to set up her best friend with James Potter, if not for the sake of love but so she could win a bet.
Come on, you didn't think Alice was completely innocent, did you? Even the best of friends bet on each other.
"Yes, you did. I think it would be very rude, not to mention un-head girl like to refuse him now. Look at him, he's crushed." And with that Alice turned Lily's eyes to look at the miserable looking Potter, who was staring at one of the strings from the sausage as if contemplating hanging himself with it.
The combined comment about her head girl status, and the sad sight that was Potter (smelly, dishevelled, miserable, wretched, tired, the list goes on) was enough to make Lily sigh. "Fine. I'll go with you."
Potter's face was cracked in half by a smile.
Then he pulled Lily's head in and kissed her deeply. He rushed off, whooping, leaving a stunned Lily touching her lips in confusion.
Alice turned, a pleasant smile on her face to a fifth year girl, her hand held out. "Ten galleons, and not a knut less. I win."
Harry smirked, and then crawled over to Lily. Then with the same bravado as his (unknowing) father, he placed a kiss on her cheek. It was wet and slobbery...but Lily would never remember it.
She had a date.
A/n: Gosh guys, this was hard...not because my imagination failed me. No, it was because I was packing. Yes, that's right. PACKING. I am going on a 5 week holiday to the land of Harry Potter (Britian, you nitwits) and will probably have no internet access during that period. I am sorry in advance for that. So that means a six week break from this day (unless by some miricle, internet just somehow works, even without a connection). I hope to write whislt away, but you never know. I AM NOT ABANDONING THE STORY. You won't believe how bad I feel. I love writing. And I'm only allowed one notebook and two books with me.
Oh, and I have nightmare relatives that I have to visit. Oh, I'm sure my demented grandma will be a good source of inspiration, but watching her push her falsies (click, slurp, click, slurp "How are you darling?" click, clickity-clack. SMASH! "Sorry gran. I din't mean to smash them against the wall, honest. My hand just got so annoyed it acted of its own accord.") around is not a pleasant sight. Wish me luck!