Okay, from now on, I want you all to know that if I'm late, you have all access to bother me on my deviantART (hgfdsasdfgh) or my twitter (Cassi106). In fact, I'll probably post explanations on twitter if I am late, or notify you ahead of time that I will be.
So if you need to know, look there. :)
This chapter is late because I am in the middle of writing a long-ish TomXHarry oneshot that will PROBABLY be up in a week or two.
No fear, I have not abandoned you yet.
Review!
I stand up, looking around. Am I in some great Room of Requirement? The longer I look, the more there is to see. A great domed glass roof glittered high above me in sunlight. Perhaps it's a palace. All is hushed and still, except for those odd thumping and whimpering noises coming from somewhere close by in the mist...
I turn slowly on the spot, and my surroundings seemed to invent themselves before my eyes. A wide-open space, bright and clean, a hall larger by far than the Great Hall, with that clear domed glass ceiling. It is quite empty. I am the only person here, except for...
I recoil. I had spotted the thing that was making the noises. It has the form of a small, naked child, curled on the ground, its skin raw and rough, flayed-looking, and it lay shuddering under a seat where it has been left, unwanted, stuffed out of sight, struggling for breath.
I am afraid of it. Small and fragile and wounded though it was, I do not want to approach it. Nevertheless I draw slowly nearer, ready to jump back at any moment. Soon I stand near enough to touch it, yet I can not bring myself to do it. I feel like a coward. I ought to comfort it, but it repulses me.
"You cannot help."
...
"James?" a voice yells out, as if from some distance away. "...James, can you hear me?!"
I frown. Or at least I think I do. Everything's hazy.
Suddenly my whole existence is shaken roughly back and forth, and I snap back into reality harshly.
I open my eyes slowly, light from a candle blinding me. Someone's hands are fixed on my shoulders; they must've shaken me awake.
"Ron?" I murmur sleepily, sitting and squinting around me. "What time is it?" A blurred figure shakes it's head back and forth in front of me.
Where are my glasses? I grasp at the side table next to my bed, and a warm hand presses the frames into my fingers as the blurred figure leans closer.
I slip the glasses on, thinking Ron first still before blinking and realizing it's Daniel.
His nose is inches away from mine. His eyes, dark blue with a golden ring around the center, hypnotize me slowly.
"Who's Ron?" he whispers. I blink slowly, like a deer escaping the headlights.
"An old friend," I say softly, eyes flickering over his freckles (golden brown and dusted right over the bridge of a nose just like Ron's) and, oddly, landing on his (reddish and full) lips lingeringly before snapping back to his eyes.
"He's gone now." I quickly spurt. "I was tired, and you looked a little like him... I shouldn't have- I don't know what made me think it was him."
He pulls away slowly, looking me in the eyes. "No, it's fine," he says, smiling at me slightly. "I just came over because you were thrashing something horrid in your sleep. I didn't know what was happening. Are you okay?" His eyes flicker with the same concern I saw in the dining hall.
"Fine," I say slowly, the dream coming back to me at full force. "I'm fine."
But, even after Daniel's left, even after his breaths even out into the melody of sleep, the same three words keep echoing my head. Dumbledore's words:
'You cannot help.'
...
Tom Riddle is just the same as I remember him, all polite kindness and sly comments. His dark hair, curly but trimmed close, matches his dark brown eyes. His pale skin creates a interesting contrast.
His eyes, with long lashes and a wide set, keep drawing me back, for I can remember a time in the future where they are a deep scarlet.
It's hard to like him. He has done (will do?) so many horrible things to so many people. I know for a fact that he killed his own father.
But, I realize as he calmly leads me to my classes throughout the day, it is also very difficult to hate him. Not when I know his past which is, dare I admit it, quite like mine.
(Which, to be honest, haunts me to the bone; what does it mean of me that someone so similar to myself was capable of such things?)
Potions is last block. Luna has Transfiguration with the other half of the Gryffindors, and I'm left alone with Tom Riddle as we walk to the classroom.
"A rumor is spreading that you and your sister are refugees from the war," Riddle says softly, not turning to face me as he continued to lead me to a room I probably knew better than he did.
I nod before remembering that he's not looking. "That's true."
"What is it like out there?" he asked, a calm tone to his voice that suggested feelings that had to be hidden under the surface. "D-do you think he's winning?"
I pause, trying to remember anything Professor Binns had said about the war, but my mind draws a blank.
"All I know is that a lot of people died," I settle on as we draw closer to the Potion's Room.
I watch the back of Riddle's head nod slowly, and the rest of the walk to our classes is silent.
...
'Of course it just had to be Slughorn,' I think, slightly disgusted as we walk in. I almost expect him to recognize me, but his eyes slid over me as if I'm merely a piece of furniture.
For a moment I'm confused, but then I realize- Slughorn looks for trophies. The Boy-Who-Lived was a trophy.
A random refugee? Not so much.
I smile lightly, and I make sure to completely ruin the potion I'm charged with. For once, it's really nice to not be special.
...
Tom walks me back to the Gryffindor commons before turning around and saying, "I hope you sleep well. Good night."
As he walks away, Dumbledore's words once again echo in my skull;
'You cannot help.'
And I'm more scared for that boy than I have ever been for anyone in my life.
...
Daniel is sitting alone on his bed in the dorms when I enter them. All the other boys are out playing Quiddich; I can see them out the window.
His eyes are locked on the ceiling, his brow creased in thought.
"James, do you dream about Grindlewald's attack?" he asks me softly, eyes not leaving the ceiling. "Because it's alright if you do. You don't have to talk to me about it if you don't want to. It's just that I know how it feels to not be able to iforget/i something... I just wanted you to know it's normal to be scared."
His eyes flicker to mine, just a flash of sapphire, before looking back up at the ceiling.
"Thanks," I murmur softly, because, even though I really appreciate it, all I can think of is that my nightmares are no longer of what I left behind, but instead of what I have found. There was a time in my life when those words would've meant the world to me and more; I just wish someone had said them then.
Daniel nods.
"You-" he pauses, brow creasing again. "You're not a refugee, are you? Not really."
All the heat leaves my body. I cannot find the presence of mind to speak.
"I can tell. A boy came here in my third year. He was a refugee, and he was always jumping around. He was scared of loud noises. And there was this look in his eyes; he was always terrified." Daniel's eyes meet mine again. "You can always tell the difference between someone who's running and someone who's here for a reason."
I nod numbly, staying quiet for a second before saying.
"I was a refugee once. It's been a long time since I was one. Just... don't tell anyone, okay? I'll be gone soon," I say.
His eyes have a sad glint. "What would I tell anyone? What proof would I have? All I can do is hope that you're here to help.'
And this, I think, is the moment I truly begin to respect Daniel Prewett.
I dunno, kinda feeling that was a bit rushed. :/ Opinions?