The Forbidden Life- Chapter 2

By DarknessMatters

Well, I only got one review, which says a lot about my writing, I guess. But thank you! I really appreciate that you took the time to leave one. I hope this chapter is more interesting than the first. The story is just getting started!

The water outside seemed to be roaring with rage, and wave after wave crashed into the jagged rocks outside, and the boy cried out and buried his head into the moth eaten sofa, sneezing as he did so. The storm had shown no sign of letting up. Almost immediately after he had landed on this tiny island, his arms exhausted, his wrist swollen, the rain, which had been a slight drizzle during his journey, had started up again with abandon. In fact, he had barely made it into the wooden hut, the only thing that seemed to fit on the island, before the first boom of thunder had sounded.

In a way, he supposed, the rain had led him to this hut. But that was ridiculous, so he didn't ponder on the thought.

When he had nearly fallen through the doors, he had spotted the sofa he was on now, and that was that. His exhaustion overcame his fear and anxiety, and he had collapsed on top of it, uncaring of the parasites that might have been living in the thing. He had grown up in the cupboard, of course, where one saw spiders crawling about nearly every day. Whats another little bug or two? And dust? He laughed in the face of dust!

He had to smother a small giggle in the sofa, but it was cut off by another boom outside. The boy was still half asleep, so maybe that was why the storm was getting to him. When he had been walking in it on his way out of his relatives house, he wasn't scared at all. But then again, he wasn't really himself, either.

At the thought of the blackness he shuddered. He felt a quick urge to search through his mind to see if he could feel it's presence still, but he found he didn't have to. It was there. He didn't need to feel it now. He just knew.

There was an awful crunching noise. For a moment, the boy... no, Harry, thought the roof was about to cave in on him. In a peculiar second, he realized that he wouldn't really care. It was a sad thought, but at least at the end of his life, he would have been Harry, and not boy or freak. He would have been alone, not with people he wanted nothing to do with. He would have been free.

Now that he was away from the Dursleys, he was going to be Harry again. Now, he realized, he didn't have to hide from himself anymore, and didn't have to worry about any slip ups. He smiled at the thought, his heart a bit lifted, and then his mind went back to the noise he had just heard.

If there was no change in the hut, then what else would... he froze. The canoe! He leapt of the couch, one of his feet getting stuck underneath a cushion, and fell hard to the ground. He landed on his bad wrist, and gasped. Holding it to his chest, he walked unsteadily to the door, his face white.

After a moment of standing there wondering if it was really such a smart idea to walk outside in a storm like this, he grit his teeth and urged himself forward. The canoe was important. He couldn't afford to be a coward about it. He flung open the door.

He cried out as a spray of stinging water hit his skin. The rain felt like needles, and the wind was blowing with such force that the rain was going nearly horizontally. Harry held a hand up to shield his eyes, and held onto the frame of the door to hold himself there in one spot, instead of being blown back into the small hut. He could see billowing black clouds, and the water was in turmoil. If he were to wander in this sort of storm, he would never make it back in one piece.

He needed to get out of the hut, so he got down on his hands and knees and started crawling. There was no path right out of the door, it was only sharp rocks that led downward in a slope straight into the water. He lowered himself onto his stomach so if he were to be knocked over, he'd tumble into a rock instead of over it into the water. Everything in his vision was a mixure of gray and black. It was so dark, and it was hard to see. Rocks and sea and sky. Behind him, even the hut was gray.

He made his way slowly closer to the water. Inching along the rocks, using the large ones for support against the wind, which was whistling in his ears fiercely, giving him a headache. He didn't know how his glasses were staying on his face, but he settled for it being another thing that made him a freak. He finally made it to where the water met the island, and looked over a boulder, behind it being where he had left the canoe. He wondered if he had tied the canoe up. He probably hadn't. He wouldn't have known how, and he was too tired.

He didn't have to wonder. Behind the boulder there were three large pieces of wood, slamming into the rocks again and again. Every once in awhile, when the largest of the pieces hit the rocks just right, it scraped against it in the same sound he had heard inside the hut. When Harry looked a bit more closely, he could see that the pieces of wood were painted green. With a tightening feeling in his gut, he crawled back towards the doorway, making it and with all his weight, shutting the door against the storm.

He lay there with his head against the door, gasping, not really tired, but feeling some sort of strange emotion that was taking the breath away from him. Yes, he felt fear. Of course he did. He was now stranded on a fucking rock in the middle of the sea. But he examined the fear more closely, and was somewhat startled to find that along with being scared, he was incredibly angry. This was the Dursleys fault! If they had treated him like a decent human being, he wouldn't be in this mess. If his Uncle Vernon hadn't taken that extra step...

His vision was starting to blacken, and for a moment, he thought he was going to faint. But when he didn't, the cold ball of fear in his stomach told him that the blackness was coming back. He gasped and opened his eyes. He could see the door, and he studied the grain of the wood, trying to calm himself down, but all he could think about was his Uncle Vernon. His vision grew blacker. He saw something shift from the corner of his eye.

He whipped his head around. There was nothing there. Another shift, and he turned his head again. This time, he caught a glimpe of something small, something black, and it crawled into a shadow and disappeared. A strangled groan came out of Harry's mouth. He had seen these creatures back on Privet Drive, before he had...

He clenched his eyes tightly shut, willing all emotion to go away. It took him awhile, but he kept his eyes closed, not wanting to see the creatures. He didn't want them the come closer. He didn't want them to touch him. He didn't know how he knew, but if he let the creatures touch him, something would happen. Something terrible. When most of the emotions whirling around in his mind were shoved to the very back of his mind, and he could think clearly, he opened his eyes. He would forget the creatures.

He lay there panting, looking around pitifully, thinking that if he were stuck somewhere for an indefinite period of time, he wouldn't want it to be this place. On the bookshelves, old tombs sat there, so old that the titles had been worn away, covered in layer upon layer of dust. The hardwood floor was stained and rotted, the couch ready to be put in the trash, the fireplace looking cold and forlorn.

But it was his.

Harry stood up and squared his shoulders as much as a little boy could. All it needed was a little cleaning, that's all. He just needed to look at this like looking at a glass half full. If you got rid of the dust, scrubbed up a little, beat out some rugs, well... it would be his new home.

His stomach growled. Shit. He looked in the direction of the kitchen with a longing expression. He didn't have to live on much. That much was proven at the Dursleys. He could go without food for a few days without any major consequences, besides being shaky, slightly lightheaded, and unable to do chores at his regular speed. But the thing is, it was still something he needed, although he sincerely doubted that he would find anything of sustenance here. He went to the kitchen anyways.

He found that it was just as dirty as the rest of the house. There was no kitchen table, but what looked like a small folding table was leaning up against the far wall, along with two rickety wooden chairs. On the right side of the room, against the wall, were grey marble counters, which Harry supposed would clean up rather nicely once he was finished with it. He marched over to the counters above the sink, which was built into one of the counters.

Empty. Of course. His stomach growled again. Why shouldn't it be empty? It looked as if nobody had lived hear for centuries. But there had to be something, and the fact lodged itself in his mind, giving him hope he knew was bad for him. Something, like a can, or a box of noodles. Those things could last for ages.

There was a pantry on the left side of the room, and he headed towards that, his hands shaking, like an asthmatic reaching for an inhaler, hoping more than anything that it would work this time. Nothing. In a desperate fit, he threw himself through the rest of the room, flinging every cupboard open. The ones on top of the counters, the pantry, the shelves beneath the counters, until there was nothing left to open, and Harry let himself slide down to the floor inside the pantry.

With no way to get back to the mainland, he was stuck here, with no food. Despite leaving the Dursley's harsh care, he was still going to end up starving to death. He stared at the shelf that was level with his head, trying to will food onto it, but when it didn't work, of course it wouldn't work, he buried his hands in his arms, trying to hold back a sob. His tried not to think about food, but the more he tried to do that, the more he thought about it. He thought about fried eggs, about grilled chicken, about lasagna. His stomach wouldn't stop growling now. At the Dursleys, he always had something else to think about, like the next chore, the next punishment...but now he was alone with his thoughts.

What had he expected to find, anyways? A fucking can of peaches? He lifted his head, and jumped with shock, his head hitting the shelf painfully behind him. There in front of him, on the shelf he had just been staring at, was a single can. Harry hesitantly reached forward, and turned to can over. It was a can of peaches. He felt a shiver run throughout the body. Despite the feeling of for foreboding, he grabbed it off the shelf, and ran to the drawer he had seen silverware in. After ransacking it, he found what he was looking for. A can opener.

It was the best meal Harry had ever eaten in his life. Juice was dripping off his chin, onto his shirt, and he frowned, looking down at him in disgust. He wondered what other offerings the house had to give him. He stood up, put the empty can on the counter, and started walking back towards the living room. There had been a staircase he had seen earlier, and now, he supposed, was the time to do some further exploring.

Harry had grown used to the wind. It still slammed into the side of the hut, making it groan, and giving him pauses every now and then to look at the ceiling in horror, but the hut was still standing. It was warm too, he realized, although he saw no vents for the heat to come out of. He was sitting of the sofa, now throughly beaten, with his feet curled up underneath him, a book in his lap. It was titled 101 Household Spells. Apparently, magic did, in fact, exist.

Of course, Harry didn't just pick up the book and think 'oh, spells, huh? That must be magic'. It had been a number of things that had happened to him that day.

When he had gone upstairs to find something for him to wear, hoping secretly that there was a wardrobe where he could think of what he wanted and it would just appear, he had found a tiny dresser with three pairs of dark blue jeans on the bottom, and black long sleeve shirts on the top drawer. He guessed that the previous occupant was not a very colorful person. Although there was no special wardrobe, the pants did shrink to his size, throughly giving him a heart attack. The shirt was big, but he just rolled up his sleeves and called it a good day.

When he had carelessly tossed his own jeans on the floor, his letter he had taken from underneath his cot came flying out of his pocket. Curious, he bent over to pick it up. He didn't know why he bothered saving it out of all the things he could have brought with him, including food. Now that he had enough time, he supposed it couldn't hurt to see what it was.

But it did hurt. It hurt a lot. He opened the envelope and took out a few sheets of heavy paper that felt rough against his fingers, unfolded it, and read the first page. Five minutes later, he had crumpled the letter in his hands, feeling incredibly annoyed. Dudley would have probably laughing his ass of if he could see Harry's face now. Of course, he didn't think that Dudley was smart enough to pull off such a trick, seeing how they came flying out of the fireplace like that, and the way the very first letter had arrived being held by an owl, but Dudley had friends. He whipped the letter in the corner.

Well, Dudley should have tried the trick a few years ago, Harry thought darkly. He would have jumped at the chance to finally get away from the Dursleys. He would have been ecstatic. He would have been hopeful, and that was never a good thing for Harry to experience. Hope was dangerous. And while it didn't give him false hope as it once would have, it still hurt. Because he knew he would never get away from the Dursleys, even on this rock. There was a shift out of the corner of his eye, and he froze, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths to control the emotions he was feeling. When he opened them again, his eyes were blank, and nothing else moved.

And another incident was when he had been attempting to clean the house. He had found a closet with a mop and bucket, several sprays, old rags, and other cleaning supplies. He had filled the bucket with water from the sink, more surprise that he actually had running water than he had been when the can of peaches appeared before him, and dragged it out into the living room. But when he had tried moping the floor, it wasn't making much of a difference besides getting the floor wet. Then he remembered that he should have put some sort of cleaner in the bucket. If nothing else, it would make the place smell a bit nicer.

So he had gone back to the closet and searched, finding a bottle with the label Martha's Magical Moping Solution. He had tried it, and to his utter shock, the minute his mop ran across the floor, it was left sparkling and polished, looking brand new. It didn't matter if the floor was rotting away, or deeply gouged, it fixed it. It made him think back on the letter, but he refused to believe the letter over one incident. Well, actually, if he were honest with himself, quite a few incidents. The running water, the warmth even though it was still storming outside, the fact that the hut was still standing.

And now there was this book. He decided that he still didn't believe in any sort of magical school, because that would be foolish and gullable of him, so he decided that this house belonged to some weirdo who belonged to a satanic cult. Maybe he, and it was a he, because the clothes were for a grown male, was Wiccan, or something like that. After all, there were spell books, it was dark and creepy, away from prying eyes, and there was a basement door Harry hadn't explored yet, because every time he walked past it, he thought of something else to do. He thought about it now, and was able to think about opening it, but every time he tried, he got distracted. After a few dozen tries, he had given up and just wondered.

He curled up on the couch in a tighter ball, holding the dusty tomb and getting distracted in it's debts again. It was very interesting, and he wanted to finish it, because he was looking forward to reading Basic Potion Ingredients and Their Reactions.

It was his Birthday tomorrow. Harry didn't know how he knew that, but somewhere deep in his heart he knew. He had already lost track of the days he had been here. He didn't know what day he left, or even what day of the week it was now. He didn't even know what month it was. That is, until he had that nagging feeling that he was about to turn a year older tomorrow.

The time he had been in the hut was a blend of cleaning, new discoveries, and reading. He couldn't say he was getting bored, and he was happy about that, because this was all he had. The books he had read definitely enforced his thoughts about the previous occupant being a weirdo. A dangerous weirdo. At first, Harry had been excited reading about spells, and potions, and even charms. Most of them looked useful, and a part of Harry wished they really existed so he could put them to good use. But then the books had gotten a bit darker, making him nervous. It didn't keep him from reading the tombs, but made him a bit more hesitant.

Books on rituals using your friends blood. Using your enemies blood. Books explaining theories to bring people back to life. Books with lists of incredibly painful spells you could cast at someone who irritates you. There were spells that melted away your skin, made your eyes explode, ruptured your organs, etc.

It was dark outside. The storm had been raging the entire time he had been here, and not for the first time, Harry wondered if the storm was just another spell to keep people away from the rock. But, just like every other time he had thought it, he laughed at himself for believing it.

He was sitting on the floor in front of the couch now. Over the time he had been here, the couch had been where he had spent most of it. Whether from reading, sleeping, or just sitting there staring off into space like he was doing now. There was a bed upstairs, in the same room where he had found his clothes, but he hadn't been able to find any sheets and the mattress was so saggy and stained that he had taken one glance at it and decided it wasn't worth it.

He was wondering about the previous occupant of the house. Someone who worshiped Satan. He was sure of it. Otherwise, why all the books on torturing people? He remembered walking to school one day, and passing the high school, he had seen this boy dressed the the strangest clothing. His pants were black and baggy, with silver chains hanging out of the pockets, he wore big clumpy boots with silver studs, the shirt was black as well, torn and dirty, and the boy had more piercing than he could count. His hair had also been dyed black and his eyes were darkened with some sort of makeup. At the time, Harry had thought it was incredibly intimidating, but he didn't think anything more than that.

That had been when he was still a small boy, and still eager to please. After living with the Dursley's awhile longer, Harry soon learned that people who dressed like that were "No good hoodlums who worshiped the devil". He could imagine someone like that, only older, living in the house. He imagined the sort of life the man had lived.

BOOM!

The noise had sounded somewhere outside, and Harry spared a glance towards the door. Loud noises rarely moved him anymore, not with the storm constantly raging outside. He wondered if his canoe would have lasted even if he had tied it up properly. He glanced back down at his book.

BOOM!

He put the tomb down, and this time stared at the door. The sound was not thunder. He was sure of it. Thunder had an echo, and was a deeper sort of sound, like the entire world was exploding. This was something else.

Still, he wasn't afraid. He was on an island surrounded by water. And the water was so violent that no boat could have made it.

BOOM! *crack*

The crack was the door. Harry sat there, frozen where he was, staring at the door with wide eyes. This was it, he though, the hut is finally collapsing. However, something told him that it was not. After all, it was just the door making the sounds, not the structure of the house.

The door started to swing open, and with his heart freezing in his chest, he could only watch as a gigantic hulking figure filled the doorway.

Finit! Less than a week, too! Please leave a review, it spurs on my writing.