This was actually a piece of experimental fiction that I wrote recently for a class, so the form and structure are both basically screwed to hell. Also, it was adapted to HP after the fact, so if there are any inconsistancies, please feel free to point them out. Any questions, email me at allme@rhodes.edu Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, but the plot's mine, baby! Summary: Harry discovers a startling truth about his mother. Rating: PG13 for adult themes. If I expand, it'll go to NC17. ************************************ Separation Anxiety: A Manual Worksheet #1: Identifying Anxiety ************************************ The moon was full, but it was sheened dark like a silver dollar. Harry moved slowly through the trees, glimpsing the dimmed moon only occasionally through gaps in the dense foliage. It was early fall, and the leaves had softened to auburn; they felt ready to fall. Harry stepped into a clearing hesitantly, letting the moonlight silver his black hair and gleam his pale skin. His clothing was carefully non-reflective, and his pack likewise absorbed the light as he slung it to the ground. The soft thud was lost in the aging dark. He crouched next to the pack, glancing up at the moon briefly to gauge the time while his hands rummaged through the battered canvas pack. He wondered briefly if Lupin was out and about. "Shit!" he hissed quietly, jerking his hand back. There was blood running down his fingers and over his thin wrist, clearly visible in the moonlight. He muttered softly to himself, and licked a single broad stroke up his wrist and hand before sticking the wounded fingers into his mouth. With his other hand he pulled out the small dagger that had injured him; his blood, still wet, glimmered on the blued metal. He stared at his blood for a moment, fascinated, lips gone slack around fingers still oozing the precious stuff. *Shed* bled like this. His hair fell into his eyes, and he shook his head restlessly, as if coming out of a trance. He thrust the knife into the soft loam, and went back to rummaging among his things. It would have been different if theyd told him. He began to lay out everything hed need, settling each object securely into the giving earth before him, anchoring it all in firm reality: the knife, a single photograph, a simply-beaded necklace, a hairbrush, and a handwritten note. The knife was bloody, the photo so tattered and worn from repeated handlings that the woman no longer moved, the necklace frayed and retied, the hairbrush tangled with several strands of long auburn hair, and the note smeared and messily written. //Your mothers alive, Harry. Theyve been hiding her in Surrey. Shes been alive all this time.// They couldve told him. He picked up the knife again, running his thumb across the pressure-bleached cuts on his fingers. A cloud passed over the moon, and he looked up, annoyed with the delay. Hed wanted the moon to be perfect for this. Perfect the way it had been when *shed* bled. They should have told him. The clouds didnt matter. He could wait. He had all the time in the world, now. ******************************************************* Worksheet #2: Temporary Solutions for Anxiety ******************************************************* (A/N Harry is much younger in this section, around 12) "Its not enough that we give you food and shelter?" his uncle bellowed, throwing the ragged shoe at his head. Harry ducked, tripping over the other shoe in his hasty retreat. Perhaps mentioning his desire to own less-holey footwear had been a mistake. "Get to your room," his uncle growled, face reddening with his anger. "If it werent for thise damn *poeple* I wouldnt even give you that much!" he shouted up the stairs after Harrys running form. Harry ducked into his room, picking his way through Dudley's accumulated trash and other throwaway treasures. Harry scrambled into his bed, jerking off his socks and throwing them to the floor before curling up under the covers. He lay there for some time, shivering. He knew that his aunt and uncle didnt have a lot of money. He knew that he was a burden on their family. He pulled the covers over his head, wishing for a moment that he didnt need to breathe. Wishing that he hadnt been born. "Harry!" his aunts voice called, nearing his door. "Harry, you havent finished your chores." She tapped the door a few times, then he could hear her footsteps retreating back through his cousins room. If he hadnt been born, then his mother wouldnt have died. "Coming, Aunt Petunia!" he yelled, climbing reluctantly from under the thin blanket to pad barefoot down the stairs and into the kitchen, where he retrieved the broom and began sweeping around his aunts rail-thin form. He kept his head down, following the line of the broom as he drew it across the black and white tiles. He deserved this. It was his fault. Hed killed his mother. ***************************************************** Worksheet #3: Getting Help When You Need It ***************************************************** Shed been easy enough to track down, once he knew to look. The note remained a mystery. It arrived in the usual fashion, stamped and sealed in a hand-addressed envelope. The fact that it was addressed to Harry was a bit unusual; he never got mail. Not through the regular post, anyway. But aside from this peculiarity, everything seemed business as usual. He opened it at the breakfast table; his aunt and uncle were halfway through their daily toast, and he and his cousin were picking at their scrambled eggs. He and Dudley both hated scrambled eggs, but Aunt Petunia insisted that they were healthy. Besides, Dudley would eat anything. The sun shone weakly through the windows into the breakfast nook; it was partly cloudy, as the weatherman had predicted, and would likely rain before the afternoon. Harry faced the watery sun with reluctant, squinting eyes. He was more than ready for the first day back at school; it was less than a week away, and even though most kids his age dreaded schoolwork with a vengeance, he couldnt repress his excitement at the thought of escaping the Dursleys for another few months. His leg was jiggling restlessly under the table, and his uncle paused in scraping raspberry preserves onto his toast to fix Harry with a disapproving look. "Would you like the paper, dear?" Aunt Petunia asked, distracting his uncle. She was already nearing the door, so his uncle called out a brief, "Thank you, yes," at her back. Harrys cousin rolled his eyes and flicked a bit of egg at Harry; Dudley was a full two years older than Harry, but he harbored a great resentment that caused him to act approximately three. At least, that was Harrys theory at the time. Alternatively, Dudley could simply have been just as stupid as he behaved. His aunt returned with the mail as Harry was popping the bit of egg into his mouth; she skewered him with one of her looks, said "Use your fork, Harry," and set an envelope before his plate. "Whats this, Aunt Petunia?" he asked curiously, picking up the crisp paper. "It was addressed to you," she said indifferently as she passed the daily to his uncle. "Thanks," he said, rolling his eyes as he wriggled his thumb underneath the envelopes flap and tore down the seam. //Harry, You wont know who I am, but I knew your mother and father very well. Your mothers alive, Harry. Theyve been hiding her in Surrey. Shes been alive all this time. I dont know why they havent told you, maybe to keep her safe, maybe because she wanted it this way. What you do about this information is up to you. I just felt that you should know.// The note was unsigned. There was no return address. "Harry, are you alright?" his aunt asked, her voice concerned. "Fine," he said woodenly, staring at the simply-phrased note that had just destroyed his life. He felt as though something were literally tearing loose inside his chest, and he put a hand to his heart, rubbing at his breast absently. "Ill be fine, Aunt Petunia. I just think I might need to lie down," he continued as he stood abruptly from the table, knocking his chair over in his haste. He ignored his aunts shocked eyes and his uncles annoyed glare as he retreated to his room. Alive. He hadnt killed her. He could find her. They could be together. *** hey, if you liked it, please review. upon request, i may expand this into a really long story with motivations and explanations and in scene murder. for instance, you'd get to find out who sent the letter. I already know who sent the letter. bwahahahaha! umm. sorry. :)
Text file Source (historic): geocities.com/gwendolyn_flight
(to report bad content: archivehelp @ gmail)
|
|
|
|
|