Small Harry fic
Jun. 24th, 2007 11:49 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
averygoodun42Title: Unknown
Rating: G - PG
Genre: Gen
Words: 1628
Summary: Harry needs to go somewhere after the final battle.
Warnings: Unbetaed.
The ground was dark beneath him, murky and had it not been so very solid, it might not have been there at all. Looking down, it might have been the starless sky rather than a soulless field.
But a field it was.
Harry looked around, trying to stop his mind from spinning so feverishly, trying to grab hold of his very tenuous grasp of reality now that everything was done. Problem was, the eerie silence and pitch darkness only served to emphasize the unreality of the situation.
He was alive. Voldemort was dead.
He was alive.
Voldemort was dead.
He was alive.
Alive.
But alone.
He looked around himself again, trying to get his bearings, but still couldn't see or hear anything. If it hadn't been for some quiet moans immediately after the explosion, he would have thought he was blind and deaf from the event, but there had been moans.
He could still be blind.
“Lumos.”
His wand lit up brightly, illuminating his hand and arm, but not much beyond. He knelt down to the ground, lowering his wand to examine it.
Dirt. Grass. Weeds. Normal ground. Solid and very real.
Not the void he felt it was.
He stood up, trying to figure out what to do now.
He thought about looking for Hermione and Ron, but at the same time, couldn't quite face the possibility that they might not be there. A vague memory of Ron throwing himself into a curse, protecting Harry to the last, left Harry's mouth dry and his skin shivery.
He hoped it was just his overwrought imagination. He hoped he was just remembering the chess game.
But Hermione... He hadn't seen Hermione since they Apparated onto the field. She had been at his back the entire time, though; he had felt her.
Well, not the entire time. Just as Voldemort confronted him, he'd felt her energy vanish. At the time he'd thought it was just that all his concentration was wound up on Voldemort, on countering those hexes, on finding the weak spot, on killing the bastard, but now...
He looked around the field again, wondering if he had enough energy to Apparate. He didn't know where he'd go, though. He couldn't go to the Burrow. Not without Ron.
He couldn't go to Hogwarts. Too painful, still.
Same with Number 12.
Where else was there?
After all, it wasn't as if he had a home to go back to.
Did he?
He thought of Number 4, Privet Drive for the first time without fear or revulsion. If anything, he thought on it with a touch of sentimentality. It hadn't been a pleasant upbringing, in fact it had been damn close to abusive, but at least the only thing he'd had to be afraid of there was Dudley. And occasionally Ripper.
There hadn't been any Dark Wizards hiding in the broom closet, only spiders.
There hadn't been hexes thrown about, only verbal curses and insults.
There hadn't been the pressure to be the savior of Wizarding kind, only the oppression of his ability, of suppressing his magic.
After his confrontation with Voldemort, life with the Dursleys seemed almost idyllic. Almost.
Harry's brow furrowed, and he looked around once more. He still couldn't hear or see a thing. The thought of Aunt Petunia's gleaming and unnaturally clean kitchen suddenly had appeal.
He closed his eyes and Disapparated, concentrating on that scene.
It was just as he remembered leaving it, albeit a little bigger than normal thanks to the absence of both Dudley and Uncle Vernon. The floor, however, was clean, the counters sparkling, and the sink was dry and spotless. The lights buzzed dimly as he walked around, examining everything more closely.
Here was the spot that he'd gashed his forehead open, thanks to Dudley's quick shove. He'd been amazed and awed that Aunt Petunia seemed to be upset over that, until he realized it wasn't him she was crying over, but her newly washed floor.
Here was where he'd burnt his hand as a five-year-old learning how to cook. He hadn't known that a pot holder would be needed; no one had told him. Aunt Petunia had seemed upset at that as well, but it was probably because she'd had delay finishing breakfast to care for his hand.
And here... here was where he had the first glimpse of the larger world, of his world. Here was where he had sat down to examine the strange letter with the emerald green writing. Here was where fate took him and threw him into the best and worst possible world that could be imagined.
Here was where the burden was placed on him, even if he hadn't realized it for another five years after that.
A gasp brought him out of his thoughts, and he turned around.
Aunt Petunia was there, staring at him open mouthed and terrified. She was looking at him as if he was a ghost.
He quirked his mouth up in a greeting. “Good morning, Aunt Petunia. I'm sorry if I woke you.”
She shook her head, still looking utterly terrified and bewildered. A surge of pity coursed through Harry, realizing how horrible it must have been for her to raise someone she was terrified of. He wondered if she blamed him for his mum's, her sister's, death.
His expression softened and he held out his hand slowly in a peaceful gesture. “I really am sorry to intrude. I just... It's over. I thought you might want to know.”
Her eyes filled with tears and she swallowed. “O—Over?” she asked hoarsely, clutching her throat as she cleared it.
Harry nodded, smiling gently. “Yep. Voldemort's dead.”
She grabbed the chair nearest her and pulled it out with a screech, then sat down abruptly.
“Dead. You're sure?”
Harry smiled at her and nodded.
“And you?”
Harry looked at her curiously. “I just was a little nostalgic. That's why I came back. I won't stay long, I just felt like I needed to see the place where I started... the place where I was... young... innocent.” Harry floundered a bit, trying to find the right word. “Protected.”
At the last word, Petunia did something Harry had never expected: she started crying. For him.
“Oh, Harry,” she sobbed, “I'm so sorry!”
Harry stared at her, confused, which only served to increase her cries.
“I was so angry, so resentful... and so afraid! I should have treated you better, I know I should have, but I was weak. Lily was the strong one! She was the one who could do anything just by waving a stick!”
Harry put his hands out in a pacifying gesture. “It's okay, Aunt Petunia; really, it is! I'm not here to blame you.”
But she was beyond listening.
“I was so afraid Vernon would leave me! Dudley was so young, and I knew Vernon would take him with him if he left, and Dudley was everything to me! But Vernon was so opposed to m-m-magic that I thought if I showed any sympathy or attachment... I'm so sorry, Harry!”
Harry was still shaking his head, but no longer smiling. He was looking at the woman before him with pity.
“It's okay, Aunt Petunia, honest. I meant what I said before. You protected me. I was safer here than anywhere else in the world, and I want to thank you for that.”
But Petunia was beyond communicating. She was shaking her head, crying, and digging out a tidy handkerchief from her dressing robe pocket.
“I'm so sorry, Harry! So sorry!” She repeated the phrase over and over again, the words getting muddled in her tears.
Harry wondered at this until Uncle Vernon came into the room, looking at his wife with real concern, and not even glancing at Harry.
“Petunia, love?” he asked as he touched her shoulder tentatively.
Her words disappeared into loud sobs as she turned and hugged her husband's midsection. Vernon's concern grew, and he knelt down on the floor to hug her properly, rocking her back and forth trying to offer comfort.
Harry felt an odd mix of emotions: jealousy and resentment that his uncle was capable of showing concern and love, but never for him, anger that his uncle wasn't even acknowledging him, even if it was only with the customary grunt or curse. Surprised as well, because his uncle had made it very clear how unwelcome he was in this house. There was also sadness that his aunt had been put in such a horrible position, and, strangely, relief and happiness that she had someone who loved her, even if Vernon didn't understand her as well as he thought he did.
Mostly, though, he was embarrassed to be witness to something so intimate and personal with two people he really didn't know, despite everything.
Clearing his throat politely, he waited for some acknowledgment, but none came. He cleared his throat a little louder, but Vernon didn't react at all, just continued rocking Petunia back and forth, back and forth. Finally, Harry stepped forward and said, “Well...”
And when Vernon didn't react, but just continued rocking his sobbing wife, everything became clear to Harry.
The darkness, the silence, the feeling of void. He had killed Voldemort, but he hadn't survived.
Standing in the stark, sterile kitchen, he blinked as he came to terms with his fate, blinked as all the puzzle pieces fit together. Blinked as he realized why he had felt drawn to come here.
He looked down at his aunt again, and realized he wasn't angry, or even sad. Only relief and happiness remained, and it was what infused his voice as he quietly called out, “I forgive you, Aunt Petunia. And so does my mum.”
Rating: G - PG
Genre: Gen
Words: 1628
Summary: Harry needs to go somewhere after the final battle.
Warnings: Unbetaed.
The ground was dark beneath him, murky and had it not been so very solid, it might not have been there at all. Looking down, it might have been the starless sky rather than a soulless field.
But a field it was.
Harry looked around, trying to stop his mind from spinning so feverishly, trying to grab hold of his very tenuous grasp of reality now that everything was done. Problem was, the eerie silence and pitch darkness only served to emphasize the unreality of the situation.
He was alive. Voldemort was dead.
He was alive.
Voldemort was dead.
He was alive.
Alive.
But alone.
He looked around himself again, trying to get his bearings, but still couldn't see or hear anything. If it hadn't been for some quiet moans immediately after the explosion, he would have thought he was blind and deaf from the event, but there had been moans.
He could still be blind.
“Lumos.”
His wand lit up brightly, illuminating his hand and arm, but not much beyond. He knelt down to the ground, lowering his wand to examine it.
Dirt. Grass. Weeds. Normal ground. Solid and very real.
Not the void he felt it was.
He stood up, trying to figure out what to do now.
He thought about looking for Hermione and Ron, but at the same time, couldn't quite face the possibility that they might not be there. A vague memory of Ron throwing himself into a curse, protecting Harry to the last, left Harry's mouth dry and his skin shivery.
He hoped it was just his overwrought imagination. He hoped he was just remembering the chess game.
But Hermione... He hadn't seen Hermione since they Apparated onto the field. She had been at his back the entire time, though; he had felt her.
Well, not the entire time. Just as Voldemort confronted him, he'd felt her energy vanish. At the time he'd thought it was just that all his concentration was wound up on Voldemort, on countering those hexes, on finding the weak spot, on killing the bastard, but now...
He looked around the field again, wondering if he had enough energy to Apparate. He didn't know where he'd go, though. He couldn't go to the Burrow. Not without Ron.
He couldn't go to Hogwarts. Too painful, still.
Same with Number 12.
Where else was there?
After all, it wasn't as if he had a home to go back to.
Did he?
He thought of Number 4, Privet Drive for the first time without fear or revulsion. If anything, he thought on it with a touch of sentimentality. It hadn't been a pleasant upbringing, in fact it had been damn close to abusive, but at least the only thing he'd had to be afraid of there was Dudley. And occasionally Ripper.
There hadn't been any Dark Wizards hiding in the broom closet, only spiders.
There hadn't been hexes thrown about, only verbal curses and insults.
There hadn't been the pressure to be the savior of Wizarding kind, only the oppression of his ability, of suppressing his magic.
After his confrontation with Voldemort, life with the Dursleys seemed almost idyllic. Almost.
Harry's brow furrowed, and he looked around once more. He still couldn't hear or see a thing. The thought of Aunt Petunia's gleaming and unnaturally clean kitchen suddenly had appeal.
He closed his eyes and Disapparated, concentrating on that scene.
It was just as he remembered leaving it, albeit a little bigger than normal thanks to the absence of both Dudley and Uncle Vernon. The floor, however, was clean, the counters sparkling, and the sink was dry and spotless. The lights buzzed dimly as he walked around, examining everything more closely.
Here was the spot that he'd gashed his forehead open, thanks to Dudley's quick shove. He'd been amazed and awed that Aunt Petunia seemed to be upset over that, until he realized it wasn't him she was crying over, but her newly washed floor.
Here was where he'd burnt his hand as a five-year-old learning how to cook. He hadn't known that a pot holder would be needed; no one had told him. Aunt Petunia had seemed upset at that as well, but it was probably because she'd had delay finishing breakfast to care for his hand.
And here... here was where he had the first glimpse of the larger world, of his world. Here was where he had sat down to examine the strange letter with the emerald green writing. Here was where fate took him and threw him into the best and worst possible world that could be imagined.
Here was where the burden was placed on him, even if he hadn't realized it for another five years after that.
A gasp brought him out of his thoughts, and he turned around.
Aunt Petunia was there, staring at him open mouthed and terrified. She was looking at him as if he was a ghost.
He quirked his mouth up in a greeting. “Good morning, Aunt Petunia. I'm sorry if I woke you.”
She shook her head, still looking utterly terrified and bewildered. A surge of pity coursed through Harry, realizing how horrible it must have been for her to raise someone she was terrified of. He wondered if she blamed him for his mum's, her sister's, death.
His expression softened and he held out his hand slowly in a peaceful gesture. “I really am sorry to intrude. I just... It's over. I thought you might want to know.”
Her eyes filled with tears and she swallowed. “O—Over?” she asked hoarsely, clutching her throat as she cleared it.
Harry nodded, smiling gently. “Yep. Voldemort's dead.”
She grabbed the chair nearest her and pulled it out with a screech, then sat down abruptly.
“Dead. You're sure?”
Harry smiled at her and nodded.
“And you?”
Harry looked at her curiously. “I just was a little nostalgic. That's why I came back. I won't stay long, I just felt like I needed to see the place where I started... the place where I was... young... innocent.” Harry floundered a bit, trying to find the right word. “Protected.”
At the last word, Petunia did something Harry had never expected: she started crying. For him.
“Oh, Harry,” she sobbed, “I'm so sorry!”
Harry stared at her, confused, which only served to increase her cries.
“I was so angry, so resentful... and so afraid! I should have treated you better, I know I should have, but I was weak. Lily was the strong one! She was the one who could do anything just by waving a stick!”
Harry put his hands out in a pacifying gesture. “It's okay, Aunt Petunia; really, it is! I'm not here to blame you.”
But she was beyond listening.
“I was so afraid Vernon would leave me! Dudley was so young, and I knew Vernon would take him with him if he left, and Dudley was everything to me! But Vernon was so opposed to m-m-magic that I thought if I showed any sympathy or attachment... I'm so sorry, Harry!”
Harry was still shaking his head, but no longer smiling. He was looking at the woman before him with pity.
“It's okay, Aunt Petunia, honest. I meant what I said before. You protected me. I was safer here than anywhere else in the world, and I want to thank you for that.”
But Petunia was beyond communicating. She was shaking her head, crying, and digging out a tidy handkerchief from her dressing robe pocket.
“I'm so sorry, Harry! So sorry!” She repeated the phrase over and over again, the words getting muddled in her tears.
Harry wondered at this until Uncle Vernon came into the room, looking at his wife with real concern, and not even glancing at Harry.
“Petunia, love?” he asked as he touched her shoulder tentatively.
Her words disappeared into loud sobs as she turned and hugged her husband's midsection. Vernon's concern grew, and he knelt down on the floor to hug her properly, rocking her back and forth trying to offer comfort.
Harry felt an odd mix of emotions: jealousy and resentment that his uncle was capable of showing concern and love, but never for him, anger that his uncle wasn't even acknowledging him, even if it was only with the customary grunt or curse. Surprised as well, because his uncle had made it very clear how unwelcome he was in this house. There was also sadness that his aunt had been put in such a horrible position, and, strangely, relief and happiness that she had someone who loved her, even if Vernon didn't understand her as well as he thought he did.
Mostly, though, he was embarrassed to be witness to something so intimate and personal with two people he really didn't know, despite everything.
Clearing his throat politely, he waited for some acknowledgment, but none came. He cleared his throat a little louder, but Vernon didn't react at all, just continued rocking Petunia back and forth, back and forth. Finally, Harry stepped forward and said, “Well...”
And when Vernon didn't react, but just continued rocking his sobbing wife, everything became clear to Harry.
The darkness, the silence, the feeling of void. He had killed Voldemort, but he hadn't survived.
Standing in the stark, sterile kitchen, he blinked as he came to terms with his fate, blinked as all the puzzle pieces fit together. Blinked as he realized why he had felt drawn to come here.
He looked down at his aunt again, and realized he wasn't angry, or even sad. Only relief and happiness remained, and it was what infused his voice as he quietly called out, “I forgive you, Aunt Petunia. And so does my mum.”
