Thus Sayeth Me

Announcement, Writing / News, Updates / 0 comments

His Brother's Keeper

Begin Chapter One

Original Novel

Yeah, it’s gonna have Vampires

Adventure Update

You know, just my life

Meta & Rant

How to write Severus Snape

LARP

Everyone, this is Kazimiera Krakówia

CONCERNING UPDATES

I won’t repeat everything I said in my Muse Bunny Newsletter so here’s the most important takeaway: more content inbound! Now, I’d love to dedicate all my time to writing fanfiction but we all know I can’t make money off that. I will be splitting my attention between original endeavors and fanfiction. My original work will of course take priority until I have enough to support myself, but the plan is to keep it within 1-2 months for chapter updates. Which means the next one should come sometime this month—it’s about time I figured out how deadlines worked.

So what else am I working on? A lot as it turns out. I’ve got an original vampire novel in the works, going to start up my blog in earnest, and posting my LARP adventures. Like I mentioned on Muse Bunny, A few of my friends have expressed interest in reading what I get up to as my character, and since I write it all up anyway so I don’t forget—I might as well post it for public enjoyment.

It’s also about time I started posting Meta articles. I have one that’s been requested a few times on how I write the character of Severus Snape—and then I’ve got a rant on the Cursed Child that’s been a long time coming. If you enjoy stuff like this, feel free to suggest a prompt!

Only A Boy: Early Plotting

Writing / 1 comment

The Beginning of Only A Boy

Considering that I like to share my writing process and would eventually like to provide some academic pieces on Writing Fanfiction, I figure there’s no better way to start than to share some early plotting from my fanfiction series, Only A Boy. I’ve done as little editing as possible here, so the information will be out of date and reflect the earliest forms of the story. I have however omitted referenced to events not yet written.

The first outline I made on computer, I had first scribbled some notes and details on a piece of paper as I sifted through Wikipedia Pages and tried to nail down dates and events until I decided my fanfiction timeline.

[Unedited Summary and Description]

The Overall Plot

At the time of his summoning, Albion had been already united under the rein of Arthur. Merlin was considered a trusted friend and adviser, as well as High Priest of the Old Religion. Magic was no longer banished, and Arthur was working with magic users. Four warlocks, Gryffindor, Slytherin, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw came forward with the idea to make a magical school to train those with magic how to control it and use it for good.

And thus, Hogwarts was born. On the Isle of the Blessed, they rebuilt the castle in all her glory. Merlin offered his services as a Charms Specialist for some time, forming a close friendship with Salazar as he did so. Together, they discovered the language of the snakes, an adaption of Dragon-speech. He was there to witness the creation of the Sorting Hat and meet Helena – Rowena’s daughter. However, after Slytherin rebelled, all the founders knew that he would try to find a way to ensure that his legacy continued. That drove them to gaze into the future, to the moment with Lord Voldemort. In the end, they decided to send Merlin to the present. Merlin permanently de-aged himself and knew he would not be coming back. But, as they were doing the enchantment, Salazar appeared and tried to stop them. He wanted to stop Merlin from going to the future and defeating his heir. During the battle, Merlin was hit with a curse that eats away memories. He lost all those years, making Gwen’s coronation the last clear memory. However, they are not completely gone and can trickle in at times.

In the World of Harry Potter

The Potters never had a son, they never went into hiding, and Voldemort was never destroyed. Instead, on that fateful night in Godric’s Hollow, the Dark Lord met his demise after killing two order members who refused to squeal. But, he didn’t die. And everyone knew it. When Voldemort was hit with a stray killing curse, everyone watched as a waft of smoke erupted from his mouth and flew away.

There’s something you have to think about when it becomes an Alternate Reality. If the Potter’s never had a son, never had to hide due to a half-heard prophecy, how does that change the future?

What if they decided to end the mayhem and the chaos? What if James lead a secret mission with his wife to take out Lord Voldemort? And on that mission, they managed to kill the Dark Lord but only at the cost of their lives? Snape overheard about the proposal from the order, though he didn’t know who had taken the job. He related the mission to the Dark Lord, but when he found out that it was Lily, he did everything in his power to change her mind. He begged Voldemort to let her live – but knew it was futile and so switched to Dumbledore. They sent a second back-up team, but it was already too late. She sacrificed herself and killed the Dark Lord herself. Snape feels that he will never forgive himself for what he did, and feels that he deserves to suffer whatever punishments life offers him.

James, Remus, Sirius, and Peter were best friends during school. However, during the first war, Peter defected and became a double agent. He was the one – not Snape – to feed the Potter’s a false location of Voldemort’s location. The Potter’s were ambushed, but Lily – upon seeing the betrayal of their friend and the death of her husband – went down in a blaze of glory, and fired a curse at the Dark Lord killing herself and him. Peter was caught in the crossfire.

The Order knows he will be back. The Ministry is trying to stop the war mongering. The general public doesn’t know whom to believe. And the Old Religion is spitting mad, for a man had attempted to use the ancient knowledge without knowing how, resulting in a twisted perversion that the earth recoils at. So, the Old Magicks of the Earth froth and bubble, demanding that someone fix it.

A prophecy was given, telling of a boy who would come from far away:

THE DARK WILL FALL, THE EARTH WILL CALL

A BOY FROM FAR AWAY, ON THE LONGEST DAY

BORN AS THE SEVENTH MONTH DIES

WITH EYES OF THE BLUEST SKIES

THE DARK WILL FALL, THE EARTH WILL CALL

FOR THE DARK MUST PERISH BEFORE THE LIGHT

FOR ONE IS BLIND AND THE OTHER HAS SIGHT

AND LIQUID GOLD WILL TRUTH UPHOLD

THE DARK WILL FALL, THE EARTH WILL CALL

Later, I changed why Merlin arrived in the present and ironed out the details of how he made the trip. In fact, I didn’t tie it to Slytherin and the other founders (long after Hogwarts was built) until I was several chapters into the fanfiction.

I decided against using a wand entirely because of how amusing the ‘Weighing of the Wands’ scene from the fourth book would be, not to mention how Merlin in the BBC show never required one. I thought being unable to use one would provide some fun confusion.

The Curious Case of Professor Quirrell

[What follows is an early outline of the main plot for the first year, including how I wanted to handle the Quirrell Arc and the finale. If you have no read the first year of the fanfiction in it’s entirety, there will be heavy spoilers]

Merlin knows there is something wrong, with the professor. He just can’t figure out what. Every time he’s in the same room with the man the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It just doesn’t make sense to him, he seems like blubbering imbecilic. He tried to ask Snape about him on more than one occasion, but he could never get the words out of his mouth. After the incident with the troll, Merlin goes to Quirrell to ask him about how such a creature could have gotten into the castle in the first place. The man is dismissive and stuttering as always, but he shows a keen interest in the fact that Merlin was able to defeat the creature on his own.

Merlin has known enough liars and spies to realize that Quirrell is hiding something, and like he usually does, makes it his business to find out. He finally confided in Snape that he felt something off with the DADA professor and though Snape initially tried to blow it off he seemed to realize that Merlin was far sharper than he let on. He hinted that Quirrell had been acting rather strangely and that he was looking into it. Merlin might have left it at that if it weren’t for the fact that he’d realized that Quirrell had met Voldemort on his trip to Albania while reading. He immediately went to Quirrell to try and establish this, by asking about his year sabbatical – pretending to be interested in doing the same when he graduated. He asked about Albania, and that was pretty much all the confirmation he needed. The only problem was that now he was also on Quirrel’s radar and that he had just made a very dangerous enemy.

Now sure that whatever Quirrell was after was in the third floor corridor, Merlin tries to go after it himself. However, Snape catches him and the professor realizes that he isn’t just going to leave it alone. He tells Merlin about the stone, and that he does believe – as does the headmaster – that Quirrell may try to steal it. However, the both of them do not have any proof that would allow them to fire the professor, other than circumstantial evidence. He tells Merlin to leave it to the adults and enjoy his holiday, as there’s really nothing he could do.

***

When Merlin comes back from the holidays, he learns from Kor in the woods that Quirrell has been sneaking out and drinking the blood of unicorns. Merlin’s immediate thought was to tell Snape, but before he can even open his mouth he realizes that anything he says will just be the word of a child and he can’t even explain how he knows any of this without exposing Kor in the forest or his night-time wanderings. He’s going to have to deal with this himself. He doesn’t quite know where Voldemort is though.

After dinner, he realizes he forgot his book bag in Quirrell’s classroom and goes back to retrieve it. He hears conversation in Quirrell’s office and takes a peak. He catches sight of Voldemort and makes a mad dash for the door, but he trips over a desk. Quirrell emerges with his turban intact, and Merlin shakily plays it off that he was just collecting his bag. However, once in the hallway he makes a mad dash for the dungeons and he’s hit in the back with a curse at the top of the stairs. He falls two flights and lands in a crumpled heap on the floor, but his magic saved him from being killed.

He wakes up in the infirmary, being told a heroic tale of how Quirrell found him and saved his life. The professor smiles dangerously at him, and when Merlin tries to accuse him remarks that he must have hit his head very hard. In fact, Merlin is nearly hysterical. It’s easy then for Quirrell to suggest that Merlin be given a sleeping draft before he aggravates his injuries and Poppy is only too happy to oblige. The spell was to knock Merlin out for the rest of the night, but he wakes up three hours later. He knows that Quirrell is going after the stone, now that his cover has been blown and he can’t just kill a student without drawing attention – not to mention the fact that Snape already suspects him.

Bruised, his ankle twisted, Merlin stumbles out of the infirmary and runs into Hermione who was sneaking up to see him after she heard that he’d gotten hurt. Surprisingly, she is also with Draco who had gotten the same idea. They listen while Merlin explains everything and don’t argue with his determination to go to the third floor and stop Quirrell. Instead, Hermione puts a brace on Merlin’s foot, and they help him get there, but outside the door he tells them both to run and tell Snape. He won’t let them get hurt.

Merlin Catches up with Quirrell on the chessboard and it pretty much turns into a battle. He knocks Quirrell’s turban off and meets Voldemort. They are both surprised at Merlin’s magical abilities, and he invites him to join him – which of course, Merlin doesn’t agree too. Quirrell bewitches a knight to go after him, and Merlin gets pinned down – and just a little stabbed. Merlin golden eyes flash and the doors seal so that Voldemort can go ahead. His magic expands chaotically, knocks everything back and collapsing the ceiling. Snape and Dumbledore find Merlin weak but alive, and Quirrell knocked out. Voldemort abandoned Quirrell, and the professor was taken into custody, or rather an emergency hospital for criminals.

Merlin is forced to hang out in the nurses for a week, but a lot of people visit him.

Clever Fox: Enter Naruto

Plot Bunny / AU, Gender Bender, Naruto / 0 comments

Clever Fox

Smart!Female!Naruto – A darker and more realistic retelling. The idea kept kicking around in my head so I caved and wrote it down. Not sure whether this will become an official project of mine though.

Alternate Universe
Plot Bunny
Naruto
Length: 2,766

Konoha just didn’t know what to do with its new Jinchūriki. Emotions wrought with pain after the battle, the method of how the Nine-Tailed Fox had vanished mattered less than the simple fact that it was gone. It wasn’t until later, with the discovery of the Fourth Hokage and Uzumaki Kushina’s bodies that questions arose, and by then Sarutobi Hiruzen had hidden the child away. Namikaze Minato still had enemies that would gleefully go after his child, especially now. And with the village having a hard enough recovering as it was — forcing him out of retirement to become the Third Hokage again too — Sandaime Sarutobi kept the baby in his own home. When he announced a few months after the fact that Uzumaki Naruto had been chosen as the new Jinchuriki, no one realized Minato and Kushina’s child had survived.

Especially since those who knew of the pregnancy had been expecting a little girl.

It hadn’t been intentional, at first. The only baby clothing Sarutobi had in his house were the baby clothes Biwako had kept from their son, and he was far too busy mandating repairs and understanding political machinations. The only other people who knew, were the ANBU guards assigned to the child—glorified nannies of lethal force. The only thing they taught Naruto was how to throw shuriken. So by the time Sarutobi thought it safe to buy the girl a dress, she turned her nose up at it. She sheared off her golden hair with scissors because it kept getting in her eyes. She looked so much like her father with that short hair— he tried to tell Naruto this, but his throat locked up every time. She was safer if she didn’t know, he told himself. The less she knew about her parents, about what was living inside her, the better off she’d be. So he told her half-truths. Her parents had died during the Kyuubi attack, and he’d taken her in because the orphanage had been full.

But he didn’t know how to raise a child on his own. He was barely ever there. Every time he came home and heard the pitiful sniffling of a lonely girl, he would turn to ask Biwako for help only to remember that his wife had died during the attack. She’d been the one to help Kushina give birth. At ground zero. See Naruto as a hero? He was such a hypocrite. No wonder the villagers couldn’t separate the girl from the demon— he dumped the child in her own little apartment the moment she could feed herself.

He was sure—that was the moment he’d made a mistake, when he ignored the hurt look in her bright blue eyes as he ushered her into her new home, feeding her false lies about visiting often. Because often turned into once a month in the blink of an eye.

Naruto kept cutting her hair short and wearing t-shirts. The one time he playfully asked if she’d like a skirt, after all that was what little girls wore; she told him they were impractical for fighting. Boys and girls were stupid. So she referred to herself as, “ore,” and learned how to swear, picked fights with the boys and proclaimed her ambition to become Hokage from the rooftops. He did what he could to keep the villagers from mentioning the Kyuubi, but he couldn’t stop the hate in their eyes as Naruto walked down the street. He saw the way the shine in her blue gaze darkened every time he visited, the twist of her mischievous smile taking on a feral glint. She caused more trouble, stealing from the market, painting walls and buildings— she once broke into his house and stole every fork in the place. And he knew why she did it. She did it to get people to look at her. To see her. And that was why he knew he couldn’t stop it.

He went to visit, just before she started at the Ninja academy. She barely looked at him, sitting on the edge of her window, blond tufts messed by the wind, whisker-like markings on her cheeks—and he thought the glint in her eyes as she glanced at him had too much of the fox in them.

Who am I?

The question rattled around in young Naruto’s mind. It was hard to form an accurate picture of identity without information. No parents. No reason why the villagers looked at her with such violent disregard in their hard eyes. She could see it plain as day. They treated her as other. Different. But why? Naruto wondered for a long time, mulling over the question, fretting about what she might have done, what could have brought their ire.

She found no answers.

Instead, she was left alone in her small apartment with Sandaime Sarutobi closing the door behind him. She didn’t really even know the man. He had made sure she knew how to dress, how to eat, and how to use the toilet. That was it. The second she had been able to run she had found every exit—stopped every time by a figure wearing an ANBU mask.

She had no concept of family.

The first time she saw a mother in a crowd, she didn’t understand. The woman held the hand of a child not much older than herself, kind warmth in her eyes. The expression hardened the second they met her curious blue gaze, and the woman ushered her child down and around the corner.

What had she done?

She tired to ask Sandaime Sarutobi the next time he visited her. She asked him many times. He always said it wasn’t her and she believed him. Until—why did everyone avoid her in the street? Why didn’t anyone look in her direction? Why did the other children scurry away from her the moment she approached? Why did everyone pretend she didn’t exist? She stopped believing him after a while. She stopped asking him.

Naruto stared up at the moon and wondered what to do with the swell of emotion in her throat. And she tried. She tried. Maybe if she just reminded them she was here. Maybe if she just made enough noise they would look her way. She raised her voice, shouted, screamed—just look at me. Naruto discovered spite and took revenge on the eyes that scorned her. She stole a freshly laundered sheet from the line, switched signs around, painted the Hokage’s face in giant red profanities.

The first time it happened, he showed up that evening at her apartment. He was disappointed. He didn’t want that kind of behavior. Didn’t he understand that he’d brought her to this? But he didn’t understand, and expected better of her. She had spent an entire week stalking the older man. The other villagers noticed him; they respected and even loved him. She had seen him visit his son, seen how it was so different than to any interaction they’d had. She had craved his attention, his love, and this was all he brought her.

That was the first time she’d ever screamed in his face. She had seen the way his eyes flickered with fear, but didn’t understand why. “I’m going to become Hokage,” she had screeched on top of her lungs. “I’m going to become Hokage one day, dattebayo!”

She had shouted from the rooftops for a straight week before the fury in her veins settled. She had felt it like licking flames in her blood. But no one cared. The most she got were mocking laughs. The parents still hated her on sight and hid their children from her. She was ignored, swatted, disregarded, and it ate away at her heart.

It settled upon her shoulders like a shudder of ice, a sharpening of her blue gaze. The villagers hated her—that much was a fact. She was alone—that was a fact. And she could either collapse in on herself and mourn for what would never come, or—

—There would come a day when the entire world knew her name.

She would become the monster they feared. She would become deadly and powerful and would make all of them wish they had gained her favor when she was young and trusting and naïve.

They’d had their chance. Now it was her turn.

The last time the Old Geezer had visited her, Naruto had seen it again—the look of fear in his eyes. For the first time, the look filled her with hot satisfaction. It sat like a bubble of lava in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t want or need his approval anymore. One day, he would want hers.

And on that day, he would understand.

It happened the day Naruto found the fox mask.

A few streets over from her house, a special market had appeared. The sign said something about summer. She had a hard time with Kanji. She had followed the scent of grilled meats and had dashed out her window—marveling at the colors, and music, and people.

She had hovered from an electrical pole, listening to the laughter, the kind words, the excitement and thrill borne in the air like static. She wanted to be one of those people. She slipped down to the street and joined the current. And at first it was—nice. She saw a table full of rings and bracelets, with stones that glittered emerald. She passed a barbecue with chicken cooking on skewers.

And then she found the vendor selling festival masks.

She’d never seen ones like these. The ANBU she remembered were plain, white and black. But the gentleman manning the kiosk didn’t have any like that. There was one like a bright pink pig face, and another that looked monkeyish and feral, with strands of red hair around the edges. But then, a streak of orange caught her eye.

It was a fox. It had a polished, almost porcelain design—almost like the ANBU masks. But instead of white, it was black and a vibrant orange streak cut a pattern across the face. Perhaps it was the combination of something familiar and yet foreign that drew her to it. She drifted closer, eyes glued to the mask, and was just thinking about how much it might cost when the shopkeeper grabbed her roughly by her shirt.

He was a large man with a crooked nose and an uneven mat of hair that was clearly thinning in places. She was struck by the ugly look on his features; she had seen him smile at another visitor only a moment ago.

“What’re you doing here? Scram!” he shouted in her face, spittle flying off his lip to hit her cheek. He shoved her back and she, unprepared for the violence the action, fell to the ground.

She sat there, stunned for a moment as he continued to shout at her. She had just been looking; she hadn’t even touched the mask. Why was he so angry with this—but she saw in his eyes. He wasn’t just angry. There was fear there too, and it compounded and turned into a rage to fierce she wondered if he might kill her.

“—Take it and get out of here!” she heard him yell, and just managed to shut her eyes before the fox mask struck right above her right eye.

As the thing fell to the ground, the shopkeeper stopped shouting. In it’s place were loud heated breaths as they stared at each other. After a moment, she wiped her brow and found blood on her fingertips. She looked up and realized the crowd had fallen silent around them, but no one said a word. Did no one care this man had thrown something at a child?

No. No one cared.

“What the hell?” she whispered. She got to her feet, smacking the dust and dirt from her pants. “What the hell?” she repeated, picking up the mask.

No one else was treated like this. Other kids had parents to stand up for them, to hold them, to love them. Other people had friends. Other humans treated each other with polite kindness. She saw nothing but loathing in those eyes—blame. She began to walk down the street and the crowd parted as a school of fish would for a shark.

She broke into a run, but their words snipped at her heels. It’s that. Why do they let that stay in the village? Why don’t thy think of us? Stay away from that. She bit her lip and tasted blood. Why. Why did everyone look at her like that? She took a sharp turn and into a side street, before scaling the pole outside her building and landing on the ledge of her window.

Naruto climbed into the safety of her apartment and stood, suspended in the middle of her bedroom. Various clothes were thrown about, the covers of her bed messed, the bathroom door slightly ajar. In the next room was her darkened kitchen, cup noodle packets on her counter and in her trash. She looked down at the mask she held in her hands.

The fox had a small crack in the left ear, like jagged bolt of lightning.

Her eyes filled with tears. She slid the mask over her head, and she stopped holding back. She sunk to the ground, nestled into the crook against her bed and curled into a ball, and she cried. Her limbs shook, her breathing fluttered, she swallowed gulps of sorrow.

Why?

She just wanted someone to tell her. Naruto don’t know where she went. She felt as if she were in a dark place, flooded and dank—lying in a pool of her own tears. It was cold down here, chaotic. It wasn’t a place for little girls determined to become Hokage. But today, hidden beneath her mask, she felt lonely and miserable and shitty and was just so tired. She just wanted to hide.

“Naruto—”

She hiccupped and jerked up, splashing water. That voice—who—? She was still in her dark place, but she knew she wasn’t alone. She found a cage of thick steel bars, the entire length of the space. She stared at the darkness on the other side, at the shape that first shifted and then came into focus in a shock of vibrant red fur. As she stared at the creature, black lips pulled back to reveal large teeth, a rumbling sound filled the air and she realized it was laughing.

“Ironic choice of mask,” the voice thundered again, and Naruto lifted it off. She wiped her eyes.

“Who—are you?” she managed, staring up at him.

“Figures no one would tell you. I am the Kyuubi,” and she watched as his nine tails curled and tossed in the air behind him.

Naruto got shakily to her feet and wandered over until she stood right in front of the cage. “You—you attacked the village four years ago.”

Something flashed in those blood-red eyes.

“You’re inside me?”

The Kyuubi leaned forward until his face rested on the ground in front of her. “I am the reason why.”

Naruto stared at him. She stared at that shock of orange fur, at the vibrant cruel eyes. And then she gave a little hiccup as another surge of tears climbed up her throat. She broke into a watery smile, trying to wipe her eyes. “Sorry.” But now the she’d started again, it was hard to stop. “I must be a terrible person.”

“You must be a terrible person,” the Kyuubi deadpanned back to her. There was pause while she sniffled and desperately tried to stem the flow. “Why are you crying?”

“You know—” Naruto began, gulping another fresh wave of tears. “I know you killed a lot of people and—and everything—but,” and she pried her hands away from tear-stained face. “But I’m so relieved that I’m not alone.”

The Kyuubi blinked.

“I’m Uzumaki Naruto,” she went on, plopping back down onto the ground and slinking the mask so that it hung to the side of her face. “You’ve probably been more lonely down here all on your own, huh? I’m sorry I took so long. What’s your name?”

And as Kyuubi Kurama listened to Naruto talk for hours, fox mask hanging off the side of her face, some of the festering in his soul began to ease. Before for the first time, there was a human who only wanted to be his friend.

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Star Wars: Let the Past Die

Short Story / Alt Ending, Canon Divergent, Star Wars / 1 comment

Let the past die.

The way the movie really should have ended.

Canon Divergent
Flash Fiction
Star Wars: Last Jedi
Length: 500

“Please.”

Later, Rey would say it was that single word that changed everything. But at the time all she could think of was the look in his eyes, the raw emotion and vulnerability she saw there. This time, he held out his hand to her—and she considered it, struggling to decide.

Because on the one hand, she had sworn she would not fall like Kylo Ren. She was not dark, would never be like the Sith, cared too much about her friends, the rebellion, Skywalker and could not just let the past die… And yet, she knew she would never persuade Kylo Ren to abandon all and join her instead. He couldn’t. He had murdered Snoak yes, but if the destruction of Empire and creation of The First Order proved anything, it was that someone else would just continue the fight and it might as well be him.

Her options were thus: Decline, and continue to fight against the New Order with their dwindling forces as they had done for years now to no avail—or, join and act as a positive influence.

Rey took a deep breath. “They may be a part of your past,” she began, slowly, carefully, because he needed to know she wasn’t saying no. “But they are my present. I came from nothing,” she said echoing his words from before, “I had no one—until I had them.”

She could see him considering this, a slight frown creasing his brow, a twist as he bit the inside of his cheek. But he made no move to speak, so she continued. “If we were to destroy them, we would need to destroy the First Order as well. They are a part of the past too.”

“With Snoak dead, we can change the First Order—”

“Then why don’t we change the Alliance, as well?” Rey countered, and Kylo fell silent again. “Even if you were to snuff this band of fighters out, eventually, another would rise from some desolate corner of the system. It’s just as Snoak said—dark rises, and light to meet it. Balance requires both.”

Rey swallowed. “Letting the past die is also moving past it—in spite of it, letting go of the grudges and feeling associated with it. If we work together, we can bring both sides together. If you take away their reason to fight, it destroys them just the same.” Rey extended a quivering hand, but did not bridge the gap between them. “Can you save my friends?”

Kylo regarded her for a long moment, doubt clear upon his face. “They won’t accept this.”

“So we make them. We make them all accept it.”

Still, Kylo hesitated, and she could feel the indecision within him.

“Can you let the past die?” she asked, in a soft whisper. She felt resolve form, but for what she didn’t know. He met her eyes, and she found herself holding her breath. Then, he closed the distance and firmly grasped her hand.

Harry Potter: Boggart

Short Story / Canon Divergent, Gen, Harry Potter / 3 comments

The Boggart

What if Lupin hadn’t stepped in front of Harry that day with the Boggart? What if, instead of a Dementor, it turned into something else entirely?

Canon Divergent
Flash Fiction
Harry Potter
Length: 3,921

As the boggart morphed and shifted with each child’s fear, one child struggled to realize the shape his would take. At first, Harry’s mind conjured an image of Lord Voldemort before disregarding the idea. Perhaps it was arrogant of him, or the mere fact that he’d already faced him twice and come out on top but Harry didn’t fear him. The boggart appeared before Ron Weasley and transformed into a gigantic spider, prowling on the class before losing its legs and barrelling forward—

To land at Harry’s feet. His grip tightened on his wand. Maybe it would turn into Lord Voldemort after all. Or maybe one of those Dementors—he could consider the dread he felt for those figures fear, but how to make it comical?

And then the boggart changed, it grew large—larger than the spider, a towering hulking figure, the familiar face contorting with purple rage. It was impossible—and yet—the giant beefy man before him with his thick mustache and malicious blue eyes—there was no mistaking it.

“YOU UNGRATEFUL FREAK!” roared the monstrous Uncle Vernon, and just like that all the excitement borne from fears turned comedic vanished into horrified silence. Harry had taken a fast step back before he realized what he was doing. And then his Uncle was bearing down on him like an angry wolf-hound, his thunderous steps rattling the entirety of the room.

“YOU WAIT UNTIL I GET MY HANDS ON YOU BOY! YOU WON’T BE ABLE TO SIT FOR A WEEK! NEVER SHOULD’VE TAKEN YOU IN. YOU’VE BEEN NOTHING BUT A BLIGHT ON THIS FAMILY—YOU’RE NOTHING BUT A FREAK AND THEY’RE GOING TO FIND OUT—MARK MY WORDS!”

Uncle Vernon raised his arm and Harry, voice shaking shouted, “Ridikulous!” but with nothing pictured in his mind’s eye except a numbing sense of panic the Boggart twisted and shrieked, and suddenly Aunt Petunia’s blonde head was poking out of Uncle Vernon’s shoulder. She twisted and ripped her flesh forward, until her entire torso sprouted from Uncle Vernon like a limb on a mangled tree.

“YOU’RE A FREAK EVEN AMONG FREAKS,” she screamed at him, “YOU SHOULD’VE DIED WITH YOUR PARENTS! NOT EVEN WORTH LOCKING IN A CUPBOARD! I SHOULD’VE TOSSED YOU IN THE BIN THE MOMENT I SAW YOU ON OUR DOORSTEP!”

And then the creature morphed back into Uncle Vernon, the real one, the one that Harry had seen less than a month ago in his best dinner jacket and a murderous gleam in his eyes. “YOU CAN’T USE MAGIC OUTSIDE OF SCHOOL!” he bellowed, and as he rushed toward him Harry forgot where he was.

“No—I didn’t mean—Uncle please—” Harry stammered, wand forgotten as he attempted to shield himself with his arm, and backed up—crashing into someone behind him.

“RIDIKULOUS!” someone shouted and suddenly Vernon was gone.

It took a moment for Harry to realize what had happened, and when he did—he couldn’t breathe. His eyes found Hermione, Ron, Professor Lupin, even Draco—the look in their eyes was beyond shock. Hermione had tears rolling down her face, and then he felt the world start to spin. “I need to—” he started, and then he couldn’t finish, not without air.

“Harry,” came Ron’s voice—what a sound, like he’d just come across a dying dog yelping for death. He went to put a hand on Harry’s shoulder and Harry flinched away, wheezing.

“No—” he said, “Don’t—” he shook his head, trying to clear his vision. And then he was running for the door.

Gryffindors seldom loitered about the dungeons, so when Snape saw Harry Potter slip into one of the unused potions classrooms—especially when he had it on good authority that the boy had Defense at this time—Snape grew suspicious at once. He reached the door before it swung shut.

“Potter! What are you doing in here?” he snarled, his words freezing the boy in his tracks. Slowly, Potter turned around. The moment his eyes fell on Snape all the color drained from his face. His bottle-green eyes went wide, a horrified dawning realization spreading across his features.

“No—” Potter breathed, his voice hoarse. His hand went to the desk as if for support. “You can’t—you’re going to find out,” he went on, no longer looking at him.

“What are you on about, Potter?” Snape cut across losing his temper. “And why aren’t you in class? Professor Lupin might cater to your every whim but I certainly will not. Five points—” a wheeze brought his words to an abrupt halt.

It was clear that Potter hadn’t heard a word he had said. He was gasping for breath, limbs visibly shaking. Snape only just managed to step forward to catch him by the elbow as Potter’s knees gave way and eased him to the ground. That at least got the boy to look at him again, but his gaze was panicked.

“I can’t—breathe,” Potter choked out, still shaking. His hand went to his heart, and Snape was shocked to see tears welling in Potter’s eyes. There was no mistaking it. Harry Potter was having a panic attack. Snape withdrew a vial of light blue liquid and uncorked it.

“Drink,” he said, lifting the bottle to Potter’s lips. The boy didn’t even argue—for once—and instead choked it back with fumbling fingers. After another minute during which Snape re-pocketed the empty vial, Potter’s breathing eased and he buried his face in his hands.

“It seems Lupin is more incompetent than I thought,” Snape sneered. “Tell me did he at least tell you the incantation before allowing the Dark Lord to materialize before you? He’s an absolute disgrace to—”

Potter gave a rattled sob and shook his head, mumbling something.

“What was that?”

Potter lifted his head, furiously wiping at his eyes. “I wish it’d been Voldemort.”

“Don’t say his name,” Snape said automatically, though he had to confess his interest peaked. He waited for Potter to continue and after several rattled gulps Potter shrugged.

“You’re going to find out anyway,” he whispered, closing his eyes as though preparing himself. “I haven’t even—he hadn’t even—he’s not my—” Potter ran his hands through his hair, his eyes flying open to stare at his knees. “It, the boggart, turned into my Uncle.”

A cold sinking sensation settled in Snape’s bones, like a silver knife flaying skin. The smirk vanished, replaced by a careful impassive mask. “Your Uncle?” he repeated, only the dark slow tremor of his voice betraying the swell of emotion he suddenly felt.

Potter looked up at him, and nodded. He bit his lip to stop it from quivering. And then he buried his face in his hands. “Everyone heard him—everyone knows I’m—I’m—” Snape saw Potter’s fingers white-knuckle through his black hair. And then so quietly, that Snape almost missed it—

“I’m a freak.”

And Snape saw scarlet. It didn’t take much to lift the boy and lead him back to his office where he fixed a large cup of tea and put it in Potter’s hand with the order to stay put, before sweeping down the halls to the staff room.

One look told him that there was more to this story—he’d never seen a class so subdued. Lupin seemed to be in the middle of giving a lecture on discretion, damage control, Snape thought bitterly.

The moment Lupin saw him the blasted werewolf grimaced. “Class dismissed,” he said, and the class filtered out, silent, avoiding eyes.

“Severus,” Lupin began somewhat offhandedly, “I’m afraid I need to run, can this wait—”

“Harry Potter is currently in my office enjoying a calming tea,” Snape said and Lupin stared at him. “I found him having a full-blown panic attack in one of my classrooms.”

Lupin went white, hands balling into fists. It took him a long second to compose himself enough to speak. “We need to speak to the Headmaster, immediately Severus—you don’t know—what it said to him.”’

“By all means, lead the way,” Snape sneered, though inside he was boiling. His fingers itched to clasp his wand and curse the nearest thing into oblivion. As they rushed to the Headmaster’s office, he kept telling himself that everyone was blowing this out of proportion. Potter was spoiled brat who’d gotten his feelings hurt, hadn’t been able to hack a simple Boggart. Lupin was coddling his friend’s son—everyone was thinking too much and then it came back to him.

“I’m a freak.”

Instead of attempting to reiterate what happened, Lupin produced a memory. The three of them watched in horrified silence. When the Boggart shifted into the person replica and Potter threw up his hand to defend himself, Snape turned away. It was a move he knew all too well, and he should’ve known.

“Did you know?” he whispered, when they had returned to the office. He looked at Dumbledore.

“No.”

“How could you not know?” Lupin shouted, throwing up his hands. “Aren’t you supposed to be keeping tabs on him?”

“I did not think I needed eyes inside the house,” Dumbledore said, his normally bright blue eyes shadowed. “Rest assured, we will investigate this.”

“Investigate?” Lupin said, “Albus, Harry cannot go back there.”

“While loathe I am to agree with Lupin on anything,” Snape said with a grimace. “Potter’s Boggart is his uncle. The damage is done.”

He wasn’t supposed—that couldn’t be his greatest—he was not scared of Uncle Vernon. Harry tore down the corridor, not even paying attention to where he was going. All he could see was the Boggart and the broken expressions of his friends. Ron and his brothers had suspected something was amiss ever since second year, but Harry had never told him or anyone what really went on in that house.

But really, it was just embarrassing more than anything. Had that been his fear? Embarrassed that everyone would find out how unspoiled he was. Yes, that was it. He wasn’t actually scared of Uncle Vernon. That was—Harry scoffed to himself. Now he just needed to compose himself enough to face his friends when they asked him about it. And everyone else in that class. And maybe the whole school.

Harry slipped through a door and only just realized where he was. One of the unused potions classrooms. He took a deep shuddering breath, trying to knock himself out of it. He could handle it, the weird looks, the questions, it’d be just like last year with the Chamber of Secrets but instead everyone would be concerned for him. And besides, if a Boggart was supposed to be his worst fear… it’s just what he imagines to be. No one would think—how could they know—

That Harry had heard those words before.

“Potter! What are you doing in here?”

Harry froze. Slowly he turned around, and when his gaze fell on Snape all his rationalizations fell away. “No—” he breathed, his voice hoarse. His hand went to the desk suddenly unable to stand without support. “You can’t—you’re going to find out,” he went on. If there was anyone in this entire School—Dumbledore had left him there so he obviously knew, McGonagall would probably fret and worry about him but Snape—Malfoy would surely tell him and all the Slytherins. He could just hear their voices in his ears.

“Hey Freak, scared of a fucking muggle? Maybe you should’ve really died with your parents. So much for Saint Potter, adored by all. You’ve known all along that you’re nothing but a waste of space.”

He couldn’t breathe. Air danced just out of reach of his lungs, his vision swam oddly before him – focusing in and out on Snape. He felt so light-headed—and then he felt a grip on his elbow as his knees buckled. When had Snape moved? He turned his attention to the professor as he sunk to the ground, gaping like a fish. “I can’t—breathe,” he choked out. What was wrong with him? His heart felt ready to burst from his chest. He clamped his hand over it, willing it to slow—

Make no noise and pretend I’m not there.

No. Don’t think about that. Don’t. If you make too much noise it’ll be worse. There were not tears burning in his eyes—he saw a vial of some light blue potion pushed to his lips and he drank it greedily. His hands were shaking—what was wrong with him? After a moment he felt a sense of calm wash over him, he could draw breath again.

And Harry buried his face in his hands. He had just gone to pieces in front of Snape. He heard the Professor clear his throat.

Harry wanted to scoff, “Yeah, I wish,” but it didn’t come out that way. Oh god, was he crying? He needed to pull it together.

“What was that?”

Harry swallowed tried to hide the wetness about his eyes. “I wish it’d been Voldemort,” he whispered, unable to meet Snape’s gaze.

“Don’t say his name,” Snape said automatically, but he didn’t sound as angry as he usually did. Maybe that was why Harry went on.

“You’re going to find out anyway,” he whispered, closing his eyes. It was easier to say this in the dark where he could pretend he was alone. “I haven’t even—he hadn’t even—he’s not my—” Harry ran his fingers through his hair, feeling an odd impulse to pull out the strands. Why was this so hard? He couldn’t say it. He opened his eyes again, staring at his knees. “It, the boggart, turned into my Uncle.”

“Your Uncle?” came Snape’s voice, low and wrought with fury. It jolted Harry to look at him, but the Potion Master’s face was flat, unfathomable. He didn’t look mad at Harry. Slowly, Harry nodded. His lip quivered and he bit down. The soft taste of blood knocking against his teeth steadied him. But not enough to maintain eye contact.

He hid his face in his hands. “Everyone heard him—everyone knows I’m—I’m—” He wanted to rip the skin off his bones and run. Tear the words out of his throat like pulling teeth from his jaw. He heard the words; screaming in his ears—and then he moved his lips to utter them himself.

“I’m a freak.”

He waited for Snape to agree—to tell him he’d known all along, or even to berate him for being so ridiculous. What he didn’t expect was for the professor to help him to his feet and make him a cup of tea. He stared at the mug, and then looked up in time to see the door close behind those billowing black robes.

His fingers quivered and he held the mug tighter. What was going to happen now?

Harry didn’t know how long Snape was gone. Time felt irrelevant, suspended, like the mug of hot tea he held in his fingers. He thought he’d drank all of it, but the mug always had more. Perhaps Snape had charmed it, an oddly thoughtful action he would never have expected from his least favorite professor.

He closed his eyes and saw the visage of Uncle Vernon behind them, wild-eyed and manic, face purpling and winced. Of all the things to be terrified of—why not Voldemort? Why not the Dementors? But as Harry mulled over it, his grip tightened around the mug, he knew why. Like a worm curling in his gut, vomit climbing his throat—he could fight back against dark creatures, even against Voldemort and his attempts on his life.

He’d never been able to fight back against Uncle Vernon.

“You can’t use magic outside of school,” rang again in his ears and Harry bit his lip. And now Snape knew. Where had he gone? Harry imagined him sweeping into the Slytherin Common Room with a proclamation: Harry Potter is a freak and knows it. He was being melodramatic, he knew, but even if that wasn’t where Snape had gone—there was no denying that the whole school would learn the truth now. Too many had seen it. It would be in the Daily Prophet by the morning.

The fireplace behind Snape’s desk swelled with sudden heat and Harry watched as Snape stepped out, closely followed by Professor Lupin and right on his heels, the Headmaster. Harry flushed and dropped his gaze to the mug of tea in his hands. Why had Dumbledore been involved?

“Harry?” Came Lupin’s tentative voice and Harry looked up to see him walk over to him and kneel so that they were eye-level. The look in his eyes made Harry want to scream.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t defeat the Boggart,” he found himself saying, the words bitter on his tongue.

Lupin blinked. “Oh no—that’s not—if I’d known—”

“You’d have stopped it from appearing in front of me?” Harry finished, and he gave a scoff. “Yeah, right, because that’s so much better when everyone else managed to face their—” he couldn’t say the word fear. It felt strange and foreign and got stuck in his throat. “—Boggart,” he finished and he glanced up at Dumbledore.

“You were caught off guard,” Lupin said, placating, and understanding, and god why did Harry want to tear out his hair— “I’m sure you could have—”

The mug shattered.“Stop it!” and suddenly he was on his feet and he couldn’t stop fury and panic bleeding into his tone. “Don’t pretend like everything is going to be fine! It’s not! Everyone saw it, they’re all going to know—” he thought he saw Snape’s eyes flash out of the corner of his eye, a subtle clenching of his fist, “My Uncle is my worst fear,” Harry finished, breathing hard.

He’d said it. It killed him to say it. He sank back into his chair, and hid his face in his hands. How did this happen, it was never supposed to happen, and yet now he realized there was never anything else it could have been and it grated against his flesh like a hacksaw.

“I’m so sorry Harry,” came Dumbledore’s somber tone, and the apology got Harry to look up again. There it was again, that look. “I should have been more vigilant. I never thought I would need eyes inside the house.”

And Harry wished he had another mug to shatter against Dumbledore’s bright blue eyes because that look, he couldn’t—

“Headmaster, Lupin, you are doing more damage than good,” came Snape’s voice, cutting through the conversation with such finality that everyone turned to him. “I’m going to have to ask you to give me a moment with Potter alone.”

“What?” Came Lupin’s outraged tone, jumping to his feet but Dumbledore only gave Snape one of his thoughtful looks and nodded.

“We will take a step outside. Come along, Remus.”

Lupin spluttered and turned to Harry as though hoping his word would keep him there, but Harry said nothing. He took a deep breath, shot a glance at Snape before following the Headmaster from the room. As soon as they were gone, Snape waved his wand and a shimmer fell over the door.

“I do not put it past Lupin to eavesdrop,” he said, even though Harry didn’t ask. Then pinched the bridge of his nose and Harry waited, wondering why Snape had asked to speak with him alone.

“They do not understand,” Snape started slowly, each word bitten out like they had teeth, “that pity is not a balm that will make this better, it is fuel to a fire they do not know is burning. They think they can ease the panic and uncomfortable vulnerability you feel with words, but it will not change what happened.”

Harry stared at him. Snape did not look at him with eyes crinkled and soft and full of pity. They were not narrowed in intense dislike, that look of utter loathing that he usually reserved just for him, either. They were—tired, resigned, and yet cold and unyielding like always.

“So, what happens now?” he asked, his voice tired, strained.

Snape held his gaze for a long moment. “It goes without saying that you will not be returning to your Aunt and Uncle this summer—” and Harry’s heart leapt. “However,” Snape went on, clearly having noticed the look of hope on the boy’s face, “that leaves the issue of where you will go. You are aware that you were safe at that house due to the Blood Wards there?”

Harry slowly nodded. He seemed to recall the Headmaster telling him something about that.

“I fully believe that if it were possible, the Headmaster would attempt to smooth things over with your Aunt and Uncle and fix the situation there rather than relocate you.”

Harry deflated. He’d suspected that as well.

“I say the damage is done. Your Uncle is your boggart, and even if he were to threaten them into treating you like a human being, you should not be left there.”

Something about that had Harry narrowing his eyes. “Yeah?” he challenged. “And what about Neville Longbottom?”

Snape looked somewhat perplexed. “What about Longbottom?”

Harry folded his arms. “Should he be forced to stay with his worst fear?”

“I did not hear that Longbottom’s Boggart had turned into his grandmother.”

“No,” Harry said, “It turned into you.” An emotionless mask fell over the Professor’s face and Harry scoffed. “Thanks, but if Neville still has to take Potions with you every week, then I can handle living that damn house—”

“Language,” Snape said automatically.

“Got to consider those Blood Wards, right?” Harry went on, getting to his feet now, his voice taking on a scathing tone. “Wouldn’t want to be murdered by some Death Eater hoping to score a few points with Voldemort—”

“Don’t say his name,” Snape hissed.

“—and besides, it builds character, does it? Wouldn’t want me to turn into a spoiled, proud, arrogant, good for nothing, strutting about the castle like my old man, right?” Harry went on, throwing Snape’s words back at him and enjoying the coloring of the Potion Master’s face. “So, was there anything else or can I go now, Sir?”

“There is a world of difference,” Snape said, each word punctuated with silent anger, “between letting a child live in an abusive household and a student in the class of a strict professor.”

“Whatever you have to tell yourself,” Harry snarled, already halfway to the door. “For all I know, my Uncle could just be strict, I mean, it’s not like he ever threatened to poison my owl in front of my friends—”

“Detention!” Snape interrupted, his eyes flashing dangerously. “I will not be spoken to like that!”

Harry wrenched open the door to find a bemused Dumbledore and a sulking Lupin who started at Harry’s sudden appearance. “And I don’t want your pity,” Harry snarled at the pair of them, before storming off.

“My office, Potter!” Snape roared after him. “Seven O’clock for your detention.”

Harry did not look back. He thought he heard Dumbledore clear his voice behind him.

“Well. That went about as well as to be expected.”

Harry wanted to scream.

A Day in the Life of Argus Filch

Short Story / Canon, Gen, Harry Potter / 0 comments

A Day in the Life of Argus Filch

I think the title says it all, no?

Canon ‘Deleted Scene’ flash fiction
Harry Potter
Length: 1,289

5:00 AM

No alarm clock rang. It wouldn’t have worked even if he had wanted to set one. But there was no need for it, every day, without fail, at exactly five o’clock his tired brown eyes snapped open. He lay there unmoving for five minutes, the only sound the steady stream of air moving in and out of his lungs. He knew it was exactly five minutes. That was how long he stared at the lines in his ceiling, how long he attempted to keep his mind clear of the coming misery. Five minutes was how long he had before the sniveling grumblings broke forth, before his flat expression became tainted with bitterness and vindictive spite.

It was always five minutes. It would always be exactly five minutes after five o’clock that the serenity of the night cascaded down around him.

5:30 AM

House elves were peculiar creatures. They loved to serve, loved to obey their masters and above all, loved to see pleasure in the faces of those they served. He often entertained thoughts of how to become more like them. After all, they both worked beneath the same master, but he would never reject his salary and so he supposed that made it impossible to be like them. They served because they wanted to. He worked because he needed a job. Nevertheless, he maintained an air of gratitude and respect whenever he came across them. They were one of the few living things that didn’t flinch when he looked at them, and brought him breakfast every morning at Five-Thirty sharp.

Never a second late, never a moment early. They, like him, understood the importance of time, something that no student would ever understand. He ate slowly, examining the flavor of each kipper, egg, and bite of toast. He washed it down with Earl Grey. No cream, no sugar, but with twice the normal amount of flavoring.

That was how he liked it, and the elves knew it.

6:00 AM

Mrs. Norris woke up at six. She slept peacefully on his bed, the gruff long-haired tabby curled into a small brown ball at the foot, the spot that was never used. He tipped her food into her dish – assorted dried meats and vegetables – with a soft clink of kibble against glass. He could hear her stirring from the other room, a stretch, and a yawn caught off by a meow. He felt his grizzled face crack into a smile, the gloom of the coming day momentarily forgotten. She padded toward him with quick silent footfalls, her bright yellow eyes trained on him. She mewled again, brushed against his leg for a moment, then went to her bowl to eat.

She would eat quickly. She didn’t savor her food like he did. She would be done and ready to leave in four minutes, ready to begin prowling the corridors for misbehaving students. She was the most intelligent creature he had ever come across, a connection the instant her lamp-like eyes had met his, in the dingy second-hand apothecary. She had been cast out, abandoned, a widow of her species.

She was Mrs. Norris, and she was his best friend.

8:00 AM

Breakfast in the Great Hall was an occasion that he never attended. Aside from the fact that he had already eaten, he felt no inclination to be anywhere near the students when he didn’t have to. He spent his time roaming the halls, his dear Mrs. Norris whisking away to other parts of the castle. He wasn’t worried that she’d be hurt. Students always wanted to give her a good kick, but she was too smart for them. She always got away, and she always got them in trouble.

He couldn’t read her thoughts. She couldn’t read his. That was not how he knew where to go the instant she turned up; it was not how he knew that there was a fight on the second floor corridor or a scuffle in the trophy room. She looked at him, and he looked at her. Her gaze met his, and in that instant, he knew she had seen a rule break. She lead, he followed.

There was never any exchange of thought, only the tacit understanding of the job.

8:03 AM

Davis caught snooping along the third floor corridor. Detention with Pomfrey to be completed the following night at six.

9:10 AM

A blocked toilet in the prefect’s bathroom.

9:11 AM

Peeves in the prefects bathroom. Two more toilets blocked and at least two inches of water. Bathroom closed for half-an-hour.

10:45 AM

Peeves in charms classroom. Chalk and water delaying class for ten minutes.

11:08 AM

Potter and his friends making a ruckus. Verbal warning.

11:58 AM

Door locked on the fifth floor. Glued shut with chewing gum. Send for new bottle of Decomposing Cleaner.

12:01 PM

Noises from sixth floor corridor, suspect disused boys bathroom.

12:05 PM

If there were ever someone that he hated more than Peeves, it would be the Weasley twins. Like Peeves, it seemed that their soul purpose in life was to torment him. But, unlike Peeves, they knew exactly how to do it without getting caught – or how to escape with minimal punishment. Seconds before he turned up to “catch them in the act” they disappeared, leaving a cloud of black smoke in their wake. They dropped dung-bombs in the hallways, and then looked innocent in the crowd. He had even caught them slipping itch powder to Peeves on the third-floor corridor.

Yes. He hated the Weasley twins.

He knew it was them the instant he strode toward the bathroom, as if he were some feral dog catching the scent, he knew it was them. He would and could never explain how he knew it. The bathroom had very obviously been attacked. Water streamed across the floor from a shattered toilet, the seat of which was missing. But that wasn’t what reeked of the twins – any fool could kill a toilet – no, it was the brightly colored banners and streamers that littered the place. He hissed, he yelled, he cursed their names to high heaven.

He bent to turn off the water of the toilet, closing the pipe with a few turns of a screw. Icy water stopped drenching his clothes, and he wished again that he could produce the spell to make them dry. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the steady dripping of water onto tile, then the toilet gave a violent shudder. Filch jumped back not a moment too soon. There was a creaking sound, a groan of metal and the next moment, he had been buried beneath brightly colored silly string.

10:00 PM

No night patrol tonight. Snape had volunteered, and he’d felt no particular inclination to join him. He was tired, cold, and angry. True to the pattern, the Weasley boys had disappeared, leaving him no way to prove their prank had been their doing. Not that anyone would doubt it had been them of course, but without proof they cold worm their way out of anything. That was why he hated them more than Peeves. They laughed at him from behind his back, watching from cracks and corners, instead of the outright style of the poltergeist.

A mewl caught his attention and he looked down into the yellow gaze of Mrs. Norris, her eyes seeming to agree with him. Agree with his hatred and console him the best she could. He sighed, picked her up and sat his chair, listening to her purr for a long time afterward.

Harry Potter: Panic Attack

Short Story / Canon, Gen, Harry Potter / 0 comments

Panic Attack

Harry isn’t as fine with that happened in the cemetery last year as he pretends.

Canon ‘Deleted Scene’ flash fiction
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
Length: 1,155

Umbridge had taken Quidditch away from him.

The toad had taken his broom too, holding it prisoner in her lurid pink office. The iron manacles were overkill though. Like she was creating some sort of medieval torture display. He was sure her next Educational Decree would reinstitute hanging from one’s thumbs as a valid detention practice. Part of him wondered if it’d be more or less painful than carving into the back of his hand, night after night.

But even with his broom gone, Harry found himself drawn to the Quidditch Pitch. He laid flat on his back, unbothered by the damp spring grass—just breathing. Just Harry. But the aching of his hand, Fudge refusing to accept Voldemort’s return, the fact that Dumbledore had gone into hiding, and the ever present burning of his scar gave Harry a reckless impulse to steal his broom back and fly—just fly—just disappear.

Make no noise and pretend I’m not there.

“Look who it is—shouldn’t you be in the library, Potter?”

Harry jumped to his feet. Draco Malfoy never traveled alone and he’d rather keep the Inquisitorial Squad within his sights. Malfoy, flanked by his usual pair of thuggish bodyguards, was accompanied by Pansy Parkinson and a girl he recognized as Millicent Bulstrode. All of them were flashing new Inquisitorial Squad badges. Malfoy had pinned his right next to his Prefect badge, throwing out his chest so that you couldn’t possibly miss it.

“What makes you say that?” Harry clenched and unclenched his fists. He was hopelessly out-matched.

“Well, without a broom you clearly don’t belong on the Quidditch Pitch,” Malfoy drawled, and the Slytherins around him snickered derisively.

“You don’t look like you’re here for Quidditch Practice.”

“Did you forget?” and Malfoy flicked his badges, “Patrolling the school is part of my responsibilities now. Let’s see, five points from Gryffindor for defaming the Quidditch Pitch.”

Harry bit the inside of his cheek. They’d past the point of fairness and right into tyrant country, and the current tyrant would just love a reason to teach him the bones of his hand accompanied by bloody visual aids. But— “Well, then you best clear off, because I don’t think anyone has defamed the Quidditch Pitch as much as you have,” Harry said, “Exactly how many times have I caught the snitch before you?”

The smirks vanished at once. Harry saw Malfoy’s hand twitch, and moved at the exact same time, the both of them withdrawing their wands in a single synchronized motion.

“What’re you going to do, Potter? There are five of us and only one of you,” Malfoy sneered. The other Slytherins took out their wands at that, but it only made Harry tighten the grip on his wand.

“I’ve faced worse odds,” he retorted, and he saw Parkinson and Bulstrode glance at each other nervously. It would have been a bluff if they all didn’t know it was true. Malfoy seemed to pause a moment, before sneering.

“Nothing more than a lucky accident, I’m sure,” he said, taking a step toward Harry, rising his wand straight up in front of his face—like he had that fateful day at the dueling club. “One and one. Just you and me.”

“In fact, I prefer it this way. Just you and me, Harry Potter… you and me…”

Harry raised his own wand, ignoring the way his heart had just reverberated in his throat. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the other Slytherins slowly create a circle around them. If only he’d let Ron and Hermione had come with him, he might not have gotten into this mess. But he could take Malfoy. He could take all of them. Like he’d said—he’d faced worse odds.

“You have been taught how to duel, Harry Potter?”

Malfoy inclined his head in a poor imitation of a bow, earning another round of snickering. Harry’s mouth went dry. He heard the words, pounding in his ears as he bowed his head, high and cold—a trickle of ice freezing his anger.

“We bow to each other, Harry. Come, the niceties must be observed…Dumbledore would like you to show manners… Bow to death, Harry…”

He and Malfoy straightened, raising their wands to the combative position.

“And now you face me, like a man… straight-backed and proud, the way your father died…”

Harry couldn’t breathe. It felt like his lungs had seized, unable to move. He couldn’t see the Slytherins around him anymore—were they still there? He saw Malfoy blur in front of him, wand still raised, mouth moving but no sound. His heart was thudding so hard his chest actually hurt. Had Malfoy hit him with some spell? He must’ve cast it silently—he didn’t know Malfoy could do that. His legs suddenly didn’t seem able to support him, and Harry’s hands shot to his knees, fighting to keep himself upright. He needed to retaliate, cast a hex in response, he couldn’t crumple now—he needed—

“Potter?”

It took Harry a minute to realize that Malfoy was standing in front of him, wearing a bewildered expression, and another for him to remember where he was. The stones of the graveyard fell into the grass, the dark shapes of prowling Death Eaters blended into a huddled group of Slytherins urging Malfoy to leave before someone saw.

“What—what did you—” Harry managed, struggling to regain his breath. “—Just couldn’t fight fair—huh?” He could still hear Lord Voldemort’s high cold voice, and resisted the mad urge to cover his ears.

But Malfoy didn’t give his characteristic smirk. He watched, silent, as Harry wheezed and placed his hand over his hammering heart.

“As much as I would like to take credit, Potter, I can’t. But I will.”

“What?” Harry could feel his pulse slowing now. “What does that mean?” And why was Malfoy speaking so quietly?

“Or do you want me to tell them what really happened?”

“I—”

“Should’ve figured you’d get one sooner or later.” Malfoy had straightened up, putting away his wand and avoiding Harry’s eyes as he spoke.

“Get what?” Harry asked, swallowing.

Malfoy raised his eyebrow and sneered, though it seemed muted, verging on a grimace. “An anxiety-attack.”

Harry stared at him. He had not—he didn’t get—

“Looks like I won,” though his words didn’t quite have the drawling smugness they usually would. He seemed to wait to see if Harry would contradict him, and when met with silence he turned and walked away.

Harry watched him and the other Slytherins leave, before flopping onto his back. He closed his eyes and breathed, inhaling the grass. He was back, suddenly and violently—facedown outside the maze, breathing the scent of the same grass, head swimming, blackness gathering at the corners of his brain. And then he clenched his hands, to tighten his grip on the Triwziard cup and Cedric’s body and grasped nothing.