My, that’s a lot of dust.
Jun. 23rd, 2003 04:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hackthis_archiveMy stomach is upset, there’s pressure behind my right eye, and I’m still blinking funny from my first read through. Between that and the major site coding I did this morning, I’m a bit tetchy. My muses don’t know what to make of anything because I’ve left Lex on a friggin island so I could go all HP commando.
*kicks hibernating HP muses* Wake up, slackers, you’ve been sleeping for at least four months, time for you to earn your keep.
Disclaimer: *Because it’s a given that any HP I write for the next however long is going to be spoilery, I agree to place it behind a cut-tag *however* that works both ways. Ergo, you agree that by clicking on this link you have a) already finished OotP and can’t be spoiled b) don’t give a toss about being spoiled c) are a masochist. Right. Carry on.
Harry Potter*
The Sign of the Twin
It’s the hooting that wakes Harry up. Hedwig never hoots if she can avoid it, and Pigwidgeon tends to make more noise upon arrival, so the absense of breaking objects rules him out as well. Plus, school’s only been out one day. A letter would be nice, but it’s highly unexpected. Which almost awakens something in Harry, but by the lingering chill, Harry can tell it’s too early to get up, and he wriggles down further under his duvet. It’s not hiding; it’s burrowing. Can’t he have a few hours of sleep without ‘whatever’ happening?
Insofar as Harry’s concerned, he’s dreaming, and if he’s not dreaming, he’s not being pecked to death, either, so it’s not the end of the world yet. He doubts Voldemort would send an army of owls when he obviously has weapons as insidious as Umbridge.
It’s only when Harry feels a gust of air and his hair is ruffled that he turns his head and comes nose to stomach with a rather fluffy owl. The owl’s feathers are strangely redolent of lemons, and Harry’s immediate urge is to sneeze. When he does so the owl gives another hoot, and Harry opens his eyes reluctantly.
The light coming in through Harry’s window can barely be described as daylight as it’s more of a gray colour. It’s so early that Hedwig hasn’t even returned from her hunting yet, and the owl in question has got enormous golden eyes, which are a bit disconcerting first thing in the morning. He, or she, doesn’t look like a bird of death. He actually reminds Harry of the school owls.
It’s only when the owl on his pillow hoots for a third time, and something in the house creaks, that Harry tries to shake off the vestiges of sleep.
“Hold on.” Pushing himself up on an elbow, Harry scrabbles for his glasses, and shoves them on with every intention of taking them off sooner rather than later. A fourth hoot, plus the ruffling of feathers, draws Harry’s attention back to the animal at hand, and his eyes are drawn to the shimmying of the owl’s left leg.
“’S that for me?” he says hoarsely. The answering hoot is all the affirmation Harry needs, and he reaches down and unties the parchment as quickly as sleep-addled fingers will allow him. A small black piece of fabric clinks onto Harry’s pillow as the owl shakes its leg again and takes off.
"Thanks," Harry mumbles. It’s the strangest morning he’s had in, well, a whole day.
Unscrolling the letter, Harry’s a bit confused by the signee, and his fingers immediately go to the clinking black piece of fabric.
Dear Harry,
Hi, Harry!
Harry,
I found this fragment ofthe your prophecy in my robes when I was unpacking. I thought you might want it, as sort of a... I dunno. I guess if I’d had a prophecy about my life though, I’d really want to know about it. I don’t know what I thought, but I wanted you to have it.
I’m sorry about, you know.
Neville
The parchment flutters down to the bed as Harry’s fingers close around the black cloth in his right hand. He can feel the sharp edges of the orb through the material, and he wonders if Neville would really want to know the truth. Perhaps it would be nice to have someone to share it with. If anyone could understand it might be Neville, but it’s not Harry’s place to tell, is it? Isn’t it enough that they’re friends and that much alike? Surely Neville has enough problems of his own. He couldn't possibly want to help Harry. Except that he did. A lot. And he did it willingly, because Neville is that sort. Neville could have been Harry.
Harry could have been Neville.
It's not really so hard to believe.
The edges of the orb are sharper than they look when Harry closes his hand around it. He can feel them pushing into the palm of his hand, but the pain is different this time. It's not like writing Umbridge's lines. This discomfort is good and clean. Like Neville.
Stranger things have happened to Harry than this, and maybe Neville would understand. Maybe he can. Prophecy and all.
-finis-
Notes: Why yes, that was Harry/Neville. I think I shall probably write some more too because, well, it’s a bit obvious innit?
*kicks hibernating HP muses* Wake up, slackers, you’ve been sleeping for at least four months, time for you to earn your keep.
Disclaimer: *Because it’s a given that any HP I write for the next however long is going to be spoilery, I agree to place it behind a cut-tag *however* that works both ways. Ergo, you agree that by clicking on this link you have a) already finished OotP and can’t be spoiled b) don’t give a toss about being spoiled c) are a masochist. Right. Carry on.
Harry Potter*
The Sign of the Twin
It’s the hooting that wakes Harry up. Hedwig never hoots if she can avoid it, and Pigwidgeon tends to make more noise upon arrival, so the absense of breaking objects rules him out as well. Plus, school’s only been out one day. A letter would be nice, but it’s highly unexpected. Which almost awakens something in Harry, but by the lingering chill, Harry can tell it’s too early to get up, and he wriggles down further under his duvet. It’s not hiding; it’s burrowing. Can’t he have a few hours of sleep without ‘whatever’ happening?
Insofar as Harry’s concerned, he’s dreaming, and if he’s not dreaming, he’s not being pecked to death, either, so it’s not the end of the world yet. He doubts Voldemort would send an army of owls when he obviously has weapons as insidious as Umbridge.
It’s only when Harry feels a gust of air and his hair is ruffled that he turns his head and comes nose to stomach with a rather fluffy owl. The owl’s feathers are strangely redolent of lemons, and Harry’s immediate urge is to sneeze. When he does so the owl gives another hoot, and Harry opens his eyes reluctantly.
The light coming in through Harry’s window can barely be described as daylight as it’s more of a gray colour. It’s so early that Hedwig hasn’t even returned from her hunting yet, and the owl in question has got enormous golden eyes, which are a bit disconcerting first thing in the morning. He, or she, doesn’t look like a bird of death. He actually reminds Harry of the school owls.
It’s only when the owl on his pillow hoots for a third time, and something in the house creaks, that Harry tries to shake off the vestiges of sleep.
“Hold on.” Pushing himself up on an elbow, Harry scrabbles for his glasses, and shoves them on with every intention of taking them off sooner rather than later. A fourth hoot, plus the ruffling of feathers, draws Harry’s attention back to the animal at hand, and his eyes are drawn to the shimmying of the owl’s left leg.
“’S that for me?” he says hoarsely. The answering hoot is all the affirmation Harry needs, and he reaches down and unties the parchment as quickly as sleep-addled fingers will allow him. A small black piece of fabric clinks onto Harry’s pillow as the owl shakes its leg again and takes off.
"Thanks," Harry mumbles. It’s the strangest morning he’s had in, well, a whole day.
Unscrolling the letter, Harry’s a bit confused by the signee, and his fingers immediately go to the clinking black piece of fabric.
Harry,
I found this fragment of
I’m sorry about, you know.
Neville
The parchment flutters down to the bed as Harry’s fingers close around the black cloth in his right hand. He can feel the sharp edges of the orb through the material, and he wonders if Neville would really want to know the truth. Perhaps it would be nice to have someone to share it with. If anyone could understand it might be Neville, but it’s not Harry’s place to tell, is it? Isn’t it enough that they’re friends and that much alike? Surely Neville has enough problems of his own. He couldn't possibly want to help Harry. Except that he did. A lot. And he did it willingly, because Neville is that sort. Neville could have been Harry.
Harry could have been Neville.
It's not really so hard to believe.
The edges of the orb are sharper than they look when Harry closes his hand around it. He can feel them pushing into the palm of his hand, but the pain is different this time. It's not like writing Umbridge's lines. This discomfort is good and clean. Like Neville.
Stranger things have happened to Harry than this, and maybe Neville would understand. Maybe he can. Prophecy and all.
-finis-
Notes: Why yes, that was Harry/Neville. I think I shall probably write some more too because, well, it’s a bit obvious innit?
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2003-06-24 09:11 am (UTC)Well, more at the idea of Harry/Neville suddenly not being laughable anymore.
OotP stood a lot of things on their heads, di'n't?
You laugh, but you know you see it. They could be *whispers furtively* happy together. Like without the angst. Don't get me wrong, because Draco and Harry are pretty hot together, but Neville. Just think, you know, like calm, rational and also? Woobie.
no subject
Date: 2003-06-24 11:10 am (UTC)They could be *whispers furtively* happy together. Like without the angst.
Ah, *without* the angst, you say. I've heard of that. I know it not.