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Harry Potter and the Curse of Expectations | ||||
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Category: Post-OotP Characters:Harry/Ginny Genres: Action/Adventure, Angst, Drama Warnings: Violence Rating: PG-13 Reviews: 2 Summary: *** The author has been reminded via the e-mail address on file that this story is listed as incomplete and has not been updated since 2005 *** During the summer before his sixth year, Harry's forced to deal with events from last year and events yet to come. What lies ahead for him in his second to last year? Will he cave under pressure or defeat Voldemort once and for all? Hitcount: Story Total: 3023 |
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Harry Potter and the Curse of Expectations "We love to expect, and when expectation is either disappointed or gratified, we want to be again expecting." Samuel Johnson Chapter one: Empty Time "Lost, yesterday, somewhere between sunrise and sunset, two golden hours, each set with sixty diamond minutes. No reward is offered for they are gone forever." Horace Mann The sun jauntily jumped out from the trees, bright and glaring in Harry’s eyes, but he remained unaffected starring out of the car’s painstakingly clean window. Withdrawn, he focused on each passing tree and leaf, in an effort to avoid thinking of the present or future. On some plane of his mind, the fact registered that there was noise, and his physical space was being bombarded with thick fingers perturbing into his skin, but none of that seemed to register into reality. He shouldn’t even be here. He should at the mansion with Sirius. The image of him falling through the veil flashed through his mind again, forcing Harry to watch it again. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force the pictures out of his head. He couldn’t afford to show any weakness here. The car stopped and Harry opened his eyes. The Dursley’s house loomed before him and Harry took a sharp breath before opening the door and accepting his fate. Seeing the house sent a sort of veracity shock through him. He couldn’t fool his subconscious anymore — this was where he was to stay for another six weeks. Harry pushed open the door, mentally shaking himself. What was with him? Nothing had really changed. How long had he spent here, day after day, year after year? With absolutely no hope of anything getting better, of anything changing. Six years ago he was able to spend twelve months out of the year here; he should be able to confront a infinitesimal portion of that time on. But perhaps there is validity in the statement, ‘ignorance is bliss’. Now that he truly came to terms with how good life could be, it made going back here to this almost worst. He had something to compare it to now. He made his way up the stars blindly, dully taking in the immaculate settings that he was certain that he would have to maintain. He decided he could just spend his days locked inside his room, pouring over and memorizing his old text books and books he had taken from the Room of Requirement to look over during the summer. His arm was suddenly yanked and he felt his body collide with the wall on the stairway. His head fell back and smashed into the wall. “Have you even been listening you ungrateful freak?” Harry focused on the man three times his size who was currently pressing him against the wall, while simultaneously squeezing the life out of his forearm. “Sorry Sir, off in my crazy little world.” Spat Harry back, and tried to get his other arm to his pocket for his wand. He felt his head clash against the wall as Vernon gave him a hard shake. Before he had time to act, Vernon had his wand twirling in his short, fat pieces of skin that were poking out of his hand. “Like hell I’m gonna let you run around with this — this, devil’s tool this summer.” Vernon’s chest puffed outward, spiraling Harry’s stomach over in disgust at the image he created, “No sirrey. Things are going to start getting back to what they were, what they should be. Where do those freak friends of yours think they get off, telling me how to take care of things? When I was dealing with this… funny business the way it should be dealt with, you showed respect. It’s high time I took care of things again and ran this house the way it should be. You are obviously in need of a refresher course of who’s the boss here.” Still in shock from losing his wand to a clumsy, stupid git like Vernon, Harry was no match for the 400 pound mass that was now yanking him down the stairs. Next thing he knew, he was being thrown underneath the stairway. Harry got up quickly and went to the door, only to hear the sickening, dreaded sound of the locks. He rubbed his head, and decided to sit; for if this place seemed small and cramped when he was ten, it was nothing compared to what space was left over when a 15 year old boy was encased inside it. He swore and unconsciously rubbed at his scar, an odd habit he seemed to be developing. How did he wind up in here again? He couldn’t even study in here. He was destined to battle Voldermort, the darkest wizard of all time, supposed to be the only one with the capabilities of defeating him. The world was obviously doomed; he wasn’t even a match against his muggle uncle. He looked around, his eyes almost getting used to the pitch dark, and found the cord for the ceiling lamp. He heard a dry hollow click but the darkness remained. Exhausted, head throbbing, and hopeless; he fell into a much needed sleep. Time, Harry decided, was an impossible aspect to determine with no vantage point. But even with nothing to determine specific increments that had actually passed, it still rolled on, there was still 24 hours in a day. And Harry spent it trying any sort of wandless magic, and awakening from nightmares from the shooting pains his stomach insisted upon adhering to. Sleep, as troubled and encumbered with disasters as it was, proved a better activity then feeling the hunger and loneliness. Harry tried to keep up blocking his mind from Voldermort, for if he ever got wind of the current situation his enemy currently was in, it would be open hunting season, with Harry the deer; alone and defenseless. But even the essentialness of this task didn’t outweigh, after awhile, his physical capabilities. He was week. He couldn’t remember being worse off in his life, and it was only accentuated by the hollow ache in his abdomen and his mouth, which had taken up to resembling a sheet of sand paper. He tried to run through hexes, curses, rhymes, spells, anything that would give him a grasp at meaningfulness; but eventually it was pointless. So the visions, the pictures, the nightmares began taking president over his time. His parents, Cedric, and Sirius haunted his time to remind him of the people he had failed. One of those same nightmares was eventually interrupted in the period that followed with an explosion of light and sound. “Get up you lazy freak!” Shrieked Petunia, bringing with her the unwelcome flash of daytime brightness, “Here Vernon thought you were learning! Contemplating how to do better and help us more.” Harry’s senses went into overload from the unaccustomed use. His eyes burned in the light and he was sure his ears were ringing. The salvo continued as he felt himself get wrenched up. He heard a nauseating pop, followed by a slow burn and Harry realized his arm was dislocated. Petunia threw him out of the cupboard. “Get to work scrubbing the kitchen. Obviously hard work is the only way to install any discipline.” “But —“Harry tried. “Get to it!” He was pushed to the floor in front of a bucket. Harry took the sponge in his right hand and tried obeying. Sitting on his knees, with his bad arm laying vulnerably on top of his legs, Harry focused pushing the sponge back and forth across the pristine floor. As his head, stomach, and shoulder burned together in an anomalous unison, he strived to focus just on the up and down momentum. It wasn’t a particularly hard motion; he could execute it. Eventually, apparently content that her nephew wasn’t going to step out of line and try some ‘funny business’, Aunt Petunia left Harry; and he returned to a different sort of loneliness. Halfway across the floor, Harry couldn’t stand the hunger anymore, made worse by being forced to stay in the kitchen. Not by coincidence either, Harry assumed bitterly. He was quite positive that the Dursleys knew exactly how being in the kitchen would affect him. He rummaged soundlessly in the cupboard he was already kneeling next to. He blindly consumed packages of food, not bothering to even read the labels. He put his mouth to the faucet and drank at it for minutes. He set to work on the floor with a renewed restored vigor. Not even a minute latter, Vernon came waltzing through, leaving Harry to believe that there really was a God. Any earlier entrance, by even two minutes, would have resulted in much trouble. “That’s it boy, hard work will teach you. Get up now.” Vernon uttered, grabbing the collar of his shirt and jerking him up to accentuate his point, “I believe those freaks of yours will want to be hearing from you. How about I assist you, to prevent any misunderstandings, hmm?” Vernon dragged him over to a desk and shoved him in a chair. Harry closed his eyes as he felt Vernon’s hot, sticky breath on his skin, watching his every move. Harry scribbled out a letter — addressing it to all of Ron’s family, saying that everything was just peachy, and not to expect much as far as communication from his end because he didn’t feel like talking. Acrimoniously Harry laughed to himself. Vernon had no reason to really read his letters. Did he actually think he was going to confess that he was letting a couple of muggles kick the crap out of him? Nobody would probably even believe him. Harry Potter doesn’t waiver in fights against Voldermort, what’s a couple of worthless smelly muggles? As the next week dragged on, Harry became slightly reliant on the starvation pains and miscellaneous kicks the Dursley’s would freely give out. Being in pain physically, he was able to black out any emotions that would occasionally threaten him if he got too comfortable. It also pushed aside any guilt. If he was in pain, he shouldn’t feel guilty, his conscience crazily concluded. Most days Sirius’s name didn’t even pop into his mind at all, so concerned and obsessed with either finding food or ice for a bigger bruise; it was just the nights. Harry wondered ideally one day, shining the sparkling silverware to an even sharper shimmer, if permanent damage could set in from an unset dislocation. Not an actual cause for a concern, more just a curiosity. He caught an image of himself on one of the surfaces, causing him to bring up the name that constant pain was able to usually shut out. His features seemed to take on Sirius’s after prison, a fact that was hard to ignore so readily. Long stubble ran along his jaw line and upper lip and his overgrown hair clung in odd directions. Several loud pops shattered Harry’s thoughts instantly. He turned with the silver dish he was polishing still in hand, and flung it at the intruder. Upon seeing the enemy, he took a step back however. A cluster of horrifyingly beautiful women, perfect with their long shimmering strait strands of golden tinted hair and pale translucent skin, except for the two long white teeth sticking out from in between two plump red lips. The five inched closer, slowly spreading out. Harry threw more objects at them in a disastrous desperate defense, his body snapping out of the trance that their beauty had woven instantly, upon spotting their teeth. He dimly remembered Hermione reciting a passage once on vampires, but these creatures aligned nowhere near the description. They were supposed to be almost magic-less, except for the ability to transfigure themselves into bats. And nowhere did it even hint at how visually appealing they could look, Harry offhandedly remarked to himself as they reached him. He no longer was going to trust anything books had to say, he firmly decided as one ran her sharpened fingers down his cheek. It burned, and only when he felt another one start licking at it did he realize it drew blood. He felt another scrape against his nourish craving abdomen, and felt somewhat lightheaded. If he had to die, he supposed, felling fuzzy, there were certainly worse ways. In another haze, he realized someone was screaming, and another one of the creatures was now lapping at his stomach. It flipped upon assimilating this and he was sure if he had any food in his stomach, it would have been promptly vomited up at this point. In another blur, it came to his attention that people were entering the room; people, he furthered gathered watching one of the creatures fall, with wands. His people, he thought happily. His freaks, he bubbled lovingly, sputtering a laugh. He fell to the floor, and concurred to himself that he was quite content with watching the ceiling lights and the design of the tiles around them. His rescuers came into view, and he closed his eyes. Definitely two of the people he would like least to see him in this state. His dignity was now damned. Why couldn’t it be a group of nameless Order members? He felt himself being picked up and his head pounded. “We should apparate straight to St. Mungos.” Tonk’s voice insisted. Harry rolled his head in an attempt to shake his head no. “Dumbledore explicitly expressed not to bring Harry out of the protective wards.” Bill replied. “That was before the attack, before the wards were compromised.” “It still holds more protection then most places.” Bill argued. Harry realized he was being hauled up the stairs. “Get Madame Pompfrey here; tell her to bring all she can, and alert Dumbledore as well.” “It would be better if he went there.” Tonks decided, but Bill saw her half heartedly scrawling out a note as he laid Harry in the untouched bed. Harry coughed, holding his stomach in fear it might split open. “What, was everybody on babysitting duty?” He made out, trying to sound angry, trying to use that to cover the embarrassment of Ron’s older brother seeing him like this. He could only look down though, at the floor on the other side of the bed, which severely cancelled out the effectiveness of his words. He shifted his weight uncomfortably when he got wind that Bill was taking his rugged appearance, with his steady, intelligent eye. “Just relax Harry. Madame Pompfrey should be here soon.” Harry heard Bill whisper and felt his hand go to his shoulder, in an attempt for support. As his hand dipped down though, feeling the empty joint, he snapped his hand back, “Everything is going to be fine.” He insisted again. Madame Pompfrey came in a rush of movement with Dumbledore not to far behind. Immediately he fell in love with her, as her first demand was that everyone leaves the room. He could have cried in happiness. No offhanded sympathetic painful looks. No gut clenching expressions. The embarrassment started to fade from his checks as he saw her enlarge her bag and come to him. “Vampires now, hmm Mr. Potter?” She remarked dully, trying to inject irritation into her voice for him, as she waved her wand across his face. The cuts erased instantly. “Thanks.” Harry ground out. “Nonsense.” Harry heard her declare as his shirt was raised. He watched her wave her wand again and mumble something, and he guessed she healed that mark as well. Huger has a funny way of insisting though, and no pain was lifted. He felt her hands linger in a few spots, followed by cool glob being spread over a couple of places, followed by being bandaged. Harry studied her face carefully, as she came back up the bed and begun looking at his shoulder. It was next to impossible though to tell from her professional set face, whether she knew yet that half his injuries weren’t sustained today. He saw her tap it a few times, then frown. “Mr. Potter, how long has your arm been like this?” Her voice came out soft and urging. “I don’t know.” Mumbled Harry, looking back down to his place on the floor. Where was her strict demanding tone when you really needed it? “More then a week?” She urged again lightly. “Yea.” She humphed and Harry smiled, feeling like some normality had returned. He began swallowing different potions that she kept pressing against his lips. The last one seemed to tug at his eyelids almost instantly, and Harry realized she had given him a sleeping potion of some kind. The last thing he made out before darkness set in, was his glasses being so delicately taken off, so in contrast to any action that was displayed to him these last few weeks, that tears almost formed again in his closed green eyes. |
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