WIP Amnesty #2
Feb. 6th, 2004 05:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
geovikiThis is from an unfinished story with the working title of "Lies". It was gen, from OOTP, during the first night of Harry's detention. The fact that he suffered in that room for over 7 hours horrified me (still does). I have the whole thing plotted out. It's a tale of how Harry got through the first night of detention. Like everything I write, it begins in the middle somewhere. So the beginning and end are missing.
I will not tell lies.
I will not tell lies.
I will not tell lies.
O.K., fine. Maybe I won't think of anything at all.
But not thinking about anything was a lot harder to do than to imagine doing, and Harry felt as if he was trying to hold back a river with his fingers. Random thoughts and faces of the places and people he had just remembered ..........
Mrs. Figg's cats. I wonder if I can remember their names.
Lemondrop.
Scarf.
Mrs. Tiddlewindow.
Ralph.
Sandman.
Lady Peachjam.
His thoughts drifted back to Mrs. Figg's living room and the hours he spent there when the Dursleys wanted to enjoy a family outing without him. She lived .... He never thought about it before, but now he wondered just how his aunt and uncle came to know Mrs. Figg in the first place. A dotty old lady and her many cats. Certainly not someone the Durseys wanted to be seen with, not that they actually socialized with her. Never interacted with her otherwise, really, just the transaction of handing him over and the quick dash for the door, no more personal than buying a loaf of bread at the store. He'd always reckoned that they left him with her because she was willing and because she didn't charge them anything. They probably would have left him with Voldemort if he lived in the neighborhood.
And this summer he found out she was a squib, knew all about the magical world, although she wasn't a witch herself. All those years of pretending that the wizarding world didn't exist. She knew who he was, knew about his parents of course, and how they died. All that time she knew and never said a word, because she was really just there to keep an eye on him. To spy on him.
Still, to be honest, if she had said anything before that astonishing night when he'd met Hagred, he wouldn't have believed her. And since she was a squib, without magic, she couldn't have proved her story, either.
But it explained why the conversation was always so awkward when he visited. She had to be careful not to slip and say or do the wrong thing. And he had never known any older women, no doting grandmothers, no fawning great-aunts, so he was just uneducated about how to behave. He could tell that Mrs. Figg liked him, wanted to make him a little happier, but he just didn't know how to respond. So they sat together with photo albums of cats past and present, and she told him their names and he tried to pay attention.
Lotherian.
Mr. Yorington.
Suddenly he wondered what had happened to Mr. Figg. Mrs. Figg couldn't be married to Mundungus, could she? The way she had gone at him with the bag of cat food tins – married people sometimes fought like that. But Mundungus didn't look like a cat lover, and Harry didn't think he would have let her down so badly if they were married.
So who was Mrs. Figg really? Arabella. He name was Arabella, he suddenly remembered, but how he knew that he couldn't say. Where had she come from? What had she given up to come to Little Whinging to watch over him?
What was it like to walk away from the magical world and have it not exist?
Well, for starters, there would be no Umbridge. No detention. No quill carving up his hand. He could walk away from that, no problem.
No students muttering under their breath when he passed. No Daily Prophet articles questioning his sanity. No one pointing at his scar or thinking he was anything but normal. He could go for that, too.
No Death Eaters. No dementors. No nightmares, no pain, no fear. No Voldemort.
I could do it, Harry thought, I could just walk away and ...
I will not tell lies.
I will not tell lies.
I will not tell lies.
No, I could never walk away, he admitted, and watched the gashes on his hand close and redden for the hundredth time that night. I could never forget Hagrid, even though he's who knows where and his darkened hut sits empty. I could never let Sirius go, not after all those years he spent in Azkaban and now when he sits in the dark prison that is his home in London. I won't give up Ron or Hermione even though all I seem to do is bring them trouble. I have a home here. I belong here. I could never go back.
I will not tell lies.
I will not tell lies.
I will not tell lies.
O.K., fine. Maybe I won't think of anything at all.
But not thinking about anything was a lot harder to do than to imagine doing, and Harry felt as if he was trying to hold back a river with his fingers. Random thoughts and faces of the places and people he had just remembered ..........
Mrs. Figg's cats. I wonder if I can remember their names.
Lemondrop.
Scarf.
Mrs. Tiddlewindow.
Ralph.
Sandman.
Lady Peachjam.
His thoughts drifted back to Mrs. Figg's living room and the hours he spent there when the Dursleys wanted to enjoy a family outing without him. She lived .... He never thought about it before, but now he wondered just how his aunt and uncle came to know Mrs. Figg in the first place. A dotty old lady and her many cats. Certainly not someone the Durseys wanted to be seen with, not that they actually socialized with her. Never interacted with her otherwise, really, just the transaction of handing him over and the quick dash for the door, no more personal than buying a loaf of bread at the store. He'd always reckoned that they left him with her because she was willing and because she didn't charge them anything. They probably would have left him with Voldemort if he lived in the neighborhood.
And this summer he found out she was a squib, knew all about the magical world, although she wasn't a witch herself. All those years of pretending that the wizarding world didn't exist. She knew who he was, knew about his parents of course, and how they died. All that time she knew and never said a word, because she was really just there to keep an eye on him. To spy on him.
Still, to be honest, if she had said anything before that astonishing night when he'd met Hagred, he wouldn't have believed her. And since she was a squib, without magic, she couldn't have proved her story, either.
But it explained why the conversation was always so awkward when he visited. She had to be careful not to slip and say or do the wrong thing. And he had never known any older women, no doting grandmothers, no fawning great-aunts, so he was just uneducated about how to behave. He could tell that Mrs. Figg liked him, wanted to make him a little happier, but he just didn't know how to respond. So they sat together with photo albums of cats past and present, and she told him their names and he tried to pay attention.
Lotherian.
Mr. Yorington.
Suddenly he wondered what had happened to Mr. Figg. Mrs. Figg couldn't be married to Mundungus, could she? The way she had gone at him with the bag of cat food tins – married people sometimes fought like that. But Mundungus didn't look like a cat lover, and Harry didn't think he would have let her down so badly if they were married.
So who was Mrs. Figg really? Arabella. He name was Arabella, he suddenly remembered, but how he knew that he couldn't say. Where had she come from? What had she given up to come to Little Whinging to watch over him?
What was it like to walk away from the magical world and have it not exist?
Well, for starters, there would be no Umbridge. No detention. No quill carving up his hand. He could walk away from that, no problem.
No students muttering under their breath when he passed. No Daily Prophet articles questioning his sanity. No one pointing at his scar or thinking he was anything but normal. He could go for that, too.
No Death Eaters. No dementors. No nightmares, no pain, no fear. No Voldemort.
I could do it, Harry thought, I could just walk away and ...
I will not tell lies.
I will not tell lies.
I will not tell lies.
No, I could never walk away, he admitted, and watched the gashes on his hand close and redden for the hundredth time that night. I could never forget Hagrid, even though he's who knows where and his darkened hut sits empty. I could never let Sirius go, not after all those years he spent in Azkaban and now when he sits in the dark prison that is his home in London. I won't give up Ron or Hermione even though all I seem to do is bring them trouble. I have a home here. I belong here. I could never go back.
