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ms31x129 · 5 years

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Woohoo! Time for Chapter 4! I had to make a another DJ! I felt compelled! I hope I have ideas for 3 more! @cultureisdarkbeer @monikafilefan @today-in-fic

Chapter 1 - Courage to Jump Tumblr LINK AO3 it is HERE.

Chapter 2: Luck of the Irish Tumblr LINK or AO3 it is HERE.

Chapter 3: Graffiti of the Heart Tumblr LINK or AO3 HERE.

Chapter 4: Leave Your Demons At The Door (Click on the name for AO3) or if you like Tumblr just clickity-click on the Keep Reading link below.

{Summary:

After seeing the past through Dana Scully's eyes, Jackson decides he needs a cold one. With the letter remaining in his possession, he finds a motel room to stay for the night and heads out to check out the nightlife. Of course, the past decides to hitchhike a ride. Jackson's internal conflict reaches a fever pitch when he steps into his birth parent's past at a time when they were fighting the future.}

“All men should strive to learn before they die what they are running from, and to, and why.” -James Thurber

Jackson entered the motel room and tossed his knapsack off his shoulder, its buckles scraping along the surface of the small table as it came to a halt. Not ready for any type of sleep, he flopped on top of the bed with an arm cradling his head and flipped blindly through the channels to drown out the noise of the rest of the motel.

A lonely emptiness ate at his soul like the dying feasting on its last meal. There was nothing scarier to him than the idea that he could be sentenced to a purgatory of existing like this, nothing and no one with whom to speak. No compassion, no remorse, his soul had darkened to the point of charred coal without a hope for recovery. So why not embrace it? Why choose to be alone in madness?

Guiltily, he had found pleasure in cruelty, a joy in its power as a boy growing slowly into a man. Not for the first time, impossible questions riddled his mind. What if inside he was one of them? A bomb waiting to detonate; his existence serving its purpose to end it all. He thought he’d never be pure enough to make it through the gates of heaven anyway.

Why toggle the light and dark? He wondered while rubbing the barely there stubble along his chin. What was he afraid of besides loneliness? What was there to fear when you were the monster?

The springs of the sagging mattress creaked out a warning as he rose up and headed out to clear his head. At least he could find company in the loneliness of numbers.

The streets he walked were nothing like any he had traveled before. Yet they were etched in his head with a sharp knife, a scalpel scoring information deep into his DNA like some strange work of art. As he passed storefront windows and busy restaurants, there was a familiarity there that tickled at his brain akin to recognition. The insistent feeling led him to a bar and his height and a little illusion granted him a bar stool and a beer.

“You’ve got to train for that kind of heavy lifting,” said the bartender as the used beer glasses clinked, clanked, and stuttered against the highly polished, lacquered wooden bar. After several drinks, Jackson was barely able to steady his arm enough to prevent them from crashing to the floor. “Having a bad day?”

“You could say that,” Jackson sighed, chasing down a hiccup with what was left in his glass. “You come here often?” he smarted back.

“I’m the owner of this establishment actually,” she returned as she wiped up the last of the spilled beer. “Tonight’s been busy so I’ve been helping out.”

The other bartender finished doling out the last of the drinks to the customers and joined her to help clean up. He pointed at Jackson hunched over against the bar. “You look familiar... and I never forget a face.”

He didn’t reply, afraid of it getting him tossed out, instead pointing at the bar for another round.

“So what brings you here?” The older woman asked, her short blond hair wisping over her forehead like bangs. She said it casually, but Jackson got the sinking feeling she was either testing his age or his blood alcohol level. Both of which were enough to refuse him any more service. It would only take a closer examination of his ID to uncover it was created courtesy of a man in a long trench coat in a dark alley.

The two bartenders were waiting for an answer and his depression overruled his logic. He opened his mouth intending on just feeding another lie to strangers who cared nothing for him, but carelessly started to ramble instead and the room spun without him.

“I’m part of an experiment to conceal the truth about the coming apocalypse,” he scoffed, wondering if that were even true anymore while he fingered the condensation on the beer glass. “Contagions, on a global scale to wipe out the planet except for the chosen few. I’m the atomic bomb: the savior and the sinner, and I can choose to destroy or save every man, woman, and child on this planet.”

Jackson chuckled to himself at how crazy his tale already sounded. His hands and arms were now animated as he spoke, staring at the bartenders straight in the eye.

“So of course they killed my parents. I’ve been forced to leave my girlfriends, drop out of school, I’m more of a bad joke than a friend. I’m Jackson, but they call me William…”

The man had the same look plastered on his face that most people had at hearing anything remotely “out there.” The older woman just look resigned, as if she’d heard this same shit on a different day. Maybe she had. Nothing surprised him anymore.

Noticing they both were still waiting for him to finish his spiel, he dove right back into the bullet point version of what he called his life.

“I realized I was part of the X-Men when I was just a kid,” he huffed at comparing himself to hero’s when he felt like a manifestation of evil. He leaned back with his hands gripping his knees, blowing a stream of air through puffed cheeks. “And now I chase after threads of sanity, trying to find who I really am, armed with a letter and a prayer hoping to find the courage to go to my birth mother, hoping she still wants me and has some answers. I’m shouting to the heavens or whoever is out there on the other side of my one-way sonar that the sky is falling. It’s goddamn Armageddon: earthquakes, flooding, fire, and disease.”

Jackson shook his head and rubbed his eyes. Knowing anyone else—anyone “normal” would consider this insanity, yet they were the building blocks of his life. They were what made him him . Saying them out loud as if he were confessing to his mom’s priest at their old church on Sunday mornings felt like a slap in the face.

“I’m the shitstorm of alllll time.”

“Well, that sure makes me feel better about myself,” the woman joked as she closed out his tab. “Looks like 86 is your lucky number, kid,” she told him, effectively ending his rant.

Jackson got the joke. She didn’t believe him and thought it was all some big hallucination from his consumption. Through her stimpering chastisement, she was throwing him out and refusing to serve. The depression and irritation at not being taken seriously yet again sunk from his heart into his stomach.

“You know, I’ve come to realize that one is the loneliest number,” he said, sulking with an arched brow and bathing in self-pity.

“That’s where I know this kid from,” the male bartender interrupted. “You remind me of that Spooky Mulder man. The woman passed him a curious look.

“You remember the FBI agent? Used to come in here years ago with his pretty redheaded partner.”

The female bartender smiled and nodded, a glimmer of recognition danced across her face and she added, “I hope the poor bastard realized she was crazy about him and grew a pair to finally ask her out.”

“Spooky Mulder?” Jackson questioned. That was them. Goddamnit! he thought, realization dawning. Once again following in the shadows of their history; literally it seemed.

“Yeah, I remember him bringing in his partner, what was her name?” she asked the other bartender.

“It was the same as the famous baseball announcer.” He snapped his fingers while Jackson gaped at the irony of it all. “Vin Scully—Scully was her name. Brought her in here after saving her life out in the arctic or some shit. Or she saved his life? I don’t know if they ever got that straight. Anyway, they would drink in here sometimes.”

The woman examined Jackson’s face. “Now that you mention it, he kind of looks like them.”

Jackson was afraid the jig was up. He tossed a couple fifties on the bar and stood, using the barstool to steady himself as he blinked twice to bring his doubled vision into focus.

While stumbling towards the door, a gang of bikers were making their way inside, marking out their turf like a wolf pack. They were rowdy and demanding, pushing the crowd aside as they grabbed their barstools and ordered drinks, harassing the patrons. Another younger, inexperienced bartender tried to settle them and it only appeared made them angry. One pulled him by his collared shirt to whisper something in his ear. Another one held out a knife, fingering it like he couldn’t wait to use it, while another man displayed the holster of his gun. If this was a bar frequented by the FBI, they were taking the night off.

Jackson’s heart pounded within his chest with what felt like a force hard enough to crack a rib as it yearned to beat free of its cage. His senses went on high alert and every color in the bar glowed brighter, every noise louder, smell stronger. With every movement anyone made he was prepared to react.

The song “Glitter and Gold” played through the bar’s sound system. Adrenaline and anger spiked in his veins like he had a double shot of caffeine. They were going to pay for their drinks and their disruption.

In a dopamine rush, Jackson covered his frame in illusion, a monstrous form he invented as a child. Everyone froze at the sight of Ghouli before them. The eyes of the witnesses of Jackson’s transformation bulged and he could hear their strangled cries of mortal terror. Bulbs burst from the fixtures until there was barely enough light for shadows. The darkness fed his rage. Even the stars and moon seemed to cower behind clouds through the window preparing for Jackson’s storm. Everyone, everything, was now his prey.

Through the mirror at the bar, Jackson caught a reflection of a young boy with utter terror taking over his once innocent features, and his mother with her arms wrapped around him ready to give her life for his survival. In that moment, something inside Jackson snapped, or finally broke free perhaps. He heard it like a twig cracking in his mind, a subtle deafening sound. He ran. The bikers fled fearing he was headed their way, but Jackson was running away, not towards. Running to feel the sweet pain in his lungs, lactic acid building in his muscles, reminding him that he was real, he was human.

Jackson “the monster” was no more. The old him really had died in the depths of the water on that cold night at the docks.

Now outside, the cars zoomed as they passed him, the drivers never taking notice of the monster running down the street, half human half Frankenstein as his illusion faded. People were too busy hurrying back to a welcoming home, eating their sirloin steaks and mashed potatoes with their family, making sure the children ate their vegetables. Somewhere parents beamed happily as they knelt down to tuck their kids into bed with a story in hand...

Would he ever know that comfort again?

Depression and self-loathing, like liquid death swarmed inside him, the blackness flooded and choked him begging his body to choose his future.

Heaving and gasping for breath with his avatar long gone, he slowed and finally stopped, leaning on his knees as he hunched over and concentrated on not vomiting. The sky spun and he heaved out the night’s libations. He wasn’t much of a successful drinker to begin with. Somehow he ended up on the damp ground, not certain how it happened, but he could feel the frigid water seeping into his jeans. His hands rested back into the soil as his feet dangled off the curb and into the street.

That monster was not him and it would not return.

#xf fanfic #xfiles fanfic #msr fanfic #msrfanfic #the xf fanfic #the xfiles fanfic #chimera #xf fic #txf fanfic

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amiandthechaos · 6 years

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“And that’s how you ruin a life. Congratulations.” I feel it's totally nottpott things to say.

The do-over seventh year was turning out to be such a wild ride. Harry could have never imagined that a regular year at Hogwarts could surprise him anymore, not after what he’d been through in the past, but he was wrong. He could maybe explain it by the abcense of fear and threat he and others had always felt thanks to Voldemort, even when he was thought to be dead. They were finally living in complete safety and it showed; the celebratory atmosphere hadn’t died down all school year and it was near March by now. Harry had attended countless meetings, parties, dinners, even midnight picnics on the school grounds where half the staff ended up drunk and singing around a bonfire.

But still Harry couldn’t really figure out how he felt.

He was supposed to be happy, as happy as he had ever been allowed to feel giving the circumstances of his upbringing, and yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was not right.

And it was horrible feeling that way when everywhere he went he saw nothing but joy. Even the Slytherins, hell, even Malfoy was usually in a great mood and it just made Harry angrier.

Well, maybe there was just one more person who wasn’t like that.

It was easy to notice when you’re the only two people not smiling all the time, or when you walk out of a party and he’s the only one wandering the corridors alone. Sometimes they would lock eyes across the great hall and Harry could tell he was being noticed too and his curiosity grew tenfold.

Harry didn’t know much about Theodore Nott, but he knew he was not happy.

Tonight was another night full of drunken celebration.The whole castle was alive; a party in every common room, secret and more exclusive parties in places like the Shrieking Shack or the Room of Requierment, and some definitely private hookups in various classrooms and broom cupboards. Harry had already been to Hufflepuff’s and Ravenclaw’s parties, thinking he’d leave Gryffindor’s for last since his bed was nearby anyway, and he was in no mood to fight the Whomping Willow or figure out tonight’s special theme to get into the Room of Requirement, so he walked aimlessly through the halls while sipping a firewhiskey and letting his feet take him wherever they wanted to go.

He wanted to meet up with Ron or Hermione but he had no idea where they were at this point. He soon realized he was near the entrance to the dungeons and stopped. It was possible that at least one of them was at the Slytherins’ party, since they were usually pretty good and Gryffindor-Slytherin relationships had been increasingly improving, so Harry thought it worth it to check it out. Deep down, he knew there might be another reason he wanted to go to the dungeons, but he wsn’t ready to admit it yet.

As usual, it was very dark and humid down there, which wasn’t helped by the fact that a lot of people were dancing in the middle of the room and they seemed to be really sweaty. Harry wasn’t in the mood for dancing either. There was also a makeshift bar at the back wall, where someone he didn’t recognize was magically mixing drinks and trying to impress a group of giggling girls. He tried to spot a wild mane of hair or a tall redhead towering over most but it looked like they weren’t there either.

Many people greeted Harry and offered to get him a drink, but he still had most of his firewhiskey. A few younger students asked to take a photograph with him and Harry complied mostly to get them to stop, because him getting attention was the perfect way to summon Malfoy and then Harry would never hear the end of it.

It was only after he’d taken all the photos that he spotted Malfoy laying unconscious over the pool table. He wouldn’t mind getting his picture next to that.

Harry wasn’t able to find anyone he wanted to see, so he was about to leave to his dormitory and sulk for the rest of the night when he noticed a group of people sitting in the darkest corner of the room. He slowly approached them because he couldn’t really see their faces even though they were all facing him. Well, all except for one, who had his back to Harry and seemed to be the centre of attention as he spoke, the rest listening in eerie silence.

Suddenly very curious as to why this morose-looking group of people were ignoring a wild party in favor of hearing someone talk, he shuffled closer and closer, trying not to get noticed.

“And that’s how you ruin a life. Congratulations,” the boy said, and the silence in that corner was even heavier than before. Harry felt a shiver run down his spine.

A small girl who couldn’t have been older than fourteen gulped. “That was the last thing you said to your father before he died?”

The boy nodded and in that moment Harry took a final step to be able to look at him from the side, his heart beating in anticipation because he should have known.

It was him. It was Theodore Nott.

Unfortunately, Harry was noticed, and most of the people surrounding him (all of which looked to be to younger students) stiffened when they saw him. Nott looked over his shoulder and he and Harry shared what could only be described as a challenging look. Harry wasn’t usually angry when he and Nott exchanged glances across the great hall or during classes, but now he was feeling increasingly infuriated. Sharing the tragic details of his life in order to impress young kids? That was as dramatically Slytherin-ish as he had seen and yet, completely pathetic.

The other students felt the tension get higher and began to leave only to stand a bit further away, probably thinking there’ll be a fight.

Nott got to his feet, not taking his eyes off Harry, who up until now never had an opportunity to look at Nott in so much detail, and he was surprised to find him rather handsome. His dark hair was shadowing his features under the low light, but it was still clear he had those fancy, pure-blood good looks and self-righteous expression Harry was so familiar with.

And for a brief but chilling moment, he even reminded Harry of young Tom Riddle, only with blue eyes.

He needed more alcohol.

“Is that the only way you know how to get girls?” Harry asked in a mocking tone, not really sure where it had come from. He hadn’t planned on starting off this way.

Nott seemed taken aback. “What?”

“I asked,” Harry repeated, feeling something daring bubbling inside him. “If getting girls to feel pity for you is the only way you can get their attention.”

With a scoff, Nott took a step closer, but Harry didn’t back down and now they were face to face. He realized for the first time that they were exactly the same height, or at least that was what his tired and slightly inhibriated brain could perceive. For some reason, this made Harry even more upset.

“What the fuck are you on about, Potter? You come to our common room to pick up a fight? I never pegged you for a bully.” Nott crossed his arms over his chest.

“And I never pegged you for someone who would use his ‘sad’ life to impress girls.”

“Will you cool it with the girls? Most of the people I was talking to were boys.” he lowered his voice for this and Harry couldn’t figure out why. "And you think you’re the only one who has a right to talk about the war? They asked me about it.“

Harry could feel his blood heating up. “And you just had to tell them about your death eater daddy and how hard it was for you to know he murdered innocent people? Poor Theodore Nott.”

Nott looked like he couldn’t believe his ears and granted, Harry knew it wasn’t in character for him to jump on someone this way, but he was just so tired of all the purebloods now pretending they gave a shit about the rest, of all the lies he’d heard about the war, of all the hypocrisy and fake apologies and disappointments.

Surprisingly, Nott backed down, but seemed to be even more enraged than before. “Fuck you. Of all the people partying and not giving a shit you come and pick a fight with me? Fuck. You.”

And then he stormed off.

Some remained watching Harry curiously, but he didn’t care and left his glass on a table before following Nott out of the common room. He was just around the corner when Harry caught up with him, and Harry tried not to be too loud when he called out his name.

“Nott!”

Nott spun around and shushed him. “Do you think we’re in the bloody Quidditch pitch?”

“What did you mean when you said ‘out of all the others’?” Harry asked before he even reached him. “What’s so special about you?”

In the light of the corridor it was easier to see how upset Nott really was, his brow furrowed and his jaw tight, making him look years older than an eighteen years old boy. Just like Harry.

“Unlike you and all the other idiots, I’m not drunk off my ass every hour of the day. And I don’t party as if life was one big fucking celebration orgy!” he threw his arms in the air angrily. “You want to fuck with me just because I’m not a fucking bundle of joy?”

Harry could tell his own anger was fading a bit, replaced by the curiosity he had had for a while. "Yeah? And why aren’t you?”

Nott laughed coldly. “Harry Potter needs to make everybody happy? I wonder if it’s because you truly care, or because you think you’re the only one allowed to feel miserable.”

Harry hadn’t expected that and Nott knew it. “You don’t have to think I’ve noticed? You’re not happy-drinking like those morons. You’re angry-drinking.”

“So?“ Harry asked. "Why do you care?”

Nott shrugged. “I don’t. I just thought you’d appreciate someone else who didn’t think the world is suddenly perfect.”

“How do you know it isn’t?” Harry didn’t mean for the question to sound so genuine, but he really did want to know. He couldn’t prove that things wouldn’t be great now that Voldemort was gone and perhaps everyone else was right and he wasn’t.

“Because I grew up with death eater. You think just because the worst of them are dead or caught the movement is worthless now? Their beliefs are still out there and sooner or later someone else will rise up and start another war.” Nott leaned against a wall. “These kids ask about the war and everyone tells them about the heroes, but I can’t stand by and not let them know how dangerous men like my father actually were. Nobody wants to talk about the ugly things once you win a war.”

Harry stood there, blinking and letting Nott’s words sink in. Nott wasn’t looking at him, but at his own feet. Harry wondered if this is what he looked like to everyone else, angry and dramatic and miserable even though there was nothing clearly bad going on anymore.

“Is that why you look so down all the time?” he asked Nott, his voice quiet in the empty corridor.

Nott looked up, his expression softer. “Well yes. Isn’t it enough? Shouldn’t going through a war be enough for all of us? Plus my asshole of a father fucking died and-”

“Of course it’s enough,” Harry interrupted him. No one had told Harry that they deserved to feel bad. That they had reasons for it. That it was okay not to feel happy.

“Right.” Nott nodded. “So sorry if your heroic sacrifice didn’t make everyone merry and shit. But it didn’t work on yourself either, did it?”

Harry shook his head softly, no longer upset even though his heart kept racing. “Still… There must be something that makes you glad.” Because if course Harry had things to smile about. He had wonderful friends who always stood by him, he was finally living peacefully in a place where he belonged, he had done reasonably well in his N.E.W.T.S, and…

Nott rolled his eyes. “It’s alright, Potter. You don’t have to keep trying to save literally everyone. I’m fine. Just because I can’t think of anything right now-”

Nott cut himself off and for a second Harry couldn’t understand why, but then he realized that he had unconsciously stepped closer and closer to Nott, and now he was basically trapped between Harry and the wall and Harry felt his whole body flush with embarrassment. But it didn’t escape his notice that he wasn’t being pushed away.

Nott didn’t speak, but his eyes questioned Harry. What are you doing?

Harry wasn’t sure, but for a while now he’d had the feeling that Nott understood him, so he thought he would also understand this.

Harry leaned in and kissed him, feeling immediate relief when their lips touched and he realized this is what he had needed for so long. His entire body felt lighter, his head clearer, the perpetual knot in his throat loosened, and he clung to the moment as much as he could by gripping Nott’s t-shirt, longing to feel his skin or hair but not sure if he should push it that far.

Nott kissed back slow and shyly, like out of instinct more than anything, but Harry didn’t mind, he’d take anything he wanted to give him because this was like finally breathing after choking on something he could never identify. So it didn’t matter that Nott didn’t pull Harry closer, or shoved his tongue down his throat desperately, Harry just wanted every second of this because he knew it wouldn’t last; they were just two disgrunted boys finding some comfort in their shared feelings.

Harry’s heart sped up when he felt Nott reach up and put a hand on the back of Harry’s head, as careful and gentle as if he was holding something that would break, and it took everything in Harry’s power not to sigh contently into Nott’s mouth.

But then in ended and Nott pulled away, still moving slowly and almost politely, as if he was afriad Harry would get mad if he rejected him. The thought made Harry’s anger peek its ugly head in again. Thankfully, being pressed up against Nott, with his fingers still touching the nape of Harry’s neck was doing wonders for keeping him calm.

They looked at each other for a few long seconds, and just when Harry was going to step away, bid him goodnight, and stomp to his bed, Nott opened his mouth and Harry’s eyes were drawn to it again.

“I just…” he hesitated, looking unsure. “You’re drunk.”

Harry frowned. “What?”

Nott’s cheeks seemed to redden a bit, and Harry thought he looked absolutely gorgeous like that. “I don’t want to do this if you’re drunk.”

“I’m not kissing you because I’m drunk,” Harry said, hoping his breath didn’t smell too strongly of firewhiskey. “I’m kissing you because…” he trailed off, looking down at Nott’s lips again, gripping his t-shirt even more tightly, and pressing his body against him just a little bit more, trying not to get overly excited as he did so. “Because I’m angry.”

In an unexpected turn of events, Nott smiled. Harry was certain he had never seen a smile with so much behind it, because it was clear that Nott understood exactly what Harry meant. Again.

Nott stepped away, carefully extricating himself from Harry, but still smiling. Harry wanted to groan at the loss of body heat.

“Then, if you’re still angry tomorrow, find me.” He took a few steps back towards the entrance of the Slytherin common room. “And we can do angry things together.”

Harry smiled too, feeling silly. It wasn’t as though anything had changed, he was still bitter and confused, everyone else continued to party carelessly, and Nott’s words about the death eaters should have made him feel worse, not better. The world wasn’t a better or safer place just because he impulsively decided to kiss Theodore Nott.

And yet.

Maybe disgrunted boys finding comfort in each other’s shared feelings wasn’t a tragedy. Maybe it was their shortcut to happiness.

And maybe they deserved it.

#Anonymous #theodore nott #harry potter #nottpott #harry x theo #aka angst x angst #wow this got super long #sorry it took forever anon #i hope you see this #i love my angsty boys #anyway excuse any grammatical mistakes #mine #drabble #usermaya #cause i know you love nottpott maya

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toraffles · 7 years

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Little Red Flowers [first, possibly only, chapter]

Does anyone remember that one excerpt of a fem!Harry fic I was working on? I had the entire first chapter written out almost two years ago, but knowing myself, I decided not to post it until I’d at least written the second chapter. Lo and behold, that... never happened, and also I realized that I really don’t have much plans for the future of this fic anyway, so here is that first chapter for your perusal. Please don’t expect a continuation, because one won’t be coming. I do have a lot of ideas for this, but I’m not going to write them here because I may salvage them for another fem!Harry fic that @glowssary annd I are idly playing with. So, without further ado:

LITTLE RED FLOWERS

CHAPTER ONE

It is both alarming and not when the child is found on their doorstep, with irises of deep teal and wispy hair the vermilion of sunrise. Like a prophecy, she can already foresee that those eyes will brighten into a brilliant green in a few years, and she needs not even glance at the letter clutched in tiny fingers to know whose child this is, because she knows, she knows, and she also knows exactly what this means. She bends down and snatches at the envelope left atop of a pile of soft blankets, carefully avoiding the gaze of the infant who stares at her with those too familiar eyes.

Petunia Dursley née Evans, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, is written on the back in slanted, looping calligraphy that tugs at a memory she has long since banished, for it is mired in the humiliation and resentment that fills her to the brim wherever magic is involved, wherever Lily is involved. The paper is an unbleached off-white, thick and pulpy between her fingers, and skimming the contents tells her little more than what she has already determined for herself.

Lily is dead. Lily, her little sister, her only sister, is dead. And she must be, for there is no other reason for this child, obviously the offspring of Lily and that Potter boy, to be laid out in a little woven basket and left on her doorstep.

Petunia takes a carefully measured breath. She blinks, once, twice. She takes another breath.

Her little sister has been taken away by magic once again, but this time, this time there is no potential for second chances and apologies, this time there is no future for reconciliation, this time she is irrefutably, irrevocably late, no do-overs, no take-backsies Lily is gone gone gone and Petunia never had the chance to tell her why she had been so cruel to her, not even once, and suddenly she is angry, suddenly she is furious, because how dare that girl, how dare she die before Petunia was finally ready to ask forgiveness, how dare she leave Petunia alone as the last of their family, how dare she hoist onto Petunia the burden of caring for her stupid little infant -

Remembering herself, the blonde cants her head to the side and stares into the solemn scrutiny of Lily’s child, fascinated by what must be her little sister’s baby pictures brought to life all over again. The child’s face is wet with silent distress. Salty moisture trails paths over plump cheeks and a pert nose and a puckered little mouth. Petunia brings a hand to brush soft fingers over the child’s brow but it is shaking too badly, and she fears she may catch her nails across those beautiful eyes. She brings the trembling hand instead to her own cheek and when she brings it away it is damp with something like dew.

It takes a few moments, but Petunia is startled to realize that the child is not crying at all; it is an illusion caused by her own tears, crawling down her skin and dripping onto infant features. Somehow, she finds the image too comforting to move away: it seems almost as if Lily herself is crying for Petunia, for her misfortunes and her resentment and her bitter, bitter heart. She never could quite figure if Lily would have forgiven Petunia for everything she had ever said, for every hostile jeer and cutting barb, for every moment she had hurt the redhead and smiled about it. And now she never would. But surely, surely, this child is more than enough to wash away the regret that drowns her lungs, thick and heavy. If it was Dudley in this position, she knows Lily would have taken him in as her own, would have cared for him like her own son, so maybe if she does the same...

The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living, she thinks, lifting the child in her thin arms and holding it close. Its breaths are sweet and warm against her skin, which has begun to chill in the brisk November air.

“Holly Euphemia Potter,” Petunia says into the empty wind, tasting the words on her tongue. Lily has followed the maternal tradition of naming baby girls after flowers, and this soothes her a little. “I’ve always wanted a daughter.”

The door slams shut at her heels as she turns inside. It wouldn’t do to linger outside too long; after all, what would the neighbours think?

Holly Potter is a very ordinary little girl. Or at least, she tries very hard to be an ordinary little girl. Not because she finds ordinariness to be particularly compelling, but because Aunt Tuney says there is nothing better than being ordinary and of course Aunt Tuney is right; in her experience, Aunt Tuney is always right.

Except when it comes to Dudley.

Aunt Tuney loves Holly, this is true enough, but she utterly adores Dudley, who equally adores making Holly as miserable as he can. Unfortunately Aunt Tuney refuses to believe any such thing about her Darling Diddlykins, and the few times Holly bothers to truthfully report the origins of the scrape on her knee, or why her pretty new smock has dirt smeared messily on its skirt, or the reason why there are drying tear tracks on her cheeks, a few words from Dudley quickly clears up the issue.

Often, the situation unfolds as such:

"I didn't do it!" Dudley will say, following Holly's accusation.

"Holly Euphemia Potter," Aunty will then respond, her voice sharp. "I did not raise you to be a liar. You must tell me the truth, right away."

Thus Holly is often forced to lie in order to avoid being punished for lying when she only wants to give the truth. And Dudley, having never been told off for bullying Holly, continues to do so without qualm or worry, for he is secure in his mother's trust.

This is how Holly finds herself being chased around on the playground by her large, fat cousin who is brandishing at her a long stick. On the end closest to her there is a snake coiled up tight and hissing angrily; the afternoon sun gives its grey-black scales a menacing sheen.

She is especially afraid because she can hear him - for it is a him - threatening to bite and tear and hurt whichever human he can land his fangs on first. She doesn't want to be hurt, not at all, so she runs and runs as fast as her five-year-old legs will take her.

Eventually, Holly knows she will tire.

She takes a quick glance over her shoulder to gauge if Dudley has begun to sweat through his shirt yet, and shrieks when she sees how close the snake has gotten.

"Stop it! Go away," she cries out.

It is not Dudley who answers her plea, however. Rather, it is the snake who irritably snaps, "Believe me, you moronic little monkey, if I could leave I would in an inssstant."

Holly almost stops to gape at the mean creature, but at the last moment remembers she must keep running if she wants to avoid being bitten. "You said a bad word!" she manages to squeak out through heavy breaths. "Aunt Tuney will wash out your mouth with soap!"

"Foolisssh creature, your threatsss ssscare me not," it hisses back. "I will sssink my teeth into your flesssh and revel in the tassste of your blood. My venom will make you writhe with pain until the life drainsss out of your sssoft, weak body - "

Holly claps her hands over her ears and shakes her head because she cannot bear to hear the cruel thing's threats. She is scared, so very scared - no, no, she is terrified, she's really going to die and go away forever, like her mommy and daddy did, she's never going to see Aunt Tuney again or eat delicious trifles and bombes or wear pretty frocks that make her feel like a princess or even start Primary School and make even one friend, though she's supposed to begin attendance this very September.

I don't want to die, she thinks to herself with desperation that fills her to her toes. Let me get away from here, I want to get away from here, please, please, please, take me away...

Holly squeezes her eyes shut and wishes as hard as she can, expecting nothing to happen.

When she opens them again, she is very, very surprised to find that something, in fact, has happened. And this something is a rather big Something indeed, for she does not recognize where she is in the least.

Holly sneezes messily.

For one, never has she ever been privy to such filth in her short life. This is in small part due to Aunt Tuney's constant crusade for cleanliness, but mostly because of the impossibly thick layer of grime that coats every surface she can see.

The place she has found herself is a hovel in the truest sense of the word. The walls are composed of worn, rotted bricks riddled with holes; the original colour of the stone is indiscernible underneath all the moss and mould that monopolizes it. There is light enough to see but it streams in not through the tiny windows, which are an invariable murky gray-brown and thick with scum, but through the gaps in the tiles of the roof. The building itself seems to sag with age and neglect, as do all surviving articles of furniture. Carcasses of various creepy-crawlers litter the dust intermittently, dried out husks with wings made too heavy for flight and abandoned shells with too many little legs pointed into the air.

Holly glances down and sees that her own feet have made a pair of straight indentations in the grit. The dust rises all the way to her mid-shins, and to the left of her knee is a small green-bodied creature with large filigree wings. It is dead, as is everything else in this little shack, but she's never seen such a kind of insect before.

‘A lacewing fly.’

The words flit through her thoughts, nearly silent and quicksilver fast; she only just manages to catch and hold onto them long enough to make sense of what has been said. The distinct feeling of being not-alone slams into her like a trainwreck, but a quick survey of the shack once more reveals nothing, and nobody, that had not been there previously.

"Hello?" Holly calls out curiously. "Is somebody there?"

Her only answer is a thick silence.

The redhead tilts her head and considers the insect. It certainly does look like a fly, and she supposes that its wings are rather lacy. It's possible that she could have made the name up all on her own, but just as she is beginning to attribute the noise to her imagination, the silence is broken once more.

‘You can hear me?’

Despite the wording this is not so much a question as much as a demand. Holly is caught between the compulsion to give a prompt answer and the desire to keep quiet just to be contrary, because Aunt Tuney always tells her that rudeness should not be rewarded.

But in the end, curiosity triumphs, and Holly replies, "Ye-es? But where are you, mister? I can't see you."

‘... For lack of a more appropriate description, I suppose I am in your head. So to speak.’

In her head? How could he have possibly gotten into there? Holly means to ask, but the voice continues on in a musing sort of way that is not at all conducive to a conversation.

‘How curious,’ says the stranger in her head. ‘The child was not conscious of me before - what was the trigger? The snake, perhaps? Parseltongue is an ability she must have acquired from my residence within her; to my knowledge the Potters are not bound closely enough to Slytherin's line for it to be inherited, and the girl's mother was a muggleborn. The use of an ability so deeply entrenched with my presence, then, may have incited awareness…’

And Holly knows he must be talking to her, for there is no one else for him to be talking to, but oddly it seems to her as if he is not speaking to her at all, not least because she hasn't the slightest inkling what the disembodied voice is going on about. Perhaps he is speaking to himself. In which case she must distract him from his insanities, which Aunt Tuney says is the Proper Thing To Do when she sees somebody acting in a manner that is Not Ordinary and therefore Embarrassing. Of course, Aunt Tuney also said that the preferred method of dealing with Not Ordinary people is to remove herself from their company, but she does not know how to remove herself from her own mind.

"Who are you, then, mister-in-my-head? What's your name? I'm Holly."

'Tom Marvolo Riddle' drifts across the surface of her subconscious like a whisper without sound or words without letters, coalescing into a vague not-quite memory of a thin woman looming over her, graying hair tightly drawn back in a bun and sharp features set in the most hostile expression Holly has ever seen.

'Tom,' the woman snaps. Her voice is cold to the touch and the way she forces out the word makes it sound like the worst sort of profanity; far, far worse than when Uncle Vernon stubs his toes on the kitchen doorway in the mornings. Holly thinks she should be frightened of this old lady with eyes that freeze her through - except how can she be, when it is only too clear that the woman is masking her own fear?

But Holly blinks and the woman is gone. She is once more alone in the dirty shack.

‘I am Lord Voldemort.’

Exempting, of course, the stranger in her head.

"That sounds stupid," she tells him truthfully. "I like Tom better."

There is a loud silence and suddenly her head hurts it hurts it's splitting in half -

‘Do not dare presume to call me by that name,’ says Tom, who sounds so very calm even though she can feel his anger like a knife through her skull.

"Okay," Holly manages to hiss through gritted teeth, bent forward with her hands pressed tightly against her temples. "Okay. Not Tom."

The headache lifts as suddenly as it had come.

"You're really mean," Holly mumbles to the ground with a petulant scowl. "And Voldemort still sounds stupid."

‘You are an irritation and a taint on your blood who doesn’t deserve the Gift,’ rumbles Not-Tom, the cold fury in his words lashing against her nerves like a whip. ‘Always simpering after an "Aunt Tuney" who does not even consider you an actual person as opposed to a reincarnated doll of her sister, and allowing that fat, stupid little oaf to trample all over you, and bending over backwards just for the slightest indication of acknowledgement from the fatter, stupider oaf that damned aunt of yours married, God knows for what reason. You let them use you like a rag and instead of becoming enraged that they dare treat someone magical in such a way, instead of punishing them like the insignificant worms that they are, you find pleasure in it. You bask in whatever attention your darling Aunt Petunia deigns to give when she's parading you around like a show pony in front of her acquaintances, leap to whatever inane chore your imbecilic uncle tosses to you, and do absolutely nothing as your dim balloon of a cousin drags you through a puddle of mud and blames you for getting his clothes dirty.’ As the tirade winds down, Holly is left taking shallow breaths and trying her best to keep at bay the stinging high in her nose. In a final measure of spite, Not-Tom hisses, ‘You, Holly Potter, are a house-elf to muggles, and it disgusts me.’

She doesn't understand why this stranger hates her so much, doesn't understand how his words hurt so deeply. Slowly, through the sharp heat behind her eyes and the ache simmering deep in-between her lungs, she manages to respond, “Aunt Tuney loves me.”

‘She does not, you little fool. She is using you to allay her own guilt towards your mother, and does not care for you personally one whit.’

Holly bursts into tears. Big, wet sobs wrack her body violently, and she wails into the air without abandon, free to cast away years worth of suppressed emotion because there are no Dursleys here, no one to tell her be-quiet and what-would-the-neighbors-say and I-don't-want-to-hear-it. And because Not-Tom must be right, everything he says just feels so right and she doesn't want to think this to herself, not ever, but his words ring with truth and she cannot deny it and it hurts her on the inside.

'Stop it,' the voice snaps frantically. 'Stop your caterwauling this very instant, or I'll - '

Another headache pounds at her temples but Holly only cries harder and stumbles forward in confusion, pressing palms against her closed eyes in an attempt to ease both the pain and her tears. The throbbing in her head quickly withdraws but the dust scattered by her movement does not, and Holly cannot stop from sneezing heavily. Compounded with the tears still blurring her sight and the trembling of her limbs, any sort of balance abandons Holly utterly; she trips over her heels and falls onto her rump.

Unfortunately, she lands on a certain patch of the wooden flooring where the earth underneath had been made hollow years before, with the intention of hiding a highly precious object. Decades of rot have left the floorboards of the shack frail and thin and even the impact of her weight, slight though it is, is enough to crumble what remaining strength there is to be had into dust. Holly falls into the floor with a short shriek, and the result of her misadventure is a massive cloud of dust that rises into the air almost angrily, attacking her eyes and nose and throat with all the ferocity of a dragon roused from slumber.

Holly begins to sneeze uncontrollably, and tears stream down her cheeks for an entirely different reason. Her hands flail at her face in an attempt to bat away the dust, and when this fails she gropes along the dirt underneath her to propel herself up, only to graze something that burns her fingers with a shock of electricity.

'What was that?' Not-Tom demands tersely. 'Open your eyes, I need to see.'

‘I can't,’ Holly thinks at him. She cannot breathe, let alone speak, and she is most definitely unable to do any seeing. ‘The dust…’

‘Get rid of this wretched mess, then. Do you have magic or don't you?’

‘Magic?’

'At your age, accidental magic should not be overly difficult. Merely will it to happen - wish the dust out of existence.'

‘Go away,’ Holly thinks fervently. ‘Go away, go away, go away.’

Nothing happens.

‘You made your way here, somehow, what did you do then?’ says Not-Tom, his voice edging the boundary of impatience.

What had she done earlier? Well, she’d just…

‘Make it go away, please.’ The words are a faint susurrus curling in the corners of her mind, but they thrum down her spine like thunder, like ebullition, like power, thick and heady and entirely hers.

Holly takes a calm breath and opens her eyes.

All around her, the shack looks almost exactly the same as it had before. It looks just as dull and dilapidated as when she had first opened her eyes here - only, all the dust is gone. All the dirt and grime and the carcasses of unkown little creatures have disappeared, as if the rafters, the floorboards, even the air itself, have been scrubbed clean during the interval of a long blink.

‘You...’ Not-Tom begins, only he seems to think better of it and instead continues, ‘Look down.’

She pushes herself to her feet and does so. Within the crack in the floor is a small, rectangular case, plain and black but for the small gold-gilded letters inscribed on the lid - T.M.R., it reads. Unlike the rest of the shanty, the box looks untouched by age, its edges straight and crisp, its paint gleaming and unfaded. Plain though it is, the case is... oddly compelling. It seems to beckon to her, wordless whispers of secrets and her greatest desires granted and the return of lost love. The jolt of pain from earlier all but forgotten, Holly crouches and reaches for the box with stubby little fingers.

‘STOP.’

Holly stops. Her hand hovers midair as she is brought back into herself.

‘You were lucky the first time,’ her disembodied passenger chastises. ‘You will not survive second contact. I have no desire for electrocution, so do not touch the artifact again unless I say.’

The child nods frantically in agreement, too disturbed by the brief loss of self-awareness to have done otherwise anyway.

‘How did you find your way here, of all places?’ murmurs Not-Tom, once more speaking at her, rather than to her. ‘It explains why my presence is magnified enough for coherence, but the questions this situation poses… they do not sit well by me.’

His voice fades off and Holly sits in silence, bewildered and a little scared. She knows that Not-Tom is thinking deeply on something because her mind feels heavy with the weight of his thoughts, intangible to her but for the unfamiliar strain between her temples. She's not sure what she's doing here, and now that the novelty of the situation has worn off, she can feel confusion and fear crawling to the forefront of her emotions, both warring for primacy.

She… she wants to leave. She wants to go back home. Dudley had witnessed her display of strangeness and she'll probably get a thorough scolding for it, maybe be sent to bed without supper, but that prospect is still eons better than staying here, alone in this dilapidated hovel without a single clue where she is and only a cruel, disembodied voice for company.

‘Yes,’ Not-Tom interrupts shortly. ‘Yes, that is a wise decision, present circumstances being as they are. Repair the floorboards and then leave this place, and do not return for as long as you are able.’

That sounds like a perfectly valid plan to Holly. She determinedly imagines the broken flooring beneath her being set to rights and, as politely as she can, asks her ‘magic’ to make it reality. The largest lath of floorboard floats level with the rest of the ground, and shards of wood, thin and grayed with age and use, piece themselves like puzzle pieces along the sharp edges of the break until it seems as if the boards had never been cracked at all.

Once the repairs are finished, she begs to be brought home. Her magic is only too happy to comply, and the moment her feet touch the plush grass carpeting 4 Privet Drive’s front yard, she springs into a dash straight into Aunt Tuney’s apron skirt with a bawl caught in her throat.

Later, when she's up in her room with only a single piece of toast for supper, she realizes that the voice from earlier is nowhere to be found. Her mind feels quieter. Lighter. Emptier. Quite honestly, she isn't sure if this relieves her or not, but she puts it out of mind as a singular occurrence and resolves to never think of it again. That night, her dreams are vibrant and bizarre.

… a snake with filigree wings rebukes her for trespassing into its castle of dust, saying she should have known better… after all, TMR is inscribed in gold on the black banner out front… oh no, why hadn’t she seen that earlier, so sorry… only, the room had been lit as luminously green as her eyes, and it had been so hard to see anything, you understand… if you bite me, mister snake, I will scream, except someone is already screaming…

Holly wakes up the next morning, and remembers little of the previous day’s misadventure. She goes down to breakfast, has fruit and cereal and orange juice, and plays with her few toys before Aunt Tuney calls her to attend a social gathering of the neighborhood children. Life goes on as normal.

And then, on one sweltering afternoon several years later, Holly meets Tom once more.

ORIGINAL NOTES —

What is this. What am I doing. Who am I. WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE.

I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I'M GONNA DO WITH THIS //AGONIZED SCREM

Unlike the common fan misconception, James Potter’s parents were not Charlus and Dorea (née Black) Potter. They were actually named Fleamont and Euphemia. Honestly, I was going to make Holly’s middle name Lily, but my friends @our-brightest-stars and glossary (sidenote - please go check these people out they are wonderful authors and they helped me figure out my direction with this story so much mwahh such great friends) both gave a great big “No” to that, so Euphemia it is. It's definitely pretentious enough to suit the only heiress of an old pureblood family, and Lily was an awkward fit, in any case. I also struggled between the first names Holly and Harriet, but for the purposes of this story, a flower theme seemed more suitable to further ingratiate Harry to Petunia.

#fem!harry #harry potter #rule 63 #toraffles #little red flowers #chapter 1 #lrf #petunia #tom riddle #dudley #fanfiction #abandoned

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