Jottings (Harry Potter)
Possibly a prequel for To Require and Reacquire, although it seems that my fic Sign of the Lion cannibalised some of it.
Sirius Black woke with a throbbing headache. Grumbling, he rolled over to check the day outside his window – and stopped. He was in a moist cave, lying on soft sand and hearing the steady dripping of water. He realised he had no recollection of how he got there, having last remembered settling for a snooze back at his family’s house...
Unable to remember any more, he crawled over to the small pool of water on his hands and knees. Seeing his reflection, Sirius wondered how he had gotten that nasty cut from his ear curving down to his jaw. Running fingers gently across it, he was astonished to find it vanishing underneath his fingers.
Frowning, Black looked up at where the water was coming from. A patch of stormy sky peeked in on him beadily. Having looked for a way to hoist himself up, he finally gave up and sat back down beside the pool. He was startled to discover stars reflected on its dark surface. A quick look up again told him that the sky was still grey and turbulent, tossing its arms out far and wide.
Dipping on hand through the glassy deception, Sirius found it freezing and syrupy, no longer the sweet trickle it had been moments earlier. Slowly, it morphed, displaying a room with – what was it – some kind of veil. He was sure he’d seen it somewhere, but he couldn’t place it. Drawing his hand out cautiously, he noted that the picture changed again.
This time, it showed Harry throwing aside furniture with such brutality that for a moment, Padfoot convinced himself it was not his godson. Why would Harry do that? Was there something he had missed? Heck, where was he? Was this some bizarre dream – an omen, perhaps?
Sitting back, he watched the stars reappear in the tar-like liquid. Sirius twisted his hands this way and that, trying to put pieces together. It wasn’t any use – he’d never been all that good at that kind of work. A rumble roared overhead, seconds after a lightning bolt dashed the sky in half.
He suddenly had to fight to suppress a yawn. He’d only just woken up! Looking suspicious at the pool which now reflected the cave and the sky beyond, he moved further down the cave and settled himself against a nook. Well, there was no way he was getting out of this prison yet. The cave was small and he could clearly see the ends. Sirius closed his eyes and let the oncoming black creep up from around him.
Harry Potter, to put it mildly, was having a bad summer holiday, sitting glumly in his bedroom, too bothered to set foot outside. He was contenting himself with writing on parchment aimlessly, trying to ignore the stinging in his scar. His jet-black hair lazily hung anywhere it could get away with it, but never enough to cover his green eyes. Harry had often been told how much he looked like his father, but he hadn’t had any remarks of the sort lately.
He spent his time avoiding his cousin Dudley, who seemed to have taken an interest in boxing up anyone he could find who wasn’t his parents in the neighbourhood. But all Harry had to do to set him off was walk up and hiss “Dementor” into his ear and watch the reaction with guilty satisfaction.
The weather lately had been dismal for summer – contradicting last year’s drought – pouring fury down onto the boxy houses lining the cramped cluster of residents. So far, the rain had not let up, running down the gutters and bogging muddy lawns. The only consolation to this was watching Mrs Figg strolling past not too conspicuously, holding a wind swept umbrella above her head as she went. Sometimes she would rip a flower off the flowerbed as she passed.
Harry glumly realised he had been writing to his godfather again, even though there was no way Sirius Black would ever get them. Throwing out the letter (which only had ‘Dear Sirius’ scrawled across the top) he began looking for something else to occupy him. Reaching for one of his spell books, he kept an eye on Hedwig who had begun twittering by the windowsill.
“I wish this weather would let up,” he told her gloomily, picking at a stray feather. “I doubt I’ll get any letters in this storm.”
He waved at the window to emphasize his point. Suddenly, he felt his scar shoot from a twinge to a full blasted boil in a second. Giving something of a yell, Harry bit down hard on his lip until it bled. He saw Hedwig nestling her head into her wing, but ceased to hear the torrential downpour. He heard whispering coming from all corners of his room.
It sounded familiar...then it hit Harry. It was the prophecy! Had Voldemort gotten it somehow? He listened more intently, not noticing that his scar burnt fiercely. It wasn’t quite the prophecy somehow...there was something different about the words...
Then suddenly, he heard the gale and rain return and his scar no longer gave him any pain. He stood there for a moment, stunned, then dove for his parchment, then paused. Who could he write to? Dumbledore? Ron or Hermione? Frustrated, he threw his books and parchment into a corner of his room. What he really needed was to send a letter to Sirius, but that was no possibility in that any more.
Harry sat down and took another spare scrap of parchment. Surely, he told himself, surely I wouldn’t need to send the letter. Smiling a little sadly, he wrote to his godfather, then threw the letter under his bed in near defiance. A boom resonated in the distance, fading away with Harry’s hopes...
When Sirius opened his eyes, this time he saw laid out in front of him neatly some Pumpkin Juice and something which didn’t look too safe to eat. Next to it, however, sat a crumpled up piece of parchment. Diving for this first, he smoothed it out and set it on his knee, unable to suppress the shiver that resulted from the storm.
When he first looked at it, Sirius immediately scanned down to the send. He was startled – it was from Harry! He looked around briefly for the snowy owl that usually accompanied the letters from his godson, he was soon baffled. How on earth had the letter gotten here?
Dear Sirius [it read]
I don’t know what to tell you, but since you will never get the chance to read this, I will tell you everything. It’s been so long since I saw you last and it wasn’t in the best of circumstances. It’s my entire fault you will never get this.
My scar hurt this afternoon. I didn’t know who to write to, considering I can no longer obtain your advice. You know the prophecy about Voldemort and I? I heard it, except there was something different about it, like a missing part had been added. I couldn’t really hear it above the storm but...
I think Professor Trelawney only got the tip of the iceberg. There’s more to this than a showdown...Sirius, I don’t know what to do. I have to either be victim or murderer. Don’t be too worried that I didn’t send anything like this to Dumbledore. I’m sure he has enough in his goblet.
See you around (or not),
PS: I think Tonk’s looking after Buckbeak, but you may as well check that up yourself.
More than a little unnerved, Sirius put it aside. What had Harry meant? “You will never get the chance to read this...it’s been so long since I saw you last...It’s my entire fault you will never get this...”
Deciding that the Pumpkin Juice was safe, Black downed it to the last drop and then watched it refill the jug. He frowned – how did Harry know about the prophecy? It got him wondering. He had obviously missed something very important. This in mind, he didn’t realise what he was fiddling with until he looked down and discovered to be his wand – the one he’d had before Azkaban.
A thought occurred to him – it seemed so simple, why hadn’t he realised before – what if he was dead? This cave certainly seemed isolated and strange enough to rectify it. . .But how? Why? That last thing he remembered was settling down for a snooze at the Order of the Phoenix headquarters. Had Kreacher something to do with it? But Harry had mentioned it being his fault...
Sirius was distracted from his musings when part of the cave crumbled inwards at the other end. He stared at the gaping hole leading out onto deserted countryside in confusion. Surely, if he was dead, he wouldn’t be given a free ticket back. Picking up his wand, he moved carefully towards it, not daring to believe his luck. He tucked Harry’s letter safely away, hoping to use it as reference.
He paused at the pool and looked down, seeing his reflection looking back up at him. No, he seemed alive enough. At this, he laughed to himself. Good enough – he’d find out the whys and hows later. He stepped outside into the rain, and then ran for the nearest cover.
Vernon.doc (2003, I think)
Originally intended to be posted under the fanfiction account of "Harry Scarface Potter", because of what happens in my fic of the same name. It was supposed to be about Uncle Vernon gaining magical powers. This was meant to show his reaction to the wards Dumbledore placed on the house.
Vernon Dursley watched the dreaded wizard (Harry Potter, the nuisance) wave cheerfully then vanish as always. What was this, the sixth year the boy had gone off to the ruddy school? What the boy did there was not his concern, not his problem. Vernon secretly hoped Harry would die this year – seriously. With all those near to death happenings, it was a wonder the boy was still standing.
The boy had been moping about all summer and letting menageries in every hour of the morning. Those bloody owls…Vernon turned without a word and pushed through crowds to the nearby car park. He was bitter about being the only one to drop the boy off, but at least Dudders didn’t have to share the same seat. Vernon would not be able to look sideways at Potter – he’d confined the runt to the back seat and hadn’t bothered to check that the boy had buckled up before putting the foot down.
Now there would be a while before the nuisance came back and Mr Dursley was relieved. He wouldn’t have to worry about neighbors looking in his windows and seeing anything unusual, wouldn’t have to deal with owls. There was nothing standing between him and his company’s success…
Vernon Dursley drove his sleek car into the driver and stepped away from the door, admiring every angle of the vehicle. The trip into London had not returned any dents or dings or scratches. That Potter boy’s needs hadn’t caused too much trouble this time. As he turned to go inside a neat, orderly house for a schedule dinner neatly and orderly arranged, the warm air rushed past his nose.
Someone looking on might have thought a bomb had gone off inside Mr Dursley. He threw his head back and sneezed extremely loudly. Nostrils quivering, he waited. The second sneeze shook him so violently that he fell over backwards and landed in a bush of prized geraniums. He lay there awkwardly, staring up at the sky in amazement.
It could have just been his watering eyes or the sunset really was splashing golden light in a dome around his house. Vernon watched it dissolve, stunned, then sprang to his feet, gingerly avoiding trampling any more flowers. He’d say those ruddy gang boys down the road did it, he decided. Petunia would be mightily upset about the crushed petals, but at least her ire wouldn’t be centred on him.
Mr Dursley fumbled for his keys and opened the front door of number four Privet Drive. He was home and safe, the abnormal boy wasn’t going to be seen until next summer and Dudley was still winning boxing championships. Things couldn’t be more normal.
“ACHOO!” He exclaimed loudly.
“I’m taking the day off,” Vernon explained into the telephone early the next morning, holding a handkerchief to his nose. He hung up as soon as it was deemed polite, then exploded into sneezes. He seriously contemplated seeing a doctor, but shrugged it off as allergies and stress compounding into one.
He helped himself to the fridge and a newly set chocolate slice that his wife had made before shooting off to a garden expo that Dudley had been strangely compelled to go to. Mr Dursley was relieved – he really didn’t feel well. For a moment, his hand hovered over the phone hook. No, he decided. Not sick enough to get too worried about things.
He slouched into the living room and switched on the television, making himself comfortable. Where there should have been an easy going telemovie, there was a special news report. Vernon Dursley scowled.
“Ruddy murderers,” he grumbled. “Ruining my TV day.”
His mood was further worsened when the remote’s batteries died and he had to suffer by hearing more about the unexplained murders. It sounded suspicious so he put it down to the freaks. Well, he wasn’t making a guess. Only those freaks would wave a wand and kill someone.
Come to think of it, that wouldn’t be such a bad idea on some of those prats at work.
No, no, no thinking about freaks and wands and gobbledegook!
Vernon glanced out the window while waiting for the news report to go away. He blinked. There was a shimmering golden light. He blinked again. It did not go away. He put it down to needing his eyes checked. Then he sneezed.
It was a very violent sneeze, shaking him off the lounge. Gasping for breath and wiping his watering eyes, Mr Dursley could have sworn he heard some form of smashing. With his eyes yet to clear, he put it down to his eardrums bursting. When at last he could focus, he was shocked to discover all the furniture in the living room had been blown away from him and against the wall.
Petunia’s china plates were in shards. Vernon wondered stupidly if he could blame that on the gang boys as well.
“Must be that ruddy boy!” he snapped.
But surely the Potter boy was much happier at school and wouldn’t want to be hanging around. Unless to torment him. Ungrateful wretch! A great sneeze rocked his frame and this time the glass in the window exploded. Vernon stared at it. He idly realised that when he sneezed, strange things were happening. He growled, “He’s pointed that wand at me! I know it!”
He could feel the sneeze coming on, tickling the hairs in his nasal passage. Vernon tried desperately to hold it in. He failed miserably. This one shook the entire house and the television set landed on his head, mercifully knocking him out.
Vernon Dursley cracked open his eyes and immediately regretted it. He was staring at one of those ruddy hospital lights. This meant he was probably in a hospital. He groaned. His wife’s horse face loomed over him and she began fussing instantly.
“Eh,” Vernon said unintelligently.
She was babbling about vandals and emergency rooms. It made some sense. Petunia continued her ramblings, “Why they would attack a sick man…”
“What’s that dear?”
“Oh! Of course I’ll get you water, you poor thing.”
Vernon began to feel light headed. His nose began to twitch. He tried to warn his wife and ended up spilling the water everywhere. He squeezed his eyes shut and held back the sneeze successfully. He warned, “Stay away, Petunia!”
“What’s the matter?” cried the nosey woman, looking more excited than worried.
He continued to warn her to keep away. And that’s why he ended up talking to the psychiatrist a level up.
“Are you afraid of hurting people, Vernon?” intoned the man.
Mr Dursley felt very affronted. He was not a freak. He was not crazy. He just had bad experiences sneezing, that’s all! That’s all!
Hogwarts Choir.doc (2004)
Apparently inspired by the trailer for the movie version of Prisoner of Azkaban, this was going to be a bad story about the Hogwarts choir existing in the Marauder Era.
“Lily! You’ve got to see this!”
Lily Evans looked across as Mica McPherson hurried towards her, face red with excitement. She waved the parchment in front of her friend’s face, eagerly waiting a response. Lily shut her book with a snap and set it aside, saying incredulously, “You didn’t rip this off the notice board did you?”
“And anyway,” Lily continued, narrowing her brilliant green eyes, “what you call singing is enough to put the Slytherins to shame. You can’t possibly join this choir.”
Lily was a frank and honest student, while Mica was very accepting. Otherwise, Lily might have been slapped, hit, kicked etc. It was because of this that her Scottish friend merely beamed, a dangerous glint coming into her eye, not unlike the Marauders before a prank. Mica sat down opposite Lily and smiled wickedly. “I wasn’t thinking about me, you know.”
Sirius Black was smiling reverently, muttering to himself. After reading the notice announcing that a choir would be formed, he had gone off into a corner and curled up quietly. Concerned about this behaviour, his three friends went over to him to ask him if he was alright.
“Fine, fine,” was his vacant response.
Supposed to be a Harry/Hermione fic I was writing for my friend.
Hermione’s face had a distinct orange cast to it as the fire of the Gryffindor common room flickered the only light onto her. Tears left tracks down her face, tasting of bitterness if they made it to her lip