FIC--Wallowing in Self-Pity, part eight
Jul. 19th, 2007 11:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ficsbydeenasTitle: Wallowing in Self-Pity
Chapter Eight
Chapter Rating: PG13
Summary: Too many things have gone wrong. Too many people have suffered, even though the battle is won. A self-imposed exile is all he thinks he deserves.
PART EIGHT
Harry hung up the phone and sighed. He'd just told his landlord that he was breaking his lease and told him he'd leave the remaining amount in an envelope once he'd cleared out.
There, he thought, first item done. Now for the hard part.
He walked over to the closet and stood on his tip toes to remove the box that contained the remnants of his previous life. Without making a sound, he placed the box in the same place it was all those months ago on the day he moved in. There, on the top of the pile of photographs and mementos, lay his wand. With shaking fingers, he grasped the worn handle and smiled as he felt vibrations of magic that shot through his fingers, exactly the same as it had when he picked it up that first time in Ollivander's.
"Okay, so I guess it still works," he told the piece of holly with its phoenix feather core.
With a great deal of concentration, he recalled the spell to turn the sofa back to a pair of socks and the blanket back into the Gryffindor scarf. One by one, the items that had been transfigured changed back into their original form. He smiled as he noticed that only a few things weren't exactly as they had been before.
Once everything was back inside the box, he summoned his clothing from the wardrobe and watched in amazement as the items flew into the room and landed at his feet. For several moments, he stood there, trying to remember the spell that Tonks had used to pack his trunk back when he was fifteen. So he had to do it the way he'd always done before, by hand.
With the three boxes packed and cellotaped shut, Harry took one last look at the flat and walked out the door, determined to never return to this sort of half-life again.
-----
Harry strolled along the streets that he frequented in the past nine months with a spring in his step. He waved to people he knew and stopped a few times to answer questions as to where he was going, giving vague answers that managed to satisfy the most curious of neighbours. As he passed the florist shop he once worked for, he stepped inside on a lark and walked to the cooler where the roses where stored.
"Harry! So nice to see you!" It was the florist, Mr. Bloomquist, a man with greying hair and a bit of a paunch. "What's with the boxes?"
"Oh, er, well, I'm moving back home," he answered with a smile.
Home. But would it really be home? he wondered. Would the Weasleys welcome him back or would they slam the door in his face?
"Really? I'd say it's about time, too, my boy. You haven't been the same since Christmas."
"Yeah. I just hope my family forgives me for running away," he said.
"If they love you, they will. Now, what can I get for you?" Mr. Bloomquist asked with a smile.
"Well, ladies like roses, don't they? And I have a lot of apologizing to do. So let's see, uh, three dozen roses?"
Mr. Bloomquist whistled. "That is a lot of apologies, isn't it?"
-----
Armed with thirty-six roses and the largest box of Galaxy chocolate he could find, Harry stood just off the path that led to The Burrow, having just Apparated. He was so nervous when he tried Apparating he was afraid he would leave a vital piece of anatomy behind. But those worries were assuaged when he found himself to be in one piece.
He didn't know exactly how long he stood there, trying to pull himself together enough to make his way over to The Burrow. The last thing we wanted was for someone to happen across the path and find him just standing there, flowers and chocolate in hand, looking as if he was either the world's biggest romantic or a dangerous stalker.
With a deep breath, he slowly walked toward the house that had become the symbol of all the things he fought for: family, normalcy, love and life. Harry's stomach argued with him every step of the way, tying itself up in knots that threatened to make him turn tail and run. But he'd done enough of that now, hadn't he?
He was a few feet from the door when he heard a rumble of laughter and the unmistakable sound of hinges squeaking as the wooden door opened to reveal a familiar figure with long red hair and a swarthy appearance that could only be associated with Bill Weasley.
Harry froze on the spot, feeling his stomach drop to his feet and his mouth go dry. His heart raced and climbed into his throat. Swallowing to send his stomach back down to where it belonged, he took two steps ahead and managed a weak, "Bill…"
Without talking his eyes off him, Bill bellowed to the house behind him, "Mum! Ron! You might want to come out here." He held out his hand, indicating that Harry should wait outside.
With much fear and trepidation, Harry took a few steps toward the house but paused once he heard a familiar voice coming from the doorway.
"What's got your knickers in a twist…" Ron stopped mid-sentence as he took notice of Harry standing outside his family home after abandoning him.
Harry stared at the silhouette of his old friend, feeling extremely guilty at the sight of the asymmetry of Ron's body. His hair was cut short, almost in a military cut, and he was dressed all in black—black t-shirt, black trousers and a black holster-type thing that held his wand and a few other devices in it.
Trying very hard to sound as normal as he could, Harry managed to scratch out, "Ron…hey there, mate."
A number of Weasleys gathered behind Ron, each of them wearing the same expression: mouth open, eyes squinting at him, arms crossed stubbornly against the chest. The only contrast to the gathering was the familiar, wild brown hair of Hermione and the silver glow of Fleur.
This was not going to be good.
Without a word, Ron left the doorway and took four long strides toward Harry until he was standing before him. Harry never felt smaller in his life as it appeared that Ron had grown another four inches. Wasn't there a law against genetic manipulation, Harry wondered to himself.
"Ron."
"Harry."
The two of them continued to stare at each other as best they could with Ron towering over Harry by at least six inches. The tension was palpable between them and they were capable of speaking in monotones, their eyes never wavering from the intense stare between them.
"Happy Birthday."
"You back?"
"Most likely."
"Explain."
"Well, er, if you don't want me here, I'll never come back."
"And?"
"I'm planning on staying with the magical world."
"Uh huh."
"Yeah."
"So here you are."
"Yeah."
The world began moving in slow motion as Harry saw, out of the corner of his right eye, Ron's left arm moving swiftly in the air and then connecting with Harry's jaw. His eyes rolled back in his head and fell to the ground.
Chapter Eight
Chapter Rating: PG13
Summary: Too many things have gone wrong. Too many people have suffered, even though the battle is won. A self-imposed exile is all he thinks he deserves.
Harry hung up the phone and sighed. He'd just told his landlord that he was breaking his lease and told him he'd leave the remaining amount in an envelope once he'd cleared out.
There, he thought, first item done. Now for the hard part.
He walked over to the closet and stood on his tip toes to remove the box that contained the remnants of his previous life. Without making a sound, he placed the box in the same place it was all those months ago on the day he moved in. There, on the top of the pile of photographs and mementos, lay his wand. With shaking fingers, he grasped the worn handle and smiled as he felt vibrations of magic that shot through his fingers, exactly the same as it had when he picked it up that first time in Ollivander's.
"Okay, so I guess it still works," he told the piece of holly with its phoenix feather core.
With a great deal of concentration, he recalled the spell to turn the sofa back to a pair of socks and the blanket back into the Gryffindor scarf. One by one, the items that had been transfigured changed back into their original form. He smiled as he noticed that only a few things weren't exactly as they had been before.
Once everything was back inside the box, he summoned his clothing from the wardrobe and watched in amazement as the items flew into the room and landed at his feet. For several moments, he stood there, trying to remember the spell that Tonks had used to pack his trunk back when he was fifteen. So he had to do it the way he'd always done before, by hand.
With the three boxes packed and cellotaped shut, Harry took one last look at the flat and walked out the door, determined to never return to this sort of half-life again.
-----
Harry strolled along the streets that he frequented in the past nine months with a spring in his step. He waved to people he knew and stopped a few times to answer questions as to where he was going, giving vague answers that managed to satisfy the most curious of neighbours. As he passed the florist shop he once worked for, he stepped inside on a lark and walked to the cooler where the roses where stored.
"Harry! So nice to see you!" It was the florist, Mr. Bloomquist, a man with greying hair and a bit of a paunch. "What's with the boxes?"
"Oh, er, well, I'm moving back home," he answered with a smile.
Home. But would it really be home? he wondered. Would the Weasleys welcome him back or would they slam the door in his face?
"Really? I'd say it's about time, too, my boy. You haven't been the same since Christmas."
"Yeah. I just hope my family forgives me for running away," he said.
"If they love you, they will. Now, what can I get for you?" Mr. Bloomquist asked with a smile.
"Well, ladies like roses, don't they? And I have a lot of apologizing to do. So let's see, uh, three dozen roses?"
Mr. Bloomquist whistled. "That is a lot of apologies, isn't it?"
-----
Armed with thirty-six roses and the largest box of Galaxy chocolate he could find, Harry stood just off the path that led to The Burrow, having just Apparated. He was so nervous when he tried Apparating he was afraid he would leave a vital piece of anatomy behind. But those worries were assuaged when he found himself to be in one piece.
He didn't know exactly how long he stood there, trying to pull himself together enough to make his way over to The Burrow. The last thing we wanted was for someone to happen across the path and find him just standing there, flowers and chocolate in hand, looking as if he was either the world's biggest romantic or a dangerous stalker.
With a deep breath, he slowly walked toward the house that had become the symbol of all the things he fought for: family, normalcy, love and life. Harry's stomach argued with him every step of the way, tying itself up in knots that threatened to make him turn tail and run. But he'd done enough of that now, hadn't he?
He was a few feet from the door when he heard a rumble of laughter and the unmistakable sound of hinges squeaking as the wooden door opened to reveal a familiar figure with long red hair and a swarthy appearance that could only be associated with Bill Weasley.
Harry froze on the spot, feeling his stomach drop to his feet and his mouth go dry. His heart raced and climbed into his throat. Swallowing to send his stomach back down to where it belonged, he took two steps ahead and managed a weak, "Bill…"
Without talking his eyes off him, Bill bellowed to the house behind him, "Mum! Ron! You might want to come out here." He held out his hand, indicating that Harry should wait outside.
With much fear and trepidation, Harry took a few steps toward the house but paused once he heard a familiar voice coming from the doorway.
"What's got your knickers in a twist…" Ron stopped mid-sentence as he took notice of Harry standing outside his family home after abandoning him.
Harry stared at the silhouette of his old friend, feeling extremely guilty at the sight of the asymmetry of Ron's body. His hair was cut short, almost in a military cut, and he was dressed all in black—black t-shirt, black trousers and a black holster-type thing that held his wand and a few other devices in it.
Trying very hard to sound as normal as he could, Harry managed to scratch out, "Ron…hey there, mate."
A number of Weasleys gathered behind Ron, each of them wearing the same expression: mouth open, eyes squinting at him, arms crossed stubbornly against the chest. The only contrast to the gathering was the familiar, wild brown hair of Hermione and the silver glow of Fleur.
This was not going to be good.
Without a word, Ron left the doorway and took four long strides toward Harry until he was standing before him. Harry never felt smaller in his life as it appeared that Ron had grown another four inches. Wasn't there a law against genetic manipulation, Harry wondered to himself.
"Ron."
"Harry."
The two of them continued to stare at each other as best they could with Ron towering over Harry by at least six inches. The tension was palpable between them and they were capable of speaking in monotones, their eyes never wavering from the intense stare between them.
"Happy Birthday."
"You back?"
"Most likely."
"Explain."
"Well, er, if you don't want me here, I'll never come back."
"And?"
"I'm planning on staying with the magical world."
"Uh huh."
"Yeah."
"So here you are."
"Yeah."
The world began moving in slow motion as Harry saw, out of the corner of his right eye, Ron's left arm moving swiftly in the air and then connecting with Harry's jaw. His eyes rolled back in his head and fell to the ground.
