Lie Awake Tonight, harry potter fanfic Options

[99RedBalloons]

Before you begin reading, because I neglected to put this in the subject heading: this story is rated K+ for ages ten and up (more or less).

I know, I know, this is a Winx Club forum, but I thought...why not try something different? We discuss the Harry Potter books, do we not? So why not some Harry Potter fanfiction? Anyway, this piece was written throughout September 2006, so it's not the most recent, but it's pretty close. Very introspective, kind of weird. It might be a little too heavy on the thought processes and light on the action for you guys, but I'll give you the benefit of the doubt.

Fabel 1

Today, I wake at the crack of dawn and immediately, thoughtlessly, weave a ribbon of black cloth between the fingers of my left hand. Black—the color of life, now the color of death. I weave it absently and there is a long piece left over, so I lace it around my wrist and tuck in the ends with the thought that it will stay there for awhile. Smiling briefly but affectionately, I sit up and rub my eyes with my right hand, flicking the sleep dust, which is a more attractive term than “mucus” even though the latter is more accurate, from my eyes. My hand is naturally splayed on the comforter, my fingers approximately equal lengths apart. Expressionless, I move my middle and ring fingers together and bend them all slightly—all except the thumb, which looks better straightened.

“Good morning, Draco.”

I look up, a bit startled. Her words are emotionless and hollow, making me cringe.

“Morning,” I reply, seeing nothing very good about it. We are silent for a long minute until he rolls over, bending at his waist and propping himself up on his forearms.

“Do you hear that?”

“I hear lots of things,” she says, still in that empty tone which sends shivers down my spine. “Mostly people talking quietly, thinking they’re not waking anyone.”

She speaks with hints of inflection, reminiscent of a public speaker like an actor. Moments of irony, of bitterness, but all sort of faked. I smile sadly and move to sit, cross-legged, on my blankets.

“Not in here,” he says, a little annoyed. “A noise outside, kind of like music. One instrument; a horn? A bugle or something. Maybe a trumpet?”

I shrug, although I can hear it too. It is a proud noise, or at least it should be. Likely a bugle meant to declare something we do not yet know, although at this point, anything we do not know cannot be worth knowing. She smiles wryly, drawing her knees up to her chin and resting her head on them. He and she close their eyes and I look out the window, though from the floor, all I can see is a misty winter sky. A few wispy white clouds tease the chance of snow but are too small to afford anything.

“Oh, I hear it now,” she says. “A bugle. That sounds like a declaration of victory.”

“Really?” he asks. “I suppose you know more about everything in the world than I do, but I thought it sounded like some kind of mourning song. A wartime funeral march.”

Privately, I agree with them both. It is almost as though two musicians are fighting over the same horn, shoving it back and forth to play two different songs. I almost wonder what is really going on outside before I remember that I have nothing left that is important enough to care about.

This post has been edited by 99RedBalloons: Apr 25 2007, 6:35 PM

[Ranma]

I'm going to hold off on voting for a while. I like it so far, but I haven't made up my mind yet. Post more ^_^

[Another Morning]

Like Ranma said, I like it so far, but I gotta read some more before I decide. My only complaint is that it's a little confusing to know who you're talking about, and I'm not sure exactly how many people are there. Or that might be part of what you said could be too confusing for some and it was intended to be that way, and I'm just too sleepy right now. That's perfectly possible.

[99RedBalloons]

It's kind of vague, I admit, but it's stylized that way on purpose. If it doesn't become obvious whose perspective it's from (although it should, because he's named, and I assure you every fabel is from the same point of view), I'll tell you. Warning: each fabel is a different day and time. When written, they were intended to be different seasons. That...kind of holds true.

Fabel 2

Today, I sit on the window ledge with one knee hugged to my chest and the other leg dangling outside, thumping against the wall. Surely the heel of my sneaker is being worn down, but this pair is old and well spent anyway. I can always buy more. I can buy nicer ones made of stronger cloths and tied with tighter laces.

“Oh! These leaves are crawling with bugs!”

I look down, craning my neck slightly to see them all below. They shove one another into leaf piles and then help each other up. One who I cannot identify from this height goes about taking others’ hands and then dropping them before they have their footing, laughing like an idiot. I frown with the sour thought that I would have enjoyed a similar game once.

It is autumn now, only a few months before the end of the world. Not literally, of course; I know the end of the world has already come and gone. According to the Daily Prophet, which was never unbiased, and all our duly appointed leaders, who have become less than reliable in such matters, the end of the world was sometime last year. “Luckily,” the Prophet declares still, “our destruction was deterred! The prophesied ‘doomsday’ fell short, due in part to the heroic and courageous acts of these following saviors from the Ministry of Magic…” As if some are left who still do not know. As if it was because of one person. As if those who were supposed to protect the wizarding world had a hand in the battle.

“Be careful there, Draco, or you might fall out.”

I close my eyes and do not turn to her. She speaks with a coy seductiveness that I find repulsive.

“Fine, you know, whatever.” She turns and walks away, her footsteps purposefully clacking on the stones below her feet. My rejection of her advances has always frustrated her, and now she wishes to drag me forth from my apparent depression and into the open arms of her love. I am no fool, however. Her love is not true and would not stand the trials of poverty, should such a thing ever befall me.

One would think, or at least one should, that such recent suffering as we have all gone through would have changed us all for the better. Tragedy is meant to show some light, some great explanation of all that is wrong with the world so that those who are punished may change their wicked ways.

Anyway, that’s what I’ve been told. Not several times, and truthfully I cannot remember the circumstances under which I heard it at all, but someone said it to me once and it has stayed with me. I may not believe it, but I do remember, word for word.

That’s not entirely true. I believe parts of it. I believe that tragedy has the ability to show truth to misled individuals and, should they so choose, change them for the better. I believe that tragedy changed me, although for the better or worse, I could not say. My friends say I have grown moody and quiet, but I admit I do not share my thoughts with anyone. They have no reason to think otherwise.

Interrupting my thoughts just now is the sound of a flute in the courtyard. Blinking to refocus my vision, I look down and see them all laughing at something as some clap along to the music. Then one points and two others look up, searching the windows with darting eyes. Finally one spots me and waves, calling out. I cannot hear above the music. The other waves as well.

Although I see them both and know they are beckoning to me, I do not respond in any way. Perhaps looking down at the yard was too suggestive that I might join them; I avert my gaze and look out at the unpleasantly grey clouds. Rain appears imminent, but that means little as it has looked this way for several days in a row.

[Another Morning]

I did find that one easier to follow, yes. It's still good so far. Keep it up.

[99RedBalloons]

For your information, there are eight fabels in total (meaning five more after this one).

Fabel 3

In our daily efforts to plan another final attack, I have participated less and less each time. It isn't that I don't believe in our efforts; I simply have nothing to gain from our victory and do not believe it possible without support we do not have. Maybe I have not changed so much.

Awhile ago, when the first rally--and coincidentally, the final one--was being planned, I had thoughts of grandeur in my head and notions of people to protect. I thought I would be hailed a hero if I was to play some key role in the downfall of the darkness threatening to cover our land. For awhile I was assured by some that this was all true, that all who fought so hard would be rewarded with fame and glory.

It did not take them terribly long to stop, and then it did not take me much longer to realize the truth.

There would only be one hailed as a conqueror after that battle was done, and it would not be I. I, who had lost so much and fought so hard, had done so too late and had too few blessings to be truly recognized as anything great. Once I realized my true purpose in this last fight, I resigned myself to the role and did little else. It was as though I had lost my own mind and become something of a drone.

As the others sit together, chattering away with their hopeful plans and dreams of victory, I stand alone and listen scornfully. Do they not understand that we are too small a force to make any difference? That we are too weak and they are too strong? Their "last ditch efforts" are stronger than ours and many of our potential allies are too afraid to stand alongside us, rendering them useless.

"Hello in there!"

I frown but jolt back into awareness, easily finding the source of my annoyance.

"Draco, were you listening?"

Nodding, I wave her off and cross my legs where I stand, rolling my eyes. She acts as though there is something worth listening to. I know better, but they will never listen.

Sometimes, but not often, I wonder if my lost ones would appreciate or praise me for participating in this recovery effort. It is doubtful; even ignoring my father's obvious alliances and loyalties, I have not acted in a particularly noble fashion recently. Perhaps the only reason he, meaning "they," would have for rewarding me would be that I have not even pretended to have fallen in love. Such a thing would be weakness, I am sure, and luckily I still evade its clutches. Would I like to find it? Perhaps. I cannot truly say, as I have never known it at all. I will never have to make such a choice, though, for my heart has become empty and I am not left with the tools to refill it. I would never know how to begin doing such a thing.

I have watched the others, all around me, pass through their initial hopelessness and restart their emotions and I have wondered: why can I not do such a thing? What makes me so different? What makes all of them so identical? Is it what we had going into this war? They all had family, I know, and friends to closely bind them. I had a technical family devoid of love or loyalty and so-called friends clustered around me to do my bidding until funds ran too low for their varying tastes.

Perhaps this is the key difference which keeps me from fighting properly: I have nothing to fight for. I never have and now, I likely never will.

This post has been edited by 99RedBalloons: Apr 30 2007, 2:42 PM