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influencethis (![[info]](http://www.journalfen.net/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} influencethis) wrote,@ 2006-04-18 22:46:00 |
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This is straight out of Word, so it may need editing.
He waited quietly on the far end of the platform. If he could just make it through three more minutes, he would be free. Just three minutes. His mother waited, cowed, behind him. Just two more minutes, he said silently, just two more. His father wasn’t here, and if his mother wouldn’t open her mouth about him, he would be free. He would never go back and he would be free. If only she wasn’t crying as hard as she was. He would never go back. Never. No one could pay him to go back. Not pounds or Galleons. Not that they didn’t need it. But money would come later. Then he would never have to see those paper-thin walls again. Walls that revealed all his parents’ secrets to him. But that was later. No, it was never. Never those walls, again.
His mother grabbed at him with a dangerous amount of force round the neck at the sight of the train. She held him there quite a while, sobbing into his grey shirt, all the while saying nothing. Why didn’t she? People would stare. Wasn’t that something that house-elves do, weeping mutely at the loss of their masters? She wasn’t mute in the least bit with her crying. That may have helped him save the little dignity he had left, what with waiting with her in these horrible clothes and smelling slightly of cheap detergent.
The others would see. He knew they were watching. Them with their perfect families and perfect decent and perfectly ordered lives. They knew he was to be stepped on. He knew it too, from birth. How could he not, with his father telling him constantly and his mother trying to forget it? Not that she ever did anything, other than cry. And cry she continued to do, until the train started to steam slightly, letting him go with only a whisper. “Goodbye, then, love. You will write sometime, won’t you?” Her voice was pleading. God, could he not stand her pleading. It never helped with anything. He would never be around that her pleading again. Never. Not once ever in his life. He escaped her cloying grasp, and climbed onto train. He didn’t need to get his bags like the others did. They needed to bring their whole perfect world with them in their bags. He needed nothing that magic and this place he was heading, this heavenly place where he could just *be*, couldn’t provide.
He mused on them as he paced down the train corridor. He remembered meeting some of them, back when his mother could be counted on to drag herself out in public without making a scene about it. Huge homes, they had. Homes, indeed. His was never anything but a house to him. Theirs weren’t anything other than palaces. He remembered the imposing grandeur at the meetings his grandfather brought him to. He had to hide under a guise there, or his grandfather would excommunicate him and his family. And then his mother would cry, and his father would win. And his mother would plead after the crying. Both of these were possibilities to hideous to imagine. So he “put up appearances,” as his grandfather put it, and his mother pretended to be a widow, and so he managed to have some name with those other brats. There were always whispers with them, though, something under the breath about “putting down half-breeds” and “hussy’s boy.” It wasn’t his fault if she had to feign singlehood. It was better than the crying, any day.
The compartment on left, at the end of the corridor, was open. He made his way through the mass of other children, talking and *laughing.* Yes, they should laugh. They’re going with all their proper friends there, aren’t they? Seven years of fun and excitement await them, never having to worry about where they’ll go or if Mummy and Daddy will let them in or how to get away from them. He was stewing. Yes, he was wallowing in his own pity. Who else would? Who else on this green earth would give a damn about Severus? No one, that’s who. It was him for himself.
The compartment was empty. Thank heavens. He sat in the seat facing the engine. Shouldn’t get oneself sick with riding backwards on the way, should one? He glanced out the window. More of the proper type, all surrounded by family. There was the one with the mansion out in the moors. And her, she lived in that hidden place in London, didn’t she? She was the one who pointedly gave him *half* a biscuit at the family meeting and laughed in his face. He dared not do anything about it then, but now he would learn how to take care of her. Yes, the older one at the meetings would teach him how. That boy had already taught him how to close his mind. It came easily from living in a house where you were always silent, but the tutoring helped him gain a circle.
And there he was, that older boy! There, on the platform, being kissed by an older—no, those people aren’t old, they’re “agèd”—woman. They look so dignified about it all. Not like his mother, making a hideous show of saying goodbye. Proper people don’t do that, especially not the ones with homes. What would he say, that boy, if he had seen that? He would have raised his eyebrows and walked off, never to talk to him again. He would have gone back to his family, with their regal looks and regal clothes, and said he was raised by lunatics. Them, they were royal. They had their clothes with silk on them. Those were people to keep company with.
A girl passed the boy on the platform. She didn’t have any family there with her, either. Wouldn’t it be nice, if she were an orphan? He could show her what he knew of the magical world. Wait, what? He hadn’t even met her yet, he was sure of it. She certainly wasn’t from the meetings, he thought. He would have remembered that red hair. Everyone there was blonde or black. Funny, wasn’t it? Black and white hair, black robes and white masks. Was she heading for his car? It seemed so. She had a lot of trunks. Damn, she couldn’t be an orphan with that kind of useless splurging. Well, better to squelch that fantasy in its infancy, before it got the better of him and he would think that the fantasy girl was her, and then he’d meet her and it would be all wrong.
In other news, I got my first review on FF.net. Perhaps, one day, I will have my own leigon of squeeing fanpoodles! Or maybe not. Best to squash delusions of adequacy before they start.
He waited quietly on the far end of the platform. If he could just make it through three more minutes, he would be free. Just three minutes. His mother waited, cowed, behind him. Just two more minutes, he said silently, just two more. His father wasn’t here, and if his mother wouldn’t open her mouth about him, he would be free. He would never go back and he would be free. If only she wasn’t crying as hard as she was. He would never go back. Never. No one could pay him to go back. Not pounds or Galleons. Not that they didn’t need it. But money would come later. Then he would never have to see those paper-thin walls again. Walls that revealed all his parents’ secrets to him. But that was later. No, it was never. Never those walls, again.
His mother grabbed at him with a dangerous amount of force round the neck at the sight of the train. She held him there quite a while, sobbing into his grey shirt, all the while saying nothing. Why didn’t she? People would stare. Wasn’t that something that house-elves do, weeping mutely at the loss of their masters? She wasn’t mute in the least bit with her crying. That may have helped him save the little dignity he had left, what with waiting with her in these horrible clothes and smelling slightly of cheap detergent.
The others would see. He knew they were watching. Them with their perfect families and perfect decent and perfectly ordered lives. They knew he was to be stepped on. He knew it too, from birth. How could he not, with his father telling him constantly and his mother trying to forget it? Not that she ever did anything, other than cry. And cry she continued to do, until the train started to steam slightly, letting him go with only a whisper. “Goodbye, then, love. You will write sometime, won’t you?” Her voice was pleading. God, could he not stand her pleading. It never helped with anything. He would never be around that her pleading again. Never. Not once ever in his life. He escaped her cloying grasp, and climbed onto train. He didn’t need to get his bags like the others did. They needed to bring their whole perfect world with them in their bags. He needed nothing that magic and this place he was heading, this heavenly place where he could just *be*, couldn’t provide.
He mused on them as he paced down the train corridor. He remembered meeting some of them, back when his mother could be counted on to drag herself out in public without making a scene about it. Huge homes, they had. Homes, indeed. His was never anything but a house to him. Theirs weren’t anything other than palaces. He remembered the imposing grandeur at the meetings his grandfather brought him to. He had to hide under a guise there, or his grandfather would excommunicate him and his family. And then his mother would cry, and his father would win. And his mother would plead after the crying. Both of these were possibilities to hideous to imagine. So he “put up appearances,” as his grandfather put it, and his mother pretended to be a widow, and so he managed to have some name with those other brats. There were always whispers with them, though, something under the breath about “putting down half-breeds” and “hussy’s boy.” It wasn’t his fault if she had to feign singlehood. It was better than the crying, any day.
The compartment on left, at the end of the corridor, was open. He made his way through the mass of other children, talking and *laughing.* Yes, they should laugh. They’re going with all their proper friends there, aren’t they? Seven years of fun and excitement await them, never having to worry about where they’ll go or if Mummy and Daddy will let them in or how to get away from them. He was stewing. Yes, he was wallowing in his own pity. Who else would? Who else on this green earth would give a damn about Severus? No one, that’s who. It was him for himself.
The compartment was empty. Thank heavens. He sat in the seat facing the engine. Shouldn’t get oneself sick with riding backwards on the way, should one? He glanced out the window. More of the proper type, all surrounded by family. There was the one with the mansion out in the moors. And her, she lived in that hidden place in London, didn’t she? She was the one who pointedly gave him *half* a biscuit at the family meeting and laughed in his face. He dared not do anything about it then, but now he would learn how to take care of her. Yes, the older one at the meetings would teach him how. That boy had already taught him how to close his mind. It came easily from living in a house where you were always silent, but the tutoring helped him gain a circle.
And there he was, that older boy! There, on the platform, being kissed by an older—no, those people aren’t old, they’re “agèd”—woman. They look so dignified about it all. Not like his mother, making a hideous show of saying goodbye. Proper people don’t do that, especially not the ones with homes. What would he say, that boy, if he had seen that? He would have raised his eyebrows and walked off, never to talk to him again. He would have gone back to his family, with their regal looks and regal clothes, and said he was raised by lunatics. Them, they were royal. They had their clothes with silk on them. Those were people to keep company with.
A girl passed the boy on the platform. She didn’t have any family there with her, either. Wouldn’t it be nice, if she were an orphan? He could show her what he knew of the magical world. Wait, what? He hadn’t even met her yet, he was sure of it. She certainly wasn’t from the meetings, he thought. He would have remembered that red hair. Everyone there was blonde or black. Funny, wasn’t it? Black and white hair, black robes and white masks. Was she heading for his car? It seemed so. She had a lot of trunks. Damn, she couldn’t be an orphan with that kind of useless splurging. Well, better to squelch that fantasy in its infancy, before it got the better of him and he would think that the fantasy girl was her, and then he’d meet her and it would be all wrong.
In other news, I got my first review on FF.net. Perhaps, one day, I will have my own leigon of squeeing fanpoodles! Or maybe not. Best to squash delusions of adequacy before they start.
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