This was actually a piece of experimental fiction that I wrote
recently for a class, so the form and structure are both
basically screwed to hell. Also, it was adapted to HP
after the fact, so if there are any inconsistancies, please
feel free to point them out.

Any questions, email me at

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, but the plot's
mine, baby!

Summary: Harry discovers a startling truth about his

Rating: PG13 for adult themes and mild language. Eventually, it'll
go to R.

Separation Anxiety: A Manual
Worksheet #1: Identifying Anxiety

The moon was full, but it was sheened dark like a silver dollar. Harry moved
slowly through the trees, glimpsing the dimmed moon only occasionally through
gaps in the dense foliage. It was early fall, and the leaves had softened to auburn;
they felt ready to fall.

Harry stepped into a clearing hesitantly, letting the moonlight silver his black
hair and gleam his pale skin. His clothing was carefully non-reflective, and his
pack likewise absorbed the light as he slung it to the ground. The soft thud was
lost in the aging dark. He crouched next to the pack, glancing up at the moon
briefly to gauge the time while his hands rummaged through the battered canvas
pack. He wondered briefly if Lupin was out and about.

"Shit!" he hissed quietly, jerking his hand back. There was blood running down
his fingers and over his thin wrist, clearly visible in the moonlight. He muttered
softly to himself, and licked a single broad stroke up his wrist and hand before
sticking the wounded fingers into his mouth. With his other hand he pulled out the
small dagger that had injured him; his blood, still wet, glimmered on the blued

He stared at his blood for a moment, fascinated, lips gone slack around fingers
still oozing the precious stuff. *She'd* bled like this. His hair fell into his eyes, and
he shook his head restlessly, as if coming out of a trance. He thrust the knife into
the soft loam, and went back to rummaging among his things.

It would have been different if they'd told him.

He began to lay out everything he'd need, settling each object securely into the
giving earth before him, anchoring it all in firm reality: the knife, a single photograph,
a simply-beaded necklace, a hairbrush, and a handwritten note. The knife was
bloody, the photo so tattered and worn from repeated handlings that the woman no
longer moved, the necklace frayed and retied, the hairbrush tangled with several
strands of long auburn hair, and the note smeared, though neatly written.

//Your mother's alive, Harry. They've been hiding her in Surrey.
She's been alive all this time.//

They could've told him.

He picked up the knife again, running his thumb across the pressure-bleached cuts
on his fingers. A cloud passed over the moon, and he looked up, annoyed with the

He'd wanted the moon to be perfect for this. Perfect the way it had been when
*she'd* bled.

They should have told him.

The clouds didn't matter. He could wait. He had all the time in the world, now.

Worksheet #2: Temporary Solutions for Anxiety
(A/N Harry is much younger in this section, around 12)

"It's not enough that we give you food and shelter?" his uncle bellowed, throwing
the ragged shoe at his head. Harry ducked, tripping over the other shoe in his
hasty retreat.

Perhaps mentioning his desire to own less-holey footwear had been a mistake.

"Get to your room," his uncle growled, face reddening with his anger. "If it weren't
for those damn *people* I wouldn't even give you that much!" he shouted up the
stairs after Harry's running form. Harry ducked into his 'room', picking his way
through Dudley's accumulated trash and other throwaway treasures.

Harry scrambled into his bed, jerking off his socks and throwing them to the floor
before curling up under the covers. He lay there for some time, shivering. He knew
that his aunt and uncle didn't have a lot of money. He knew that he was a burden
on their family. He pulled the covers over his head, wishing for a moment that he
didn't need to breathe.

Wishing that he hadn't been born.

"Harry!" his aunt's voice called, nearing his door. "Harry, you haven't finished your
chores." She tapped the door a few times, then he could hear her footsteps retreating
back through his cousin's room.

If he hadn't been born, then his mother wouldn't have died.

"Coming, Aunt Petunia!" he yelled, climbing reluctantly from under the thin blanket to
pad barefoot down the stairs and into the kitchen, where he retrieved the broom and
began sweeping around his aunt's rail-thin form.

He kept his head down, following the line of the broom as he drew it across the black
and white tiles.

He deserved this. It was his fault.

He'd killed his mother.

Worksheet #3: Getting Help When You Need It

She'd been easy enough to track down, once he knew to look.

The note remained a mystery. It arrived in the usual fashion, stamped and sealed
in a hand-addressed envelope. The fact that it was addressed to Harry was a bit
unusual; he never got mail. Not through the regular post, anyway. But aside from
this peculiarity, everything seemed business as usual.

He opened it at the breakfast table; his aunt and uncle were halfway through their
daily toast, and he and his cousin were picking at their scrambled eggs. He and
Dudley both hated scrambled eggs, but Aunt Petunia insisted that they were healthy.
Besides, Dudley would eat anything.

The sun shone weakly through the windows into the breakfast nook; it was partly
cloudy, as the weatherman had predicted, and would likely rain before the afternoon.
Harry faced the watery sun with reluctant, squinting eyes. He was more than ready
for the first day back at school; it was less than a week away, and even though most
kids his age dreaded schoolwork with a vengeance, he couldn't repress his excitement
at the thought of escaping the Dursleys for another few months. His leg was jiggling
restlessly under the table, and his uncle paused in scraping raspberry preserves onto
his toast to fix Harry with a disapproving look.

"Would you like the paper, dear?" Aunt Petunia asked, distracting his uncle. She was
already nearing the door, so his uncle called out a brief, "Thank you, yes," at her back.
Harry's cousin rolled his eyes and flicked a bit of egg at Harry; Dudley was a full two
years older than Harry, but he harbored a great resentment of Harry's powers that
caused him to act approximately three. At least, that was Harry's theory at the time.

Alternatively, Dudley could simply have been just as stupid as he seemed.

His aunt returned with the mail as Harry was popping the bit of egg into his mouth;
she skewered him with one of her *looks*, said "Use your fork, Harry," and set an
envelope before his plate.

"What's this, Aunt Petunia?" he asked curiously, picking up the crisp paper.

"It was addressed to you," she said indifferently, a far cry from their furor over the
Hogwarts letter five years ago; she folded herself primly into her chair, and passed
the daily to his uncle.

"Thanks," he said, rolling his eyes as he wriggled his thumb underneath the envelope's
flap and tore down the seam.

You won't know who I am, but I knew your mother and father very
well. Your mother's alive, Harry. They've been hiding her in Surrey. She's
been alive all this time. I don't know why they haven't told you, maybe to
keep her safe, maybe because she wanted it this way. What you do about
this information is up to you. I just felt that you should know.//

The note was unsigned. There was no return address.

"Harry, are you alright?" his aunt asked, her voice uncharacteristically concerned.

"Fine," he said woodenly, staring at the simply-phrased note that had just destroyed
his life. He felt as though something were literally tearing loose inside his chest, and
he put a hand to his heart, rubbing at his breast absently. "I'll be fine, Aunt Petunia. I
just think I might need to lie down," he continued as he stood abruptly from the table,
knocking his chair over in his haste. He ignored his aunt's shocked eyes and his
uncle's annoyed glare as he retreated to his room.


He hadn't killed her.

He could find her.

They could be together.


hey, if you liked it, please review. upon request, i may
expand this into a really long story with motivations
and explanations and in scene murder. for instance,
you'd get to find out who sent the letter. I already know
who sent the letter. bwahahahaha! umm. sorry. :)