We read of characters who want to change their fate, their futures. But you have the chance to reclaim your destiny, Harry. The question is, will you? The story of a boy who's fate was stolen from him - by none other than his twin brother, David. HHr, wrong boywholived. Rated T.
Amidst the charred and darkened sky, amidst the screams of the dying and the grieving, I saw him.
I could not describe how I felt, in that moment, watching him stand upon the rubble that was once Hagrid's hut, his arm outstretched and his wand pointed towards Voldemort. I suppose, oddly, that my first feeling was relief. He was not dead. He had not fallen. He was very much alive, very much here, so close I could almost reach out and touch him. Relief that he was here, too. The irrational relief that accompanied the irrational faith that he would, somehow, save me, just as he had always done.
Yet the relief was short-lived.
I could feel the weight of the hands pressed to my waist, to my throat, and the wand digging into my back. I realized I could not reach out and touch him. I realized he was not going to be able to save me. I tasted the salt of my tears in my mouth and the smell of burning flesh was overwhelming. I was afraid, for myself, for him.
This was not his life to take, I knew this. He knew this. He was fighting against fate, and I knew the only reason for this was me. He had come to save me, to rescue me, but this time it would be futile. This time, I would watch him die before my eyes.
I cried as I took him in. His hair was darker, somehow, his eyes too clouded for my taste, his clothes torn and ripped and bloodied. I could not see any wound on him - I remember hoping the blood was someone, anyone, else's. I remember selfishly wishing he were someone else - just so that it could be someone else dying, tonight. Anyone but him. Anyone but Harry.
I choked back a cry, and his jaw clenched.
"Let her go, Tom," he said, his voice cold and steeled. I cried harder. "Let her go. This is between us."
The man behind me laughed, and I felt his wand press deeper into my spine, as though he imagined it sharp. Like he were wielding a knife. "Oh, but Harry. This is so much more fun, don't you think? Besides, you're surrounded by your kin. So I surround myself with yours. Fitting, no?"
I glanced behind Harry's back. To my shock I saw his parents, his mother looking grief-stricken and shaking, his father determined, one hand on his other son's shoulder. David's face was unreadable. I saw Remus, as well, and a woman with brightly colored hair, their eyes glued onto mine. I saw Hagrid, and Ron, and Molly and Ginny. I saw, above all, those who weren't there, a noticeable loss of their presence. Where were they?
Harry spoke, and my eyes went immediately back towards his face. "I'll call mine off. You call yours. It ends here, Tom. Just me and you."
There was a gasp from Harry's mother.
"This isn't your fight, Harry!" she called, desperation seeped into her voice. Her grip around David's arm tightened. "This isn't between you and him!" David's hand tightened around his wand. James took a step forward, and another.
"Don't come closer," Harry warned. "This is my fight and mine alone."
James shook his head. "You're being foolish, Harry! Get back down here now!"
He took another step forward, but found himself blasted back into place. Harry's hand had shot out, his wand arm still pointed at Voldermort, and no matter what his father tried to do, he could not pass through the shield his son had just cast.
Tom laughed. "Haven't told them, then? Or were they just to obtuse to listen?"
Harry set his jaw. "I called mine off. Now, let her go."
"A little touchy over your brother's fiancé, I see," Tom remarked, and then I felt myself being blasted backwards. I hit something mid flight, and felt the wind being knocked out of me. The world darkened.
"Let's do this, Tom," I heard, faintly, as though inside a bubble.
Hands were shaking me. "Hermione!" I remember someone - I think it was Remus - crying, but I could not keep the dark waters at bay.
I drowned listening to the sound of someone scream.
I figure I should start at the beginning - the very beginning.
I don't remember much of my early years. I suspect very few people do. Maybe they have vague memories here and there, some of birthdays or friends or falling of the swing set, some of dreams or parents or accidental magic. Most people have, at least, one or two memories they aren't quite sure if they are dreams or memories.
My earliest memories are few, and very, very far in between, but from the age of two to the age of five I can tell you that all of these memories have one thing in common: they all feature Harry Potter.
Life is funny that way. I can remember my third birthday. Not for what I wore or ate or received, but because I remember Harry Potter sitting on my bed telling me about his first flying lesson, and how horribly wrong it went. I remember his face when he told me he'd be the first Potter to be awful at flying. I remember him crying.
I remember sometime in the summer of my fourth year, when I was allowed to visit the Potter twins at their pool and Harry almost drowned. I remember when he tripped going down the stairs and broke his leg. I remember when he caught a butterfly by levitating a jar, and I remember how sad it was that no one else had seen it happen. I remember him reading to me from his mother's book of fairy tales, and I remember knowing that he had made up half the story because some of the words had been too hard for him to work through. I remember when he had to buy glasses and he chose the exact same as his father's.
I remember, most of all, a happy, if a little unlucky boy, with a big smile and sparkling green eyes.
But past the age of five is when I'm going to start this story, for one simple fact. Because it was past the age of five that I became aware of certain things that weren't right with Harry's life. It was past the age of five I became aware of David, and Harry, and how odd it was for two people who looked so similar to be so completely different.
If I look back on it now, i can safely say that it all started on Harry's - or should I say David's - fifth birthday.
It's terribly clichéd, but then again, terribly under-valued. My take on the Wrong-Boy-Who-Lived, HHr style.