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Chapter 1 : Deprivation
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Gorgeous chapter image by the amazing Caren at TDA
Disclaimer: I only own the OCs and storyline... ^_^
He surveyed the space he currently inhabited: a poorly-furnished, old bedroom in his foster home, which smelt of aged parchment and enchanted books his mother had left to him. He was lying on his mahogany bed, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling that offered him some comfort. His mother once told him that when a wizard turned seventeen, he’d be of age and was therefore allowed to use magic.
His hair, a silver as youthful as gold, hung in his sea-foam eyes; the fingers of his right hand wrapped gently around a vial containing a potion he had, with the guidance of his mother’s books and notes, brewed several months ago. Fortunately, he had his mum’s personality and brains. He had no real difficulties in understanding the theories of magic, so having grown up in a non-wizarding family didn’t really affect his magical ability.
Clutching in his right hand, and just over the heart, was a Muggle snapshot of a young woman who smiled as if she had memories and thoughts that were as much a mix of things loved and things hated. Her hair was bushy and as brown as the finest chocolate, stretched into telegraph lines and twisted into impossible curls that it impersonate a mouse in some modern style of art. It was the only remaining picture he'd got of her.
As usual, he endured that sudden and forceful rush of emotion associated with unbearable memories of his childhood. These memories tore through him as a cold knife that only breaks frozen butter. Something melted in him. Was it the hot remorse of knowledge and lack of action or was it some warmth he did not know? It compelled him to protect her from all misfortune, to save her from a horrible death.
“I’m going to bring you back,” the teenager whispered, running his hand through his hair, “and I am going to make everything work for you and Dad.”
He, putting the photograph in his jeans pocket, sat upright in his bed and fumbled for his wand under his pillow. This wand once belonged to his dad; he gave it to him before he abandoned him.
His foster parents could never know about his plan. It was too dangerous; they would be horrified. Even his best friend, Naomi, while she would understand his need to experience happiness, would draw the line at the risk he was about to take. But Hayden had cherished this dream for far too long. It had become his secret fantasy, a part of him – this desperate longing for his parents. He knew he was about to risk his life on an obscure, untried Potion; and he intended to go forward with his plan.
His mother died in his eighth birthday; she and his father had been fighting—over what, he had no clue. She had, in tears of hurt and anger, dashed from the house and been hit by a Muggle car. Until his foster father had decided to tell him, he had never known the truth of her death—for this he was grateful: he knew that he would not have been able to handle the truth until he was old enough.
He had repressed his memories and hidden all thoughts of his childhood in the darkest corner of his mind. The only remaining memory, which was somehow wonderful in his mind’s eye, was of a day with sunlight peeping through the leaves atop lofty trees when his mum and dad had taken him out for a walk in the park. As he had felt the warmth of the summer breeze against his five-year-old face; he’d believed, just for that short moment, that he’d had the happiest family in the world.
He cleared his head of the vision of a happy family, knowing that it was now nothing more than a fragment of a dream. The boy held the little vial to his lips, closed his eyes, and drained the serum.
This is my birthday gift to myself, he thought.
Holding his wand, he spoke aloud his intention: “Take me to Hogwarts, to Mother and Father, in the year Nineteen Hundred and Ninety-Six of the Gregorian Calendar.” He barely got the words out, as his throat began to constrict at the harsh, scalding liquid. His chest suddenly heated up; he felt as though it would explode. The heat scaled up to his throat—he couldn’t breathe. He collapsed. Choking and twisting on the floor, his sight blurred. But as everything around him dissolved, he forced himself to hold his goal within his mind.
“That vichy-waterblooded Ferret!” Hermione growled between entering the common room and fiercely slamming her books upon the table near the fireplace, an act which caused more than a little worry as the heavy olive-wood table moved even closer to the flames. “Where does he get off thinking that bullying is funny?”
“Malfoy again? What did he do this time?” Ginny asked, moving to her friend. Ron and Harry gathered around them as well.
“I’ll incinerate him, so that there’s no trace of his pathetic existence,” Hermione panted, her eyes hot with anger. “Malfoy said, ‘You’re gonna be lonely, Mudblood. Because no man will ever marry anyone as ugly as you. Not even if you’re the last woman on earth.’”
“Pathetic,” said Ginny.
“Isn’t it? I said, ‘Wow, Malfoy, you called me a Mudblood. And you called me ugly. Just like yesterday. And the day before that. Got a different one?’ And he just stood there with his mouth open, so I said, ‘I didn’t think so.’ I started to walk away, when all of a sudden, he grabbed me and said, ‘Here!’ I felt something cold and slimy down my back, and it was a miserable flobberworm. I almost screamed. I was wriggling around. It was like I was a first-year under her first tickle jinx. I ended up tripping and nearly fell down the stairs. The worst of it was that Malfoy ended up getting the last laugh. His little gang thought it was hysterical.”
“I’ll thrash and jinx that idiot,” Ron said, his ears turning red in anger.
“But you didn’t fall down the stairs, did you?” Harry asked. His voice was filled with worry as he grabbed Hermione’s arm to make her look at him.
Hermione’s head whirled with such anger that it almost drove her crazy. She’d never loathed someone so much as she did Draco Malfoy.
“No, I didn’t,” Hermione said indistinctly, without looking up, “he caught me.”
“He caught you? You mean with magic, right?” Ron exclaimed, flabbergasted.
“I don’t know… yes.” Hermione wiped away the angry tears in her eyes, wondering for the first time why Malfoy had saved her. “He pulled me back suddenly.”
“Maybe he didn’t want to get in too much trouble,” Ginny suggested.
“I’m going to teach him a lesson,” announced Ron, clambering out the portrait hole, “and I think jinxing him ‘til he apologises to you will work.”
“Ron, don’t! I’m not so weak as to need your playing a knight in shining armour,” Hermione cried, hurrying after him.
“I don’t care.”Ron’s rage carried him down the stairs with his wand gripped firmly in his hand. “If he thinks he can treat you like that, he’s mistaken. Bloody ferret boy!”
“No, wait, please! RON!” Hermione caught up with him and grabbed his arm. “Stop!”
“WHY?!” Ron shouted, turning at her. A few passing students looked up curiously at the two Gryffindors. “What makes him do that to you?”
“I don’t know. And why, for goodness sake, do you have to shout at me? Put your wand down—Now!” Hermione yelled back, frustrated. It was absolutely impossible to discuss things logically with Ron when he was this angry. So she gave in and tried to take a calmer, more normal tone. “Let’s just forget it, okay? I can’t just slap him like I did in our third year. However much I might feel like it.”
“You won’t walk alone next time, you understand me! You’ll have me or Harry or Ginny or someone stay with you.”
“I am not a little child that needs to be protected, Ronald!” Hermione retorted, rolling her eyes.
“But the way you let that jackal treat you is outrageous. Unless you let him, no one can make you act the fool,” Ron stated, his lips forming a pout. Hermione looked baffled at her friend’s argument.
“I never have allowed him do any of those things to me. Don’t you think it bothers me when he calls me Mudblood? That I completely enjoy how he mocks me in class in front of my friends while everyone else laughs at me?”
With the redhead’s lips quivering slightly and his nostrils flaring wide, Hermione could see that he only wanted to protect her. “Please, Ron. In only a year and a half we’ll be out of Hogwarts; don’t mess them up by provoking Malfoy,” Hermione said pleadingly. “You might just lose your position as Prefect, or you could even be suspended from school. You know how powerful Malfoy’s father is.”
“Fine,” groaned Ron. “But next time he does that, hurting you or anything, I’m going to try him for target practice of some kind.”
Where am I? Hayden thought, looking up at the wooden ceiling. He felt a bit sick, as though he'd been sucker-punched. He looked around him and noticed some old shelves holding beakers and vials stocked with different liquids and plants. He straightened up and found a timbered door in front of him. He jiggled the handle, trying to leave, but it was locked.
The wand in his trousers poked him from his back, prodding him to remember the useful spells—including the one to unlock doors—his mum had taught him when he was little. He drew his wand and looked at it.
I am always forgetting that I’m a wizard, he thought, laughing nervously. He focused his wand at the doorknob and flicked it, “Alohomora!” The door opened.
“Hah! You’re a genius,” he exclaimed triumphantly, since no one could tell him off for breaking and exiting.
Thanks to Mum.
He stuck his head out of the room and found himself in a corridor in a sort of dungeon. Torches hung along the wall, throwing a dim light through the hallway.
A handful of students emerged from a doorway that had previously been a solid stone wall. He noticed that they all wore black cloaks with scarves that were, on one side, an emerald satin so startling he wondered how either sex could wear them. But the answer lay with the other side which was of silver silk and could be folded or looped or even tied with equal ease. It was large enough to make a shawl or a half cape and yet it was usually used as a scarf, for the resulting effect was somehow akin to snake skin—and every Slytherin wanted to look that part.
If this is the era where my parents are still students, I’ll be a bit obvious if I walk around with an outfit from the future, he thought, looking down at himself and gathering his attention.
He flicked his wand over his clothes, chanting a spell he remembered his mother had always cast to change his clothes when he was little and became soiled from playing in their garden. Nothing happened at first. He flicked his wand again, a tiny sparkle sprang from the very tip of his wand, and a silver and emerald necktie tied around his neck.
“Great! Just a little more,” he said, choosing to be as optimistic as he imagined his mum.
His mother’s words echoed in his head again, as though coaching him to pronounce and flick the wand correctly like she had when he was still young and practicing the proper movements with his toy wand.
His wand, waved in the air as though his arm were being guided by an invisible force, changed his clothes. A long black cloak appeared. It reached his ankles, covering both the black vest which sat over the white shirt as well as the black trousers.
“Perfect, I look like … them.” He admired his black cloak and uniform, complete with a silver and emerald scarf and the Serpentine S of Slytherin’s emblem on his chest. “Slytherin,” he read carefully. “Dad was a Slytherin … but he never told me what it was like.”
Walking around like a Slytherin wouldn’t bring me too much trouble, would it?
He thought about it for a moment before leaving the room. Immediately upon exiting, he realised that he truly did not know how his dad had looked like as a teenager. How could he ever find him?
It would be a bit inane to look for Dad as already a fat sack alcoholic and semi-bald with a beard. A faint and wicked smile appeared at the corner of his lips. They actually never shared their memories; I don’t know much about their past lives.
He pulled the little picture from his pocket. “I know, I’ll look for Mum first.”
Sliding from the room in which he had been hiding, he was pushed forcefully aside. Before he could realise what had happened, he felt his head bump against the wall with a thud.
“Out of my way, you idiot!”
He looked up and happened to catch a glimpse of the face of the tall boy who’d pushed him aside with such disdain. The boy had light-blond hair that flowed like his and a sneer painted across his pale, pointed face. He was walking down the corridor with his two giant mates behind him. Glaring back at the rude Slytherin, he felt a somehow familiar feeling that he couldn’t quite explain. But the feeling of familiarity was quickly replaced by a twinge of anger that roiled in his stomach.
“Arrogant moron,” Hayden cursed.
Hopefully Dad wasn’t a prat when he was a teenager.
“Yes, indeed. He was angry,” Hermione sighed, pressing her books against her chest. She was talking with Ginny about her fight with Ron about Malfoy.
“You know my brother; he always wants to protect you,” Ginny said.
“He really doesn’t have to; I can take care of myself.” Hermione gave a sheepish smile.
“Yeah, of course you can...”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hermione asked, annoyed. “I can defend myself very well, thank you very much,” she sighed. “Malfoy’s just a coward, mocking me every time I’m alone.”
“You need protection, Hermione. Why can’t you just admit that?” Ginny pointed out, narrowing her brows. “Realisation is the first step to recovery.”
“You mean I’m sick?!”
“Nope. You just have false pride.”
“You wouldn’t shout for help even were you about to die.”
“So you mean I’m pig-headed?” Hermione frowned. “That’s what you mean?”
“Do you think Malfoy will ever stop being such an arrogant git?” Ginny asked, changing the topic quickly.
“I don’t know. I’d probably run to my death if it were the only way to get Malfoy to shut his mouth.” Hermione felt a sting in her chest, as though every word she’d just said were true and destined to happen.
“Hey, don’t say that,” Ginny cajoled her. “We’d hex Malfoy to death and he’d continue his derision in hell. Is that what you want?”
“Exactly—to be united with that beast in hell,” Hermione said sarcastically.
The two girls laughed together.
"I know that laughter", the boy mumbled without giving consideration to his surroundings. His light-blond locks reflected the afternoon sunlight as he stood a few feet from Hermione and Ginny. He looked up from the picture in his hands and locked eyes with the girl in front of him. Realising that the young woman in his photograph was standing right there in the flesh, staring back at him with a curious look that kept him from remembering the most basic of processes: breathe. Feeling faint, as though his lungs had abruptly contracted, he quickly inhaled, hoping that some oxygen would reach his brain before he passed out.
“Mum!” he gasped, his grey eyes never leaving Hermione's.
GRAMMAR CHECK BY FALLSTAR - 04/20/2008
RECHECKED BY CELTICBARD - 06/22/08
CREDIBILITY CHECK BY BELLA_PORTIA - 06/29/08 (also, thanks for the idea of the Asportation.) :)
Story summary by greylady_ravenclaw
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