Hours before
He was at the pique of his momentum. The living room was filled with the sound of continuously ringing notes, all echoing and reverberating around its thick walls. The perspiration started to form on Harry's head, yet he kept on going. The song he was playing was dreamt of, actually. It all seemed to be a mere offspring of his imagination.
But it was beautiful, if he did say so himself.
Upon reaching the end, he smiled and gave a deep sigh as the last note resounded in his ears. He grinned in contentment, wiping the sweat that formed by his forehead with a clean white handkerchief. He sat there, in the middle of the darkness, smiling to himself with the satisfaction of knowing that he had just produced some very entrancing music. With the unbelievably surprising thought instilled inside his head, he stood up softly and retreated to bed.
The sun was going to rise soon.
Yet, he was halted suddenly by the sound of the phone ringing. Furrowing his eyebrows in curiosity, he walked briskly towards the crevice and held the receiver.
"Hello?" His voice was already husky from the cold atmosphere, as well as dry from the lack of water for the past hours.
"Mr. Potter! You don't know how glad I am to find that you're awake at this time of day!" He recognized the over-enthusiastic voice within a split second.
"Mr. Lockhart? What brings you to call at this time?" Harry's eyes held a questioning look behind his wide-rimmed glasses. He heard Lockhart chuckle by the other end of the line.
"Well, funny you should ask. I was trotting along the old streets of surrey when I stumbled upon a man, which I assume you'll find very useful in your future."
"My future?" Harry couldn't stress this enough. The curiosity was immense inside of him, and he couldn't help but fidget with eagerness.
"Yes, Harry. Yours. Now, let me finish. He was asking for the score sheets from the previous night's performance. I'm assuming you have them?"
"I'm sorry sir. I didn't have any score sheets with me when I performed." Harry replied questioningly, recalling the performance perfectly in his head. The music just seemed to have been played by heart, he thought.
"That's nonsense. You must've had some notes to practice on, didn't you?"
"I'm sorry sir. Honestly, It was all played by heart and memorization. Nothing more." He could hear Lockhart grunt in irritation by the other line.
"Well, find some, boy! This is for your future, and not to mention, your career. Without those, I guess you'll be getting neither of that." He was nearly shouting, sending loud decibels to echo inside Harry's ear. Harry moved the receiver away from his ear for a second's time to avoid any more discomfort.
"Then where do you suppose I find some?" Harry replied forcefully.
"Figure it out, Sonny! You should know! Your father used to-" Lockhart halted suddenly. Upon hearing the mention of his father's name, Harry's ears perked up.
"My father? You know my father?" he asked. Lockhart kept silent for a moment's time before answering,
"Ugh…well…Anyway Harry, bring the sheets over to the house of Richard Granger over at Northanger 24." The name rang in his ears, and the familiarity started to seep in. The aging, humble cello-player backstage, he remembered. Yet, those facts seemed infinitesimal to him, due to the subject of his father that Lockhart had seemingly brought up.
"Gregory, you know my father?"
"Well-"
"You know my father? Where? You were able to talk to him? You were able to-"
"Good Day, Harry. I've lots to do. Good bye." The receiver on the other end hung up, and a constant beeping filled Harry's ears. Harry stared at the phone for a minute's time, furrowing his eyebrows in curiosity and frustration. Gregory Lockhart knew his father? With that thought locked in his head, he heaved a deep sigh of irritancy before heading off to find the score sheets, which were inexistent in the first place.
It was a going to be a good day.
--thepianist-
Yes, Harry Potter was a frustrated young lad.
The score sheets lay bundled within his arms, banded and fading. It had taken him hours to ransack the whole house and look for them. His panic grew just before he found them, ironically, under his bed. It was a comedic moment no one should've missed. The events after, including the frustrated screams, were indescribable. It also came as a shock to him, knowing that these existed after all. The thought of Lockhart's connection with his father continued to trouble him, though. Had history repeated itself? Was he the next performer of the piece he had played at The Old Stallion? Had his father performed the same thing years back?
His childhood was a blur to him. It was as if the war had not only wiped out their land, but their memory as well.
At the very moment everything was prepared, including him, he made his exodus onto the outside world. Yet, it wasn't really an exodus without the splitting of water and an Egyptian chase so, he erased the term out of his head.
Turning onto the multitudes of streets, he walked his way to 24 Northanger road, his signature Norfolk jacket hanging loosely by his shoulders. His constant whistling attracted a few stares, yet he replied to them with a mere smile.
"Where in the world…" He muttered to himself as he looked distantly at the grandeur of houses that adorned the streets. All of them were adorned with blue shutters, all identical and painted a shade of pristine white. Yes, they all seemed quite similar to his, yet he found a more pleasing respect for these.
It was then that he saw the big gold numbers, 24.
Smiling inwardly, with a hint of nervousness, he walked his way excitedly towards it. Its great oak door seemed intimidating, yet its pristine whiteness seemed surprisingly calming. It stood four stories high, with a blue roof that decorated the top. He clutched onto the score sheets tightly, his hands shaking anxiously. He walked slowly towards it, but was halted upon the opening of the screen doors.
Harry blinked a few times, staring at the aging man that was walking slowly down the porch's steps.
A loathing so deep, in fact, that it made him shake, started to surface. His body went rigid, his shoulders rising as his knuckles started to shake. He saw the man look at him in nervousness, a fear so familiar that Harry recognized it as his own before. He recognized the man. He remembered everything of his past and what he did to them, more specifically, to him.
Mackey White.
Everything else seemed unimportant at that moment.
The score sheets fell, almost dramatically, to the floor. He no longer cared. The fury was in him, imminently supreme and uncontrollable. His knuckles clenched tight, pale and severely numb. The befuddling thoughts in his head were starting to arouse an inner conflict; It was extreme and unbearable.
"White!" He screamed. The aging man turned to look at him, and Harry immediately lost all moral sense.
He charged violently after him.
"Come and face me!" He gritted as the man stepped desperately backward. His cane shivered violently beneath his palms, before dropping helplessly onto the floor. White tried his best to balance himself up, amidst his knees' loud protests. Harry walked closer, briskly and confidently as the sweat poured down his forehead.
"Don't hurt me! Please!" White pleaded, yet Harry's face remained firm. He gave a mirthful laugh.
"Ha! Funny you should say that. It reminded me of a similar thing I said before you beat the living bloody hell out of me!" The old man, all else failing, tripped onto his porch's steps. Harry stood above him, holding a deathly glare and a scowl so impenetrable.
"Forgive me! It was my mistake!"
"Of course it was!" Harry bent down and clutched his collar tightly. White whimpered under his grip. "And through the years? I made it my personal mission to hunt you down and treat you the same way. And now that it's happening, I couldn't be any happier." His fist rose up in the air, clenched tight and ready to land straight onto his wrinkled face.
'ones' could turn into 'forevers'…
He stopped.
A force seemingly pulled him back. He finally understood. He could kill the man if he wanted to, yet it wouldn't change the fact that he couldn't bring him back. With an apprehensive breath, his hands landed by his sides, his chest rising and falling heavily.
White had his eyes shut tightly, his hands shielding his unscathed face. Harry then found the time to back away. He stood there, idle and weary with his fists unclenching slowly. White stared at him, his chest heaving and his sweat dripping to his brow. Harry, diminishing all thoughts, started to move towards his cane. White stared at him, confused.
"What do you think you're doing?" He asked shakily. Harry handed him his cane.
"Im sparing you." He stated, before turning away slowly with the music sheets flying beneath his feet in all its messiness. White stood up, his knees shaking occasionally.
"Why? You could've killed me if you wanted to. Do it now!" White said quite bravely, yet Harry shook his head in rejection.
"No. I wont do that, sir." Upon hearing the respectful remark, White turned sharply to look at him.
"Sir? What kind of rubbish is that? Stop playing games, Potter! Just kill me now!"
"No!" Harry turned once again to face the man, who was now seething with anger.
"Why not?"
"Because I'll be just as pathetic as you."
The screen door opened with a sharp clang, and it was then that Hermione emerged from it with a panicked expression. Harry looked back, his hands in his pockets as his glasses softly slid through the bridge of his nose. It was then that he saw her there, standing, and he pondered greatly on the chance of her living in the house ordered of him to go to.
"Harry." Amidst her flustered expression, he tried his best not to smile and greet back. She looked from her grandfather and back to him, noticing their exhausted expressions.
"What's going on?" She demanded, her flustered expression turning into a frown. White looked away quickly, his back slouching slightly under her stare. Harry continued to stare at her, his hands shaking beneath his pockets.
"Someone answer me!" She stated, aggravated. Hermione glanced back at him, yet all she saw was his retreating figure. She refused the urge to call out his name. White quickly turned to her, forcing a smile that was obviously insincere.
"Now Hermione, don't bother the man. He has other places to go to. Now, why don't we just go inside and have some pastries-" But his hand, that was gripped on her arm, was shrugged away. "Hermione!"
Yet, she was already catching up with him, her dress flowing behind her.
"Harry!" She spoke out. He halted immediately, turning around slowly to find her meters away from him. Somehow, his anger seemed to fade upon seeing her there.
"Well, I was just taking a walk." He answered bluntly. She grunted, her eyebrows furrowing by her forehead. Her eyes were still red with the panicked tears she'd released moments ago, and Harry saw a drop fall by her cheeks. He resisted upon wiping it away with his thumb.
"Rubbish. You attacked my poor grandfather! I want to know why!" She took a few steps closer to him, and Harry soon felt claustrophobia surface in him. His breath seemed to quicken, and he pondered on how pathetic it was. "I want to know."
"I hardly know you. In fact, I don't even know you at all. So then, why should I tell you?" He replied stubbornly. She folded her arms across her chest in frustration, which Harry, in turn, replied upon with him putting his hands back into his pockets.
"Because you know you can trust me, stranger or not." Her tone was soft and gentle, and Harry saw the sincerity twinkling in her cinnamon eyes.
"Fine then. Under one condition." He said with an unknown confidence. Yet, he felt his heart palpitate violently against his chest. Hermione gave an exasperated sigh as her hands fell to her sides.
"What is it then?"
"Walk with me."
--thepianist-
He was walking back home with his head cast down on the floor. The wind was heavier now, and the score sheets lay unorganized within his arms. He looked back for a while, before choosing to let his gaze linger on the high-towering house.
She said no.
Had he been too overconfident, he didn't know. All he knew was that the embarrassment was immense. And so, he bade goodbye with a simple nod to Mackey White before setting off in all his sulkiness. His feet brushed stubbornly against the floor as he walked towards the deserted park. He hadn't noticed that the afternoon sun was just beginning to fade behind the tall trees and withering buildings.
A swing lay idly in the middle of the grassy setting, its chains swinging it back and forth to the rhythm of the wind around him. He walked to it slowly, somehow cautiously, before taking a seat. The loneliness was incredible. Had he known that it would lead to that type of rejection, he wouldn't have done so.
And so he swung back and forth.
Alone.
Bringing him a single memory. A memory that he had forgotten ever existed. And a memory so valuable that it seemed impenetrable. He had just wished that he knew what it all meant.
"Harry, don't wander too far." Lily stated, brushing away the bangs that concealed Harry's face.
"Mummy! Stop it!" His small hands scratched his face irritably. Lily heaved a frustrated sigh, before smiling in defeat. James came in later with two ice cream cones in both his hands.
"I've got two ice cream cones here for all of us!" Harry squealed as he grabbed the other cone from his father's right hand. In an instant, his face was filled with something that illuminated the color of bright pink. Lily raised an eyebrow at her husband, who held the cone tightly in his other hand.
"So. You and Harry get all the goodness, while I'm left with nothing?" Her voice made James smile unsurely.
"Well love-" His arms snaked around her shoulders, making Harry squint in disgust. Lily looked at him pessimistically, her eyebrows remaining raised by her forehead. "I thought we could share." The wink that followed afterwards made everything seem worse. Harry, unaware of what was happening, continued to smudge the ice cream all over his face as little sprinkles started to scatter by his cheeks.
The strawberry flavored treat that came from James' hand dripped onto her lavender Sunday dress. Her face turned sharply to his, which now seemed fearful and very much afraid. His hands backed away slowly as Lily's breathing started to escalate.
"James Potter!" Six year old Harry Potter giggled back, his cheeks red and plump as he started to run towards the empty sets of swings that ran through the whole playground. Lily's voice continued to echo through the setting.
'I cannot believe you, being the self-centered person that you are! This is what you always do, leave and forget that you have a wife that's working her arse off and feeding the child that you're to blame for and working non-stop and not bothering to tell me where you are and leaving every appliance in the house on and always being late for dinner and I still cannot believe that after all those years of you being mean to everyone and being the spoiled brat that you are and making everyone feel inferior around you and…' She trailed on, seemingly in one whole breath. James' expression, to others, may have made their day.
'But love, you know I love you and all!'
'…and everything else that you've done! Severus was right about you!' Her hair flew dramatically by his face as her back turned to face him. He attempted to touch her shoulders, but she shrugged them away.
'Honey!' This muffled statement was followed by a dramatic 'hmph'. A nearby couple resisted the urge to roll their eyes on them. Amidst this, little Harry continued to run excitedly, his sneakers squeaking against the grassy grounds. He sat on one and started to swing.
A small smile started to play across his lips.
"Hey. What are you doing?" Asked a small voice beside him. He looked a little and saw a redheaded girl in small pigtails looking back at him, her hair flowing as she swung with him.
"I'm swinging." He replied.
"Me too! I like swings. I'm Ginny, by the way. My brother used to like them too, but he fell after. Gave him a big bruise on his knee! My mum was really angry afterwards." She elaborated. Harry, in full honesty, couldn't care less. He was, at that very moment, laughing at the poor swinging attempts of his fellow playmate by his left.
"Well, anyway. Why are you swinging so high?"
"My uncle said if I swing high enough, I might see Merlin!"
"Who's Merlin?" She questioned him. Harry merely shrugged.
"I don't know. But my uncle says his name all the time, especially when he's in the bathroom." At that point, Ginny said no more. She just swung, her small jumper loosening around her shoulders. The other girl to Harry's left continued to struggle with the swing that seemed to give up on her just as she reached momentum. Harry fought the urge to stop and try to help her.
He continued to swing higher and higher, feeling the chains squeak against each other. His knees started to hurt from its continuous bending, yet he went on. He swung higher, still. In the far distance, he could hear his mother's frantic callings to his father. 'James, look at your son! Make him stop!'
He noticed Ginny stop to his right, sitting still as she chose to stare at him. This caused a ripple of other stares; Those of parents and children alike. Little Harry's laughter echoed through the grounds as he reached his peak.
He swung once more.
In a sudden turn of events, the swing chains loosened, and his small head turned sharply to see what it was. A handle went loose in his highest momentum. There were screams everywhere, causing Harry to do so as well. Harry's small glasses flew in the air and landed onto the ground nearest to him. His body flew in the air, and at that moment little Harry thought he'd seen Merlin at last.
There was a horrible, reverberating scream from his mother. Frantic footsteps, those that belonged to his father, seemed to approach him by each second. Ginny's small cry was heard as well, yet Harry hadn't heard the last one that seemed to have come from his left.
His forehead scraped against the floor. It bled.
The little girl to his left walked beside him and placed his cracked glasses by his side. He was carried immediately by James, amidst his mother's frantic cries. Ginny was sobbing by her mother's chest, with her twin brothers taunting her in the background.
And the little girl. That of whom sat back on her swing and struggled once more to get it all right, just as an unconscious young boy was rushed to a nearby hospital.
That little girl's name was Hermione.
Yet, the last part he didn't know. That scar on his forehead remained permanent and impenetrable. It was there forever, and he'd learned to accept that. How many times he teasingly cursed his uncle on the Merlin idea, he didn't know. All he knew was that it all happened for a certain reason.
Supposedly.
As he swung in all his matured glory, a small hand tapped him at the back.
"Walk with me, please?"
It was Hermione.
--thepianist-
A/N: I'm really sorry for the delay, everyone. I've been experiencing extreme writer's block, and I guess it was also accompanied by laziness. Out of all the days, I picked this one to do this so I'm pretty glad I did. Hopefully, I'll be able to update sooner than I usually do. Good day, mates!