Scrap Parchment

Scrap Parchment

By: The Fitchburg Finch

Chapter Two: Time

The minutes passed on in a way that made Harry wish they were tangible; something he could pluck from the sky and crush between thumb and forefinger.

It was an insufferable thing, time. It could breathe new life into a man with the utmost simplicity, or swallow his hopes and dreams and leave him with nothing but unimaginable sorrow in one swift, heartless gulp.

Harry new the merciless side of time all too well. It had taken from him in an instant what he had waited thirteen years for; a father. It had laughed in his face on countless occasions when on his knees he begged of it just one more moment, one more sweet instance of having that which he always needed and barely had the chance to know.

Time was a miserable bitch. A laughless hellion determined to fill the hearts of all she touched with an abhorrent squalor. She could lengthen minutes to the extent of hours for her own amusement, but she couldn't be bothered to give him a few back when they were so desperately needed.

He sat low in his seat, staring intently on a bit of plaster hanging loosely from the wall and willed the minutes by. They were doing no such thing. After all, Harry Potter had a prophecy to fulfill, and time was all too thrilled to sit and watch him count the minutes left before his poetic destiny was to arrive. She had no intention of speeding things up for him, the masochistic tyrant. No, she was enjoying every sweet second of his overwhelming agony far too much to grant him any favors.

"Mr. Potter, would you care to demonstrate?"

Curse that bastard Snape.

His only joy in life seemed to resonate from humiliating Harry in the most degregating and public of ways. Harry stared intently at the sullen face of the beady-eyed potions master smiling at him maliciously. Yes, curse that bastard Snape right back to the execrable hell from which he was spat.

Harry arose from his desk and walked towards the head of the classroom slowly, well aware of the eyes staring hungrily at him. A bloodthirsty crowd of Slytherins awaited his 'demonstration' eagerly; making no attempts to hide the malice in their eyes or wipe the anticipation from their wretched, hell spawned faces.

"At what rate, Mr. Potter, should I deposit the dragon's blood?" Professor Snape asked, pointing at the boiling cauldron before him. Harry paused momentarily, silently cursing Hermione Granger and her shaky hands, and shook his head.

"I don't know, sir," he replied quietly.

"Oh, really?" Professor Snape replied, a hint of glee in his uncomely eyes.

And then he took his chance to strike.

"Great show, Harry," Hermione quipped as he walked out of the classroom. Having been held back by Professor Snape to discuss with Harry the continuing of his 'Remedial Potions' lessons, he was the last one out of the class. "I'm glad we did all that studying last week. It seems my time has really paid off."

"What do you want me to do, Hermione?" Harry replied angrily as he sped away from the classroom, an unwanted conversation with the potions master still fresh in his mind.

"Concentrating would be a start," she replied as she quickened her pace to catch up with him.

"Concentrate?" he asked incredulously, making his way through the sea of students filling the hall. "How do you suppose I concentrate when, when..." Harry let his voice trail off and he stopped suddenly. He had almost privileged her to information she would be much better off not knowing.

"When what, Harry?" she asked, barely stopping herself before colliding with him.

"When, when," he continued, searching for an answer that wasn't a lie, but wasn't quite the truth. She had an intractable look in her eye; one that said 'forget it' was not an acceptable response. He thought quickly. He needed an excuse and he needed it fast.

"When I've got that gang of jumped-up Slytherins rooting for me to make fool of myself!" He hadn't meant it to come out so harshly; he certainly hadn't meant to turn any heads. Hermione's expression softened. The annoyance she held so openly melted away; compassion emerging in its wake.

"The same way I do, Harry," Hermione replied patiently, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. "Ignore them."

"But it's not the same with me!" he shouted, too aware of the warmth her touch provided. It was an affection he was not familiar with; something calm, something caring, something he didn't want to grow too accustomed to.

"You're not...not.." he continued. He meant to say 'me,' but it wouldn't come out. As he stuttered on, her expression changed from that of a caring friend, to that of a hurt child.

"Not what, Harry?" she asked in an edgy tone, letting her hand slip away. "Not Harry Potter?" She took a step back, and Harry tried to ignore the longing he felt inside. Something inside him told him not to follow; the voice he liked to ignore begged him to step forward.

It was cold in the common room; dark and empty and devoid of comfort despite the fact that it was filled with cheerful faces and hearty laughter. Is this really where he wanted to be? He didn't know. In fact, he wasn't sure if he really wanted to be anywhere.

Hints of sunlight teased him through the ominous storm clouds outside the windows. He sunk further into the plush-ness of the seat by the fire. Raising a hand in the air, he watched as delicate tendrils of light faded in and out over his pale, clammy flesh. When was it that he himself had become so pale? When had the light of the sun first begun to betray him?

Time crept slowly by as his thoughts decayed his sanity. Conversations concerning love, emotion, and other pieces of a foreign world he no longer knew taunted him incessantly. Students walked by him, side by side; flaunting an inherent innocence he could only find in long lost dreams and silent prayers. Laughter emitted from healthy faces and Harry felt like a traitor to them and their dreams. His solemn presence was tainting their innocence with a fowl spite he wished he did not know.

Harry pulled his weight from the chair and crept away. Not wanting to soil the magic of dreams with the horridness of nightmares, he set out to seek a more suitable home for his bitterness and resentment.