Scrap Parchment

It was what summers at the Dursleys were made of: Vernon was in the den, skimming the headlines of the morning's paper, tea glass held between chubby fingers; Petunia was shooing the neighbor's Jack Russell out of her tomato patch; Dudley was in the kitchen, corpulent face surveying the contents of the ice box; and Harry, pale Harry, with his messy hair and clothing three sizes too large was lying - head under pillow- on his bed, quietly sulking in the ardent humidity of the smallest bedroom.

The combination of mugginess and wool surrounding his still form was almost enough to smother him; the sixty-three words he couldn't clear from his mind almost made him wish it would.

Sixty-three words flooded him with a jumble of emotion he could neither define nor reject; sixty-three seemingly innocent words, that in any other combination or order would be entirely insignificant to him, determined the outcome of what was left of his woebegone life. It didn't seem fair; what had he done to demand such consequence and finality be solidified before he was even born?

They laughed at him, those words. They danced about his mind like children taunting a dog from behind the safety of a fence; he could bark and claw at the cold chain link dividing them all he liked, but it would bring him no closer to tasting the backs of their knees as he sunk his teeth in deeper.

He needed to know that taste- to feel the satisfaction of hard jaws on flesh as he exacted his revenge- but the fence was too high for him to jump. He would never get a clear chance at them from his current position; he had to level the playing field. He pulled the heavy wool from his face and sat up. With a sweaty brow he took a seat at the small oak desk before the window.

A stack of clean parchment sat conveniently before him.

The white feather quill lying next to the open bottle of ink even seemed to smile.

It was so simple. He would just write them down- those words- and upon digesting their meaning as a dog would the taste of that little boy's knee, he'd eat the parchment. No one would ever see it; no one would ever know.

So, quill in hand, he placed those sixty-three disconcerting words on eggshell parchment in ebony ink, and prepared for the knowledge he craved to appear before him, singing its meaning in a vibrating falsetto.

What he wasn't prepared for were the six-foot pickets of rot resistant pine that replaced the chain link; seeing the words on parchment had done nothing to their meaning. Instead, it had shrouded them further so that he could no longer see his assailants clearly. They continued to tease him- those words- and all he could do was catch silvers of taunting forms through solid pickets.

He didn't know how long he had been fruitlessly staring at his own hastened print when a tap at the window gained his attention; it was Hedwig with a letter- probably from her.

She had been owling him with any bird she could get a hand on for the past month. Her letters were all the same: pleading with him to share whatever burden he was holding on his shoulders; begging him to ignore the opprobrious convictions resonating within.

A large stack of post lay untouched by his bedside- the pity pile - a designated stop point for all of her letters. It grew steadily as the summer pressed by him in slow, lamentable strides. He felt no remorse for ignoring her pleas; her sympathy was both tiresome and unwanted.

Momentarily forgetting his task, he opened the window for Hedwig, letting not only the familiar white owl in but a strong gust of wind as well. Scraps of parchment flew wildly about the room in a whirlwind of oatmeal and cream. Just as the snowy bird made her way through the opening he slammed the window shut forcefully. This resulted in an uproar from downstairs: be bloody damned careful or he'd be beaten for twice what that window was worth.

"Good luck," he whispered angrily as he paced about the room. A slew of parchment sailed slowly towards the blue navy carpet beneath him. When he picked up the last piece he dropped the lot of it in a messy stack on his desk and sat down.

The stark white bird moved towards him from her place on the grainy oak top and nipped at his hand affectionately. He stroked her silky form gently and pulled the letter from her leg. Upon tossing it onto the tan pile of consolation Hedwig began to hoot angrily at him, pecking his hand fiercely.

"What's wrong, girl?" he asked, pulling away from her reach. He knew the answer already. It was quite obvious, really; she had been given special instructions- special instructions to ensure he read every pitying word that was written.

"SHUT THAT RUDDY BIRD UP!" the hoarse voice bellowed throughout the room, a jet of steam escaping a defeated engine. "IF I HAVE TO COME UP THERE..."

"FINE!" he shot back fiercely, anger filling him with every new breath. Reaching down to the stack of manila commiseration he collected her latest docket of sympathy and proceeded to open the envelope with parched fingers. He winced when, upon reaching a sharp edge, the parchment sliced into his finger, scarlet staining crisp beige. Drawing the hurt digit to his lips, he cursed under his breath as he took in the taste of his own salty blood.

He continued to remove the letter from its casing and Hedwig quieted. The script was elegant- definitely hers. They were words he knew before he read them; they were her words, after all.

Dear Harry,

How are you feeling? I haven't heard anything and I'm beginning to worry. Are the Dursleys treating you well? Are they feeding you?

I'm in Paris with my family right now. I was very surprised when Hedwig showed up, but glad, really. I didn't know how I'd contact you otherwise. She's a clever girl. It's been fun here. I'm having a good time.

But really, how are you handling everything? I hope you're not beating yourself up too badly over what happened, because it's not your fault and you know it!

I've instructed Hedwig to pester you until you answer me. I'm sorry, but I need to hear from you.

Love from,

Hermione

Crumpling the note, he tossed it aside. Hedwig raged on, hooting and howling in response, her message markedly clear. The jet of steam burst forth once more with threats of savagery and coercion, and Harry's anger rushed forward in a geyser of unruly insurrection.

Snatching the first piece of parchment he could attain from the messy pile, he picked up his quill and hastily scribbled a response.

Dear Hermione,

I'm glad to hear you had fun with your parents. Dudley is being a royal prat, as usual. I know you're just being kind, but please stop worrying about me so much.

I'm fine. Really.

See you soon,

Harry

Folding the note with angry hands, he stuffed it haphazardly into a small envelope, not bothering with an address- Hedwig would find her. The white bird moved forward and he attached it to her twiggy leg. Upon his opening the window she escaped almost instantly. He slammed the window down once more, and the bellowing jet of steam filled the room again.

Throwing himself down on the sticky surface of his bed, a new found anger fogged his mind. As he prepared to smother himself under that familiar blanket of mugginess and wool, all previous thoughts and actions were lost in a swell of raging emotion; forgotten behind a loathing he could not control.