![]() ![]() He picks a new scar into the back of his left hand. Her words are patronising and condescending and revulsion crawls it’s way up his throat. ![]() She calls him ‘Mr Potter’ instead of ‘Boy’ or ‘Freak’ or ‘Mutant’ but the amount of disgust and derision shoved into the name is the same. He can’t remember what’s meant to be there, only that something is.Ī naughty boy. ![]() His hand clenches for a wand that isn’t there and he settles for curling into the seat and trying to make himself as small as possible. That’s all she is really a pandering pink-clad fool. Even if he didn’t dream of a castle and magic and a Dark Lord trying to kill him he would think her stupid. I trust we’ll be getting to know each other during our meetings. Tone a pitch too high, she clears her throat and holds her door open like condemnation. With a face that looks like she ran into a wall, she simpers at him. Dolores Umbridge is anything but innocent. As if she’s a little girl with soft features and wide eyes, staring innocently at the world. She stands in the doorway, still dressed in baby pinks as if she thinks it’s cute. Just Harry and his scrawny underfed teenage body, scabs from old scars healing over his elbow and glasses hanging lopsided off his face. Magic .Įxcept magic didn’t exist in this reality. Mutant re-education it reads as it breathes in time with the whirring fan. His nail catches the flap of skin and slides over it. The fan spins and the notice curls up once more. The air is listless otherwise, with droopy eyes and languid limbs enwrapped around him. A note pinned to the wall flutters in the breeze everytime it passes. He strives for normality and it flees from him like scurrying clouds running endlessly across the sky.Ī fan whirls around in the humid room. “Do you remember, Harry Potter? Do you know where you come from? Where you are going?” ![]()
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