THIS FANFICTION IS CURRENTLY BEING REWRITTEN AND UPDATED.

THINGS HAVE BEEN CHANGED AND I WOULD RECOMMEND REREADING THIS TITLE IF YOU HAVEN'T IN A WHILE.

THANK YOU FOR READING x

[START]

Define Normal

Prologue

The body was battered.

That wasn't even an accurate description, the sight before him was an act of barbarism. The dealer of said devastation on the man's body having to push down on the explosive need to vomit.

The suspended, wheezing form oozing buckets of blood onto the scorched remains of the Ministry atrium floor from the shredded, uneven stumps that used to be the Dark Lord's legs.

He wrinkled his nose. Not just in disgust at the sight, but in confusion. Brow furrowing and eyes searching. Watching the scorched chest rise and fall as his burnt arms hung limp at his side. The occasional fleck of the man's alabaster skin still shimmering in the steadily dimming light as the boys eyes roved. He fought these thoughts as the puddle grew, crimson spreading steadily over the darkened ground. Hydrating the cracked, still warm marble with dark, magical blood.

He couldn't stop the thought from reverberating through his mind as the Dark Lord Voldemort wheezed his last...

'Is that it?'

When his eyes finally fell away from the desecrated body of the most feared Dark Lord in a century, the first thing they fell on (of all the debris around and the assembled crowd) was Albus Dumbledore.

'How? How could you not have defeated him?'

A wet FLUMP made Harry (and the few nearby) jump as Voldemort's massacred torso dropped to the ground. Those crimson, cat like eyes already glassy and lifeless, staring forward as the muscles in his face slackened.

Harry was approached by a man and woman. Tentative, afraid and so so sorry.

"We- let's get you to a hospital." The man's voice shook as he spoke but Harry shook his head harshly, the worlds spinning a lot harsher and Harry's head felt heavy enough to break the stone beneath him should he just let himself fall.

He breathed in harshly and blew out a long, shrill whistle that rattled past his teeth. His whole body shook and the sound hung like a thin mist for the few seconds Harry made the noise (and then after),

"What was that?!"

Harry gave a choked snicker,

"A signal." Nobody heard his answer, but he still felt warm in smug satisfaction. The man, who looked so much like him lacking just enough that they couldn't be called identical. The woman, he had her nose, but most would be quicker to point out their eyes. The same shade, exactly the same shade and shape, as if they'd been plucked from her face and placed in the sockets of her husband.

Her eyes were wide, his eyes. Big, round and worried (though also fuelled with a myriad of other conflicting feelings that he didn't have the energy to register). His were far easier to decipher; James Potter felt horrifically guilty.

That fact allowed Harry the smile he needed after... this. Probably showcasing him as some sort of madman as he staggered back to his feet, lolling from side to side with an ear to ear grin,

"Thanks... I have... somewhere else to be..." breathes came short in a tight, painful chest.

He was gone with a CRACK!

...

The doorknob barely rattled; the floor barely creaked. Light steps from the tiny form. Natsuki knew how to sneak in and out of her home by now.

The house was silent, but Natsuki was far from dumb enough to believe that meant she was safe. Slow steps as she slipped out of her shoes and fixed her skirt, letting out a small sigh as she dropped her book bag and enjoyed the lightness her shoulder felt, the strap no longer digging into her skin.

He was there in the doorway when she tiptoed into the kitchen. Stepping out, as if from nowhere, and just appearing before her. A familiar scent on his breath and the shadows on his face giving him the visage of a demon.

She jumped, she stumbled back and he took her fright for guilt.

She was called a thief.

She was struck.

His hand only came down once, but it came down hard. Sent sprawling to the floor, one cheek red from the impact and the other pale and dirty from its impact with the ground. The dull pain on her cheekbone prophesied a bruise, an identical feeling coming from her shoulder and side (by her ribs). She had hit the ground hard.

Pink eyes flicked up to the man they'd been inherited from, swimming with tears in the face of his dawning realisation. She almost forgave him in that moment, misery and regret so present in his every twitch, but the feeling of deja-vu that wafted over her like spindly, nasty hands truly left her feeling disgusting.

She forced it a bit, but not a lot. The hatred. The anger. It burnt in her veins, fuelled by her desire for him to know. She glared, her nostrils curled and flared. Her little form shook on the floor as his fists balled; she flew to her feet and stormed away. Vibrating with anger as she flew up the stairs and slammed herself into her bedroom.

She pushed and pushed and pushed until her white and pink dresser blocked the locked door. Waiting as the house grew silent once again...

He didn't come knocking, a feat in itself. He didn't usually let her get away with looking at him like that. On a bad day that would earn her another strike. On a good day it would get her an apology.

But, on the best days (which this one seemed to be folding out to be), she'd drag herself to her room, lock herself in;

And he'd leave her the hell alone.

...

Her steps were quick, almost a run. Flying up the stairs fast enough that she was likely just an amethyst blur. Pale hands gently, yet swiftly, throwing the door closed behind her before lunging for the toilet seat in her en-suite.

Her sticky hair fell into the water and vomit she unleashed onto the porcelain. Whole body shaking with agony; cuts and bruises agitated by her convulsing stomach, said pain causing Yuri's eyes to prick with more tears.

She stank. Hair soiled by the iced coffee and juice that had been poured upon her (as well as the mess in her toilet bowl that some of her hair had drooped into). Raised red marks, grey and purple bruises on pale skin, purple eyes not willing to look on any of it, instead her eyes squeezed closed.

Though their laughter and mean words still echoed in her head, though she still hurt all over from kicks, pinches and hair pulls, though every second thought about the humiliation stung in a way that didn't have a physical equivalent, Yuri was just glad her books were okay.

Her book bag was still on her shoulders, she slipped it off at this realisation. Hugged to her chest as she curled up on the bathroom floor.

Her family wouldn't be back that night, so she wouldn't be disturbed.

Thus Yuri spent that evening sobbing into the canvas and buckles, only interrupted when the sun came up.

...

Every tap of keys felt like a strike. the sound hitting her like a fist full of pebbles hurled into her face. His back to her. The back of his chair like a wall. Dividing them quite definitively.

He was having a bad day, she knew that. Thus the quiet.

But she just wanted to help. Sprinting through the halls and streets as soon as the bell rang, sweeping through the sun baked street, even skinning her knees and ruining her tights when she'd slipped.

The key was where it had always been, half buried in the dirt of one of the flower pots, so she'd slipped in and done what any good friend would do if they could.

Made him his favourite, so he didn't have to cook that evening.

He was an hour later than she thought he'd be.

He hadn't really liked it, and he didn't want to hang out...

Maybe a year ago, he'd have been a bit more... polite about it. Here he'd just not finished it, muttered about doing homework and blanked her out when she'd settled on his bed and offered help.

There she'd been for a half hour.

"You keep an eye on him for us." Of course she would.

She loved him, cherished their time together. They were family. Of course she would look out for the best friend she had ever known.

But Sayori genuinely wondered how much more she could handle? How much more of him not wanting her around could she bear?

He didn't flinch when she got up to leave, but he did click the lock closed as she stood with her back to his front door.

'Message Received.'

He'd apologise tomorrow, she'd already accepted it. She'd imposed herself on him after all.

She should just learn to leave him alone...

...

The duplex was empty, as always, so there was no need to pretend she was okay and happy.

The smile dropped as soon as she crossed the threshold. She scowled. Trudging past the entryway with barely the thought to kick off her shoes.

A flick and the rice cooker was back on (the oven humming to life too) before she moved out of the room altogether to bathe. Her treat after a long day.

Briefly, Monika wondered if she might accidentally burn down her block, only pausing on the steps long enough for the nihilism to catch back up to her,

'Wouldn't really care if I did.'

If anything could truly be called heavenly, it was her shower. Fitted with a seat so she could slump comfortably under the spray and contemplate her being.

She sighed, her hair was dry and tied back up in the palest ribbon in her collection. Dinner was sorted in less than an hour and she left it to cool. Forgotten, as she perched on the windowsill and watched the people on the streets below. Her parent's voices came over the voicemail machine explaining why, again, they wouldn't be coming home this evening. She was beyond indifferent at this point.

Or so she pretended, spending the evening peering at her phone screen. A high school girl hoping for a notification that showed someone gave a damn about her.

No one messaged her though. So, she went to sleep hungry and didn't bother getting up for her alarm the next morning...

...

[TO BE CONTINUED]

TO NEW READERS, WELCOME!

TO OLDER READERS, THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE AND CONTINUED SUPPORT!

AND TO EVERYONE, THANK YOU FOR READING x