Chapter Six: Not Even A Simple Hello

At around two PM they arrived at Potter Manor.

James was complaining to Lily, saying: "Muggle transportation is so slow! Why couldn't we just Floo here, it would be so much faster! I'm bloody starving,"

Lily swatted at James, which seemed to be something she did quite often. She made it seem like an Olympic sport, in Harry's opinion.

"You know why James, we weren't just going to apparate right into Privet Drive of all places! Now stop moaning, Liam'll be home soon from the Weasleys."

If Harry was listening at the moment, which, despite how it looked, he actually was, since he had commendable multitasking skills accumulated from years of existing near Vernon and Dudley Dursley, who needed to combine their one existing brain-cell to perform a single menial task, he would note down the terms 'Floo' and 'Apparate', so he could research the means of transportation at a later date, and then he would take the time to ponder why his brother had pet weasels.

As it were, a large part of Harry, his most conscious sense of self, was quite busy looking ridiculous. At some point he had gotten out of the car (and years later he would wonder whether it was magic, or if he was just distracted) and now he stood gaping at the spectacle that was Potter Manor.

It was a magnificent building of the finest white marble, surrounded by acres of the most lushest green grass that would leave Aunt Petunia drooling (not a sight he liked to imagine) in proxy to what he would later find out was a Quidditch Pitch.

The manor itself was around five stories large, with towering windows that seemed to change color in the sunlight, hues of fierce reds, pale yellows and deep blues. The building was fiercely guarded by marble lions, depicted frighteningly detailed, who would roar soundlessly yet no less ferociously at anyone who graced the property that wasn't of Potter bloodline, or who the current Head of House felt enmity towards.

Harry couldn't help but feel a sort of kinship towards the manor, which he would later be informed was customary for any member, marriage-wise or hereditary, of the Potter kin to feel.

James, realising that Harry stood frozen in shock, laughed at him openly, yet with no visible hostility; more likely, he could understand what he was going through- as he was a direct child of James's, he would feel the wards of the place almost as strongly as the man himself did, and, even so, James had grown up here as a child, so he had slowly gotten used to the feeling, whereas Harry would be experiencing it all at once.

Decidedly, James didn't inform the child that it was old blood magic tainted with a specific sort of compulsion that Harry felt; he didn't really feel the need to.

He walked up to Harry, who didn't seem to notice him in his wonderment. Remembering how he'd reacted when Lily had touched him earlier, which, dear God, seemed like a lifetime ago when it was only just this morning; James opted to stand next to him, whilst Lily made her way indoors to welcome Liam back and prepare them for their new occupant.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" He commented idly.

Harry, to his favor, didn't flinch; rather, he turned towards James quite calmly.

"I guess so," He attempted to reply as nondescript as possible, though it was futile for it was obvious in his blatant display of staring that he agreed with James wholeheartedly. He mentally berated himself; he couldn't afford to be so expressive, and this was a slip up that he would not be making again.

At the Dursleys, if he showed the slightest of intrigue towards anything, really, it would quickly become a game of cat and mouse, with them being the ones tugging at all the strings.

Sure, it was all fine and dandy for him to have this newfound familial origin, but he needn't show any weakness unnecessarily, and give them anything to pounce upon. New territory, same rules.

And some cynical part of Harry told him that had he not received that letter, then he would probably be rotting at the Dursleys, mourning parents who didn't give a shit about him, living a sad, miserable life, until Vernon would, one day, go to far, have one drink too many, go one blow too heavy...And, upsettingly to the boy, Harry would've been glad, in that situation, to have been given the release that death offered to him on a golden platter.

The child knew that if he were to tell his parents the truth about him, about how he had, in actuality, been the baby that had defeated You-Know-Who (Harry was freshly reminded to find out this wizards name) then they would love him like a son, which was all sorts of messed up.

But, more than likely, they wouldn't believe him over a boy who was theirs in all regards, and they wouldn't want to either, and so they wouldn't, as such was human nature, as Harry had time and time again seen when Petunia Dursley fawned over her son and husband. Berating himself slightly, Harry resolved not to think of the Dur-...them so often, unless it would aide him somehow.

They were in the past, gone, and even if this back-from-the-undead family situation worked out for the worst, Harry held no illusions he would be welcomed back at his former residence with wide smiles and open arms, unless the arms were being used to strangle him, and the smiles were badly disguised snarls of disgust.

Yet he would soon forget that little promise almost instantly, as he would figure out of his own accord that there were countless similarities between here (a term which pertained to the wizarding world in general) and Privet Drive; the same sort of social standing and pecking order.

Anyway, back to the situation at hand; Harry knew that even if the family was inclined to believe him, he had no concrete evidence that illustrated his point, and if there was a sort of magical procedure to finding it out, then they certainly would have used it beforehand.

Plus, Harry didn't want to embarrass his brother; after all, from what Harry could tell from his parents reactions, he had been treated as a somewhat celebrity over the years, though to what caliber he couldn't say Harry knew. Though that same shrew part of Harry's thoughts that the boy tried desperately to bury told him that he had been told that he was a wizard with a family without so much of a moment's notice in advance, for the letter didn't really count.

It's an entirely different situation, he chastised himself sharply, don't connect unrelated dots.

Besides, Harry didn't want the inevitable attention that being the famous Boy-Who-Lived, especially after such a scandalous reveal, would doubtlessly elicit. No, he was the sort of person that hated attention of any sorts, as bringing attention to himself, regardless of good or bad, would also end terribly.

He much preferred to strike from the shadows, to skulk in corners and lunge when the odds were most profitable towards him. After all, Harry had not survived the Dursleys (God, he was a survivor, wasn't he? He was free, more so than he had been in a long time, if ever) by acting out with impulsiveness, or calling attention to himself and his abusive household, his strange abilities.

For there was no good or bad attention, only bringing more sets of eyes upon himself and being subjected to negativity. Even now, with James walking next to him, Harry couldn't deny that he felt quite queasy.

Even if Harry was the sort of person he ought to be, despite the circumstances; a normal, immature ten-year old boy who would enjoy being revered for a fluke that occurred when he was still in nappies,and from little effort required on his part, at that, it didn't change the fact that Harry knew that if he was to be recognised, then people would pry endlessly into his privacy and his scarred past, and that was exactly the sort of knowledge that he didn't want to be public.

"Come on in then," replied a still amused James, who was unaware of his sons deep musings.

Harry grunted slightly, letting out an "Mmm" as he walked behind James, still staring at the interior of the house.

The boy made sure not to allow any excess stones from the rocky path that cut through the fields, onto the grass. After spending hours upon hours tending to the garden back before he knew he was a wizard, he could certainly appreciate a good garden, and the effort that arose with keeping it that way. Though, he thought sourly, they might've gotten done effortlessly and quickly with the aid of magic, which Harry couldn't use back then underneath the watchful, hawk-like eyes of Aunt Petunia.

Finally, after around five minutes of walking (seriously, just what was the purpose of having such a big garden; it was so pretentious-seeming that Harry was reminded, ungently, of the Dursleys. This disturbed him, for if the Dursleys strove to be the self proposed epitome of the concept of "normality", then the Potters, mismatched, ignorant to muggle culture as they were, had to be the complete opposite, and so the fact that they drew such parallels was somewhat unsettling), the pair had reached the gates of Potter Manor, Lily having already gone forward before them. They stood in front of large, brown doors that were covered in large, intricate designs, which Harry would later discover were an ancient brand of runes, whose existence had been lost to time itself.

Upon their arrival, the door swung open a second later, having recognised the two of them.

Harry very nearly let out a vocal gasp at the grand halls of the building. He would've taken more time to drink in the place, but he was distracted; there were the portraits that hung upon the high walls, large, musty portraits of old men in odd clothing, which would've been creepy but remained uncommented on, if they were only so nondescript.

For Harry found that the portraits moved and talked, and yes that was paint, there wasn't a television hidden in the frame; there was no telling shine from the gleam of plastic or glass.

Harry supposed he shouldn't be so surprised, that he should come to expect the impossible...after all, he was here with his dead parents, about to meet his non existent twin brother and, come fall, he was going to attend a wizarding school.

Yet, the sight of the openly gaping, gossiping portraits, that clearly interacted between themselves and could see Harry and James, reminded the young boy that he had much, so much to learn about this new world, and, again, the child found himself craving books on everything in this whole damn place, because if knowledge indeed was power, as he had established years ago, then Harry was, at the momment, pretty fucking vunerable, and he hated it.

James shouted at the portraits "Silence!" and, surprisingly enough, for a group that seemed to, at first glance, highly rever acting untamed, they complied.

Harry marveled, wondering whether the portraits were free spirits, or if they had been somehow spelled to listen to his father. In that case, he himself feeling rather sorry for them, until a particularly old, old man who had grey eyes and whitening black hair snickered quietly; then Harry found that he was quite happy to ignore their suffering, and then promptly felt guilty, and a little sick, finding that wishing bad for someone solely because they laughed at him was a rather Dudley-esque notion.

Harry also, on a completely unrelated note, wanted to know exactly how the people had gotten trapped in there, and if they were even people, or if they were just pictures of people that had been spelled to speak, or something completely different.

Never assume that you know the answers, always look at all your options and stay on your guard; don't come forth with your opinion, because it can go to hell if you're wrong, you can't afford to be wrong.

James must have seen Harry looking at the portraits in silent wonderment. He laughed. "Oh, yes, I suppose muggles wouldn't have portraits." He looked as though he was considering something, and then he laughed again, barking a single note as he looked equal parts baffled and amused. "Dear Merlin! I'll bet that they don't even have moving photographs, what with those camerahaes of theirs. I don't understand how they live with it, people just sitting there and staring at them all the time, how creepy!"

He didn't seem to notice Harry staring at him during his tirade, or perhaps he did, and he was basking in the attention. James was still an unknown to Harry, though the man seemed to be rather transparent, the boy didn't want to make the mistake of assuming anything. The child also noted with interest that wizarding photographs moved. He would be more excited if he owned anything of value, or anyone, that he wished to immortalise, so for now Harry stored the information away as he had done so many times today.

James, and Harry by extension, was interrupted by the descending of two figures from the spiraling mahogany staircases. There was a loud shout, and as the shorter figure came closer, Harry found himself faced with what seemed to be a warped reflection of himself, the same as him but somehow different. Harry was reminded oddly of a funhouse mirror.

The boy, Liam, Harry supposed, had chestnut brown hair, nearly identical to James's except that it was tinged slightly more reddish. It was messy in a way that inferred not to natural unkemptness, but instead the hours in front of a mirror that one would spend trying to give it the illusion of seeming to be so.

Harry off-handedly recalled when Dudley had been obsessed with a footballer, and had spent a fair amount of time, and surprising patience, trying to fashion his hair to resemblance his idol, before abandoning it and resorting to slicking his blonde hair backwards with thick wads of gell.

The resemblance to Dudley ended there, though barely. Liam Remus Potter stood tall, more so than his twin, yet he was not what one would describe as lanky. He wasn't exactly fat, per say, but he was rather...pudgy, all things considered, and his round face spoke of years of being quite well fed.

Harry was surprised that he didn't have to fight down raging bitterness- he had become quite fond of his stature over the years, because of how often it had assisted him when he had been able to fit into particularly small spaces, or duck underneath the thick, wobbly arms of his overweight cousin. In the same way, Harry found that he had become particularly adverse to ever being labeled "fat" in any way, though, granted, he wasn't in a position to decline any food given to him. Plus, he could hardly blame his twin for taking what was given to him, in the same sort of way that Harry could not fault Dudley to an extent, for who he became was conditioned by how his Aunt and Uncle had taught him to view the world, and how he was only following after their ideals.

Rather thankfully, Harry found that he wouldn't have to share one of the few other things that he liked about himself, for he already found that he shared this feature with Lily, which was granted, he supposed, that he had a parent with green eyes if he were to have them. He remembered, sadly and with no little dark humor, of how he had oftentimes devoured pages upon pages of books that describe genetics and inheritance as he imagined his mother with his hair, or his father with his nose...

Pertaining to the youth in front of him; Liam's eyes were a dark, muddish brown, not spectacled like his brothers and fathers, and they were squinting at him, looking him up and down, from head to toe, eyeing his overly large Dudley cast-offs with barely concealed disgust. Harry forced himself into not judging what he saw in those eyes; after all ,his clothes were nothing if not unflattering, and disliking ugly clothes was hardly anything wrong, for Harry himself was not very fond of the rags he wore.

Liam Potter looked his "brother" up and down, thinking. All in all, he was quite confused, if not a little angry. Sure, he had known all about his twin brother, and that he was a squib (this was, at least, what he had been told) and that he was being raised with muggles. Obviously, Liam didn't, on principle, despise muggleborns as his mother was one, and she was a great witch, but she'd been in the wizarding school since she was a little girl, and so to some lesser extent, muggles.

But he couldn't help but think of them as rather odd, especially when he was subjected to another of Arthur Weasleys rants about muggle devices, of which made them seem like some kind of weird, cute pets, like lesser beings, and Liam had not met any muggles himself, except for passing glances from the windows The Leaky Cauldron, and odd sightings here and there. So, he was of the opinion that muggles were a rather slow type, and if his brother was raised by them…

Liam still found himself annoyed that he had not been informed of his brother arriving until the last minute. Just after he had Flooed back from the Weasleys, his mum had informed him hastily and apologetically that his brother, was, in fact, a wizard, and he had come to stay with them. Truth be told, he rather anticipated his brother coming to stay with them, in the few seconds he had to do so.n They were twins, after all, twins! He would be able to pull all sorts of pranks with him, just as Fred and George Weasley did with each other. And they would be, as his mother had informed him, attending Hogwarts together. Wicked!

Now, though, with Harry (Liam knew that that was his name, for he ensured that his mother would not fail to tell him, despite the rush) standing in front of him, Liam reconsidered.

Harry did not seem the pranking type, Liam mused as he looked him up and down. The pair did not exchange any words, and were silently surveying each other as the two adults carried out a whispered conversation among themselves.

In fact, he seemed a bit creepy, just standing there, staring at him, emotionless (or, it seemed as such to Liam, for he had, for all his life, only been surrounded by Gryffindoors, and, as such, had never been introduced to the covert world of subtle gestures, silent conversations, and masked feelings) with those really bright green eyes.

Liam was quite disappointed that they were not identical, for he was looking forward to seeing a replica of himself. Also, this greatly limited the amount of pranks they could play, though Liam had already half resigned himself to not play any pranks with Harry the moment he'd set eyes on him.

The boy was not anything that Liam would call a Potter; his eyes were creepy (mums were pretty, for sure, but Harrys, his clothes were scruffy and his glasses were cracked. Obviously, Liam did not feel scorn for his brothers apparent poorness- after all, he was friends with Ronald Weasely. But to see him there, wearing such ragged muggle clothing, someone who had the same nose, same jaw as Liam, who shared his blood, a Potter… well, it felt slightly disconcerting.

It was Harry who broke the silence first, to Liams' silent chagrin. "Hullo." he said softly, and Liam wanted to laugh, and he actually did snigger. Honestly, Harry was such a Hufflepuff! Liam was not well versed with the concept of humility

But, then again, he thought, not everyone was the Boy-Who-Lived, and thus, not everyone could be expected to have the same amount of self confidence as him. Well, that's what his mum and dad called it, "self-confidence," so that's what Liam took to describing it as, even as the twins (Fred and George Weasley) insisted that it was "pure gittiness."

Liam just... knew what his place in the world was. A hero. He was important, the boy who had saved them all. Liam had not been informed of the true devastation of the war, for they felt it would tarnish his innocence, and the boy certainly didn't want a history lesson. No, he was only told that there had been a massive, terrible fight (to Liams ten-year-old brain, a fight was a spat between mates, sloppy blows, and then making up between large sips of hot cocoa. He couldn't even begin to imagine the horrors of a fight on a larger scale than that!) and that he was the answer, their light in the face of death, the one who ended it all. So, Liam knew who he was, his sole purpose in life, and he was proud of himself, to have defeated the "villain." If he could counter such a powerful darkness, then just what did it say about him? It only made sense.

Of course, if Harry had presented himself in the same way Liam did himself, he would have called him a pompous git, because even though he may have been Liams' twin, he was not the Boy-Who-Lived himself, and therefore had not earned the privilege of carrying himself like that. Liam was too obtuse of a boy to notice the hypocrisy.

At the moment, Liam could not fight the urge, and, nor did he try to, to exclaim amid his unfiltered laughs: "You're such a Hufflepuff!"- these were the first words that Harry would hear from his twin, discounting innocent garbles from their joint childhood. Liam just couldn't help it, it was pathetic that he was so- so shy! Granted, anyone who met the legend that was the Boy-Who-Lived in the flesh would be more than a bit skittish, but Liam expected more from his own brother, for crying out loud. It was unbecoming of someone who was a Potter through and through who bore the blood of so many different Light Gryffindor pupils flowing through his veins.

Again, Liam didn't think of how Harry was learning of magic for the first time (it was a piece of information sandwiched somewhere amongst the hasteful conversation with his mother before Harry arrived), nor did he stop to consider that said brother was meeting his dead family for the first time. It wasn't something that the average, well-off (which was a rather generous way to describe Liams'... circumstances) little boy would consider, and Liam was so deeply drowned into believing, living, and breathing his own legend that he did not stop to think that he may be wrong, that there was more that met the eye, and that he wasn't the centre of, well, everything. Because, quite sadly, it was all he'd ever known.

Of course, Liam would only treat Harry, would only think of him, as he did with other kids like Ron Weasely or Neville Longbottom. For Liam was not to know of the pain Harry had suffered.

Presently, James chuckled slightly at Liams "smart comeback", Lily allowed the faintest trait of a smile to play on her lips and Harry- well, Harry was trying his best not to scream. He suddenly felt sick, sick, sick, a heavy knot gnawing at the bottom of his stomach, tightening its hold in a well of emotions, and God, he couldn't breathe. He couldn't.

None of this was, suffice to say, visible, as Harry had sooner rather than later trained himself out of large displays of emotion, something that had been necessary for his continued survival.

He wanted to cry, to punch something, preferably himself. It's just- well, he'd thought, hoped (stupid! stupid! stupid!) that this would be different. That- that they would love him. Yet, here were the signs, right in front of him, clear as day, deep cutting as night. If he squinted, he could see them: Vernon Dursley and Petunia, doting on their spoilt son who could do no wrong, dismissing obvious insults as ingeniously unique terms of endearment, or as a rather funny joke.

And it was worse, worse, because these were supposed to be his parents too! And would've been if Albus Dumbledore had been able to tell right from left. Instantly a bit of Harry's anger left, to be replaced with guilt and shame, because he wouldn't wish on anyone, anyone, the fate that awaited for him at the Dursleys, a past that would haunt him forever.

Outwardly, Harry raised a single eyebrow, looking at Liam with askance. No one bar himself would be left the wiser to the storm of emotions and conflicting thoughts that raged within him at the moment.

"How?" he asked, his voice that of childish curiosity.

Inwardly, he was just so hopelessly confounded by everything. So frustrated. He wanted (so much, so so much) to believe that his parents would love him like a second son, which was ironic on so many different levels.

And, well.

Harry was more than aware that he was only ten years old. And, like most at his age, he craved love and affection, yearned for it, even. Especially since he'd experienced so little of it in his small, yet pain filled, lifetime.

Oh, he'd given up on the Dursleys not too long ago, after painstaking years of trying anything, everything, to make them love him.

So, even though there was some part of Harry that wanted to protect himself and nothing else, that wanted to make sure that he wouldn't be torn apart so mercilessly as he had been before, this time round; there was an even larger portion of himself that whispered at him to keep trying, to work 'till he was the best wizard he could be, to be so good that his family would have no choice but to love him.

These were his parents, after all. The parents who he'd spent hour after hour (before he discovered the lease books provided) fantasising about, dreaming that they were still alive, and that they'd come and take him away from the Dursleys. Because he knew, knew that what the Dursleys had spouted were lies, that his parents were good people. It was part of what had kept him sane, after Vernon had visited him, during those so solitary dark nights in the cupboard, when he was so lonely, without even spiders as company, that he thought he would never again hear another human voice, never live to feel the arms of a warm, loving embrace.

And they were wrong, weren't they? Lily and James had fought in a war against evil! They were brave! But everything was just so confusing, because even though his Uncle had been lying about, well, most things, he had told the truth about Liam, albeit years later/

Harry was just so desperate, in moments like this, watching their mother smile at Liam, their father grin at him, that he wanted to throw caution to the wind, wanted to forget so long as it allowed him to pretend, to indulge himself, for once in his God-forsaken life.

His inner conflict was once again shattered by his brother speaking arrogantly to him. "What d'you mean how? You're acting all weak and shy like a Hufflepuff!"

And Harry had to suppress something within him, something that had not happened in a long time. His abilities were getting a rise out of high strung emotions. Well, he guessed he could no longer call it by the stolen term: it was magic. Harry was magic.

He'd managed, so far, to mostly ignore the peculiar calling that being called a wizard sent to him, the shiver of excitement, apprehension and sheer rightness, in favor of meeting his dead parents. Harry had, after all, always been able to do it, known about it, and been able to use it; it was just a matter of having a name for what he could do and what he was.

Harry managed to force his magic down. The reason he'd gotten so angry was that Lily's smile didn't falter upon Liam's words, and maybe, maybe it was just jealousy in disguise, Heaven knows insults no longer phased him, and such childish. Obviously uncultured ones at that, but Harry could recall Lilly showing clear, visible disagreement with James when he'd said the same. Yet now, all that was in Lily Potter's eyes was pride, reverence and something akin to hero worship? It was downright disconcerting to see just how far love strained to an obsession of a kind.

James fared no better, continuing to grin and wink at his son, as if Harry, their long lost recently reunited child, didn't matter, not a single bit.

And Harry supposed in the general scheme of things, he didn't, not really, when he all but paled in comparison to the all-mighty Boy-Who-Lived, who was actually, as per Harry's observations so far (for he still held it within him to reserve judgement) just a big-headed little boy.

Everyone watched as Dudl-Liam, right, Liam; God their similarities were downright creepy, but then again there were related- as Liam continued, his head held high, "Anyway, are you any good on a broom?"

And a welcome home to you too, dear brother, Harry thought only slightly bitter as he remembered yet again what little knowledge he held in this world he had somehow fallen into. Really, the whole situation was so utterly ridiculous, that he had been making breakfast for the Dursleys just this morning, and now, now he was here.

The poor boy half expected to wake up in his cupboard after this realistic, weird dream had ended, banging his head on the ceiling, the Silence (he would have to research what it was actually called) the only thing stopping his relatives from hearing him.

But no, here he was, standing at the base at the stairs of Potter Manor, listening to his twin brother natter on unintelligently about something called Quidtritch. No, Harry corrected mentally after listening to the pronunciation more closely, Quidditch.

It seemed to be a game the equivalent of football, and something that Liam was quite passionate about. Huh. At least that was something different from Dudley- the only sport his cousin was interested in was beating-up-kids-who-weigh-less-than-me.

James seemed to love the sport, too, from the way his eyes lit up as he occasionally added to Liams running commentary. Surprisingly, Liam was actually quite likeable as he light-heartedly and feverishly talked about the sport. He sounded like a normal kid, his whole body lit up in the sort of delight a child could only muster. Innocent in a way Dudley could never be.

"...And, oh, dad took me to see the game between Puddlemere United and the Chudleys! Ron was dead chaffed, he was, and even though the Canons lost, it was still totally wicked! Jadert, their chaser, nearly lost his arm," Liam sounded awed by the prospect, "and collided with Weatelbey, their seeker who was going in for the Wronski Feint…"

Oh, what Harry would've given to be able to relax like that. He vowed that he would find something that he was passionate about; in this world there had to be something that would make him look like that.

James chuckled at Liams antics as he ruffled his hair, causing Liam to whine, "Dadddd!" as he tried to put his hair back into place, to no avail.

Well, Harry thought, slightly amused despite himself, that's one thing we have in common. Abruptly, the boy full-out grinned, something he wasn't used to doing in the presence of others. I'm in a magical house, and I'm with my parents, who cares how or why! I'm not gonna spend the whole time sulking just because I was battered around a few times!

Granted, neither James, Lily, nor Liam noticed his change in demeanor, but Harry was fine with that. He was. He just wanted to know what happiness felt like, wanted to take his chance with it. And it just seemed plain stupid to forgoe it because he was an attention seeking whelp.

So Harry clung onto the feeling of freedom. It was so intense he felt as though he would sprout wings and take flight at a moments notice. Harry grasped at the sensation with both hands and clutched it tightly to his chest, vowing to never let anyone near it again, as he guarded it in a cage with his heart serving as the bars. Harry Potter felt, for what must have been the first time in his life, happy. Pure happiness, not the type that was gained vicariously through an adventure book.

A/N: Um, hi. I'll probably maybe be abandoning this story. I mean, its okay, but now I've gotten into the HP fanfiction community more (sideglances at r/HPfanfiction) I've realised just how horrendously tropey this is. Manipulative!Dumbledore, Slytherin!OP!Abused!Harry WBWL! Potters/Ron/Dumble!bashing...I'm cringing. I mean, least I wasn't planning on the love potion trope, thank god.

That isn't to say of course, I'll be abandoning writing as whole. Honestly, in recent times i haven't been writing as much as I wanted. I've been focusing more on reading and art. I'm reading a lot more fanfiction (well, I was always reading a lot of fanfiction. Now I've just started reading more popular stuff) and I've started to branch out into more genres. Which means I want to write more lmao.

A lot has happened since I last wrote this. I've made new friends, been hospitalised, gotten therapy, became vegan, hell I even found out I was autistic!... (not necessarily in that order)

...This fic will always hold a special place in my heart. 30k words on my google docs! I was and am still proud. Yet, this is goodbye, for now. I haven't made any final decisions regarding this, not fully, so I'll leave it as hiatus. If anyone wants to adopt, feel free to PM. Hope you're all staying safe and social distancing! 3