The Changing - Prologue
A harsh gust of wind spiraled through the hallways like a howling ghost, slamming the windows open and close. A shrill shriek disturbed the mansion's silence. The young boy shivered in response, his arms littered with goosebumps and his cheeks paling at the sharp sting of the hostile breeze. His fragile legs cautiously strode down the hallway along the side of the trails of the vanishing cloak.
Tormenting memories encroached upon him, screeching and shrieking in his mind. He hunched his shoulders, cocooning himself in his arms as though the tiny action could shield him from the bloodthirsty, savage world. The adult noticed this and called out in an aristocratic drawl, "There is no reason for you to hide yourself from me, Harry. Forget the way those...muggles treated you. I would be horribly insulted if you compared those savages to me."
His voice, a low tenor, reverberated throughout the corridors, each word echoing until they could be etched permanently inside Harry's brain. The man's face was interesting; a frightening, horrific appearance that struck fear into whoever had the misfortunate to gaze upon him. His skin was a deathly-pale white with no hair to hide the colour. There was also a missing nose and in its place were two slits, similar to a sight that Harry had seen once (on a documentary through a crack in his cupboard under the stairs) on a snake. Despite his appearance, there was a strange aura that exuded sadness and pain that originated from the past that is left unseen.
Harry forcibly relaxed the tension in his shoulders and smiled tentatively at the man, hoping for a sign of approval. There was none to be given. Rather, only a flicker of satisfaction and an unknown dark feeling in his eyes, that sent tendrils of uncertainty down his spine. The man turned away from him (not in horrid dismissal based on false rumours spoken out of jealous and fiendish mouths) and walked faster, never looking back to see whether his guest was keeping up with him or not. Harry sprinted towards him before he lost sight of the adult in the labyrinth of identical corridors. The man suddenly stopped in front of a plain stone door that radiated power, deliciously tempting the senses.
There was no door knob. But then how would you lock the door? Harry watched as the man retrieved a dagger out of his weird attire (Harry learned later that they were robes) and pierced his index finger, drawing a thick drop of blood, red as a tomato. He smeared the door with a line of blood and spoke indistinct words. Suddenly, the door melted into thin air! It was so amazing and fascinating and Harry really, really wanted to do that but how can he when he was such a freak....No one wanted to teach him. His neighbours at Privet Drive ignored him and murmured rumours about his drunk father who had caused his mother's death before taking his own. Even his teachers distrusted him, only seeing the del-in-quent that the Dursleys' told everyone that he was. He wasn't. Because he knew he wasn't.
The young child thoughts were disrupted, with a sharp gaze that seemed to stare into his soul, seeing it in its bare form. The man jerked his head towards the door, indicating that he should move - or else - because the man couldn't tolerate wasting time. Harry quickly swept through the door, wearing his too-big, hand-me-down clothing and large round glasses.
Years later, he wondered whether that was the moment when he was unable to redeem himself from the blood that stained his tainted hands.
Tormenting memories encroached upon him, screeching and shrieking in his mind. He hunched his shoulders, cocooning himself in his arms as though the tiny action could shield him from the bloodthirsty, savage world. The adult noticed this and called out in an aristocratic drawl, "There is no reason for you to hide yourself from me, Harry. Forget the way those...muggles treated you. I would be horribly insulted if you compared those savages to me."
His voice, a low tenor, reverberated throughout the corridors, each word echoing until they could be etched permanently inside Harry's brain. The man's face was interesting; a frightening, horrific appearance that struck fear into whoever had the misfortunate to gaze upon him. His skin was a deathly-pale white with no hair to hide the colour. There was also a missing nose and in its place were two slits, similar to a sight that Harry had seen once (on a documentary through a crack in his cupboard under the stairs) on a snake. Despite his appearance, there was a strange aura that exuded sadness and pain that originated from the past that is left unseen.
Harry forcibly relaxed the tension in his shoulders and smiled tentatively at the man, hoping for a sign of approval. There was none to be given. Rather, only a flicker of satisfaction and an unknown dark feeling in his eyes, that sent tendrils of uncertainty down his spine. The man turned away from him (not in horrid dismissal based on false rumours spoken out of jealous and fiendish mouths) and walked faster, never looking back to see whether his guest was keeping up with him or not. Harry sprinted towards him before he lost sight of the adult in the labyrinth of identical corridors. The man suddenly stopped in front of a plain stone door that radiated power, deliciously tempting the senses.
There was no door knob. But then how would you lock the door? Harry watched as the man retrieved a dagger out of his weird attire (Harry learned later that they were robes) and pierced his index finger, drawing a thick drop of blood, red as a tomato. He smeared the door with a line of blood and spoke indistinct words. Suddenly, the door melted into thin air! It was so amazing and fascinating and Harry really, really wanted to do that but how can he when he was such a freak....No one wanted to teach him. His neighbours at Privet Drive ignored him and murmured rumours about his drunk father who had caused his mother's death before taking his own. Even his teachers distrusted him, only seeing the del-in-quent that the Dursleys' told everyone that he was. He wasn't. Because he knew he wasn't.
The young child thoughts were disrupted, with a sharp gaze that seemed to stare into his soul, seeing it in its bare form. The man jerked his head towards the door, indicating that he should move - or else - because the man couldn't tolerate wasting time. Harry quickly swept through the door, wearing his too-big, hand-me-down clothing and large round glasses.
Years later, he wondered whether that was the moment when he was unable to redeem himself from the blood that stained his tainted hands.