At the time between wake and sleep, itís like a state of arousal. Your body is vibrating but you refuse to move and your mind is flinging around a million ideas at once. If you were to give it form, it would be silver, pretty and shining in your eyes; just a layer of silk parchment, floating above your nose. You look at it while lying on your back against the stiff cotton sheets of your bed, and it shows you images. You believe everything you see, and you believe it all to be real, so yes, it is real, you can feel it.
So this is how it is: you are just an ordinary teenaged boy. No, scrap that. You are just an ordinary teenaged Wizard boy. Yes, thatís right, you own a wand and you can do magic.
It has always been this way, you know no other. You also have parents that smile at you and show their white teeth behind red and healthy lips. You give them names, calling them Lily and James, and you are their soon. Youíre a sort of son to their friends too. Their names are: Sirius, Remus and-
-No. It was only those two.
You donít have any siblings, but thatís alright; there are plenty of Weasleys to go around. Their hair is sort of like your mothers, but a stronger red only special Wizarding breeding can deliver, like the colour of blood the second before it turns a few shades darker from gathering itself into a large puddle. It reminds you of the warm feeling of fire against your skin: sharp, hot and magnificent. Not that you have seen much blood, or felt any burns. In fact, you havenít even got a scar on your forehead, so what would you know?
Your best friend is Ron Weasley and you go to school together. You are Quidditch captain, Head Boy and you study hard but have fun with your friends at appropriate intervals. Retreating from the games, whether it be chess, exploding snap or football, is hard, but you do it, and Hermione Granger doesnít nag you because you can do it on your own. Youíre good like that.
Youíre perfect like that, even. There are really just friends and grumpy teachers around; not arch-enemies stalking around like shadows, spending all days and nights planning out your doom. Thereís no suffocation, nor night terrors from the whispering. No muttered words such as: Death, pain, portkey, potion, kill, rip, tear, crucioÖ
AvadaÖ what? No, youíve never heard your mother scream because she has never screamed like that ever anyway. Not that you would know, because letís face it, youíve never met a Dementor and Sirius has never been in prison. Maybe heís married to a nice lady.
Maybe. But one thing is for sure: you like Seamus and Dean and Neville and Ginny. But you donít like that boy, with hair and skin so silver like a Veelaís, and eyes sharp and bright that you can almost hear your soul screaming when he glares at you across the room during inter-house study sessions and meal times. His name is Draco Malfoy and you donít think that name is strange at all, but heís not very nice so you appoint him your only enemy. Heís mean to Hermione and Ron, and you hate him for that. But then you think that heís only like that because it was the way he was brought up: a rich snob who knows no other way to act, and by the time youíve convinced yourself that his heart really isnít that black, your hate has simmered and melted into pity instead. Heís justÖ Heís just. Heís just something.
Just annoying, really. Yes, thatís it. Heís even annoying after the last Slytherin verses Griffindor game youíre ever going to play and he comes into your House changing rooms and talks loudly to you while youíre still naked, and the two of you are standing with wet hair after your showers, both quite flushed. But his cheeks arenít red from embarrassment, heís red from anger because apparently you hit his wrist causing the Snitch to fall from his hand or something a rather. Youíre not listening, and you pretend its because itís Malfoy and you never listen to Malfoy, but its actually because you like the way his lips smack together when he talks and the way the water in his hair turns it sort of golden against the torch light and then you watch a drop of water dangling delicately from a strand of hair drop onto his neck and slide down until it disappears under his collar.
Heís stopped talking now, and his eyes are sliding down your body, and he would turn red if he wasnít already, you suppose for some reason. Then the scene changes because the half-wake window canít hold for much longer and anyway, youíre sick of pitying Malfoy. Or Something.
Or maybe you found that scene very wrong, as this is the Wizarding World and Wizards are different from Muggles in that some boy Muggles like boys, but Wizards donít like Wizards. This world is perfect like that, youíve decided. Some things are okay, like disenchanted canary creams or the strange buzz made from rain hitting a wet-protection shield or the way Mandy Brocklehurst sings the word Ďyesí when you ask her to the Christmas Eve Ball. You like it this way, itís perfect.
Finally falling asleep is always a big let down, and you dream of a small boy with tears on his cheeks, and heís sniffing and pounding on a door. His relatives have locked him in a hall cupboard under the stairs to the second floor of their house, and you feel so sorry for this boy you almost cry yourself, but instead you drift into the half-wake again and you remind yourself that you are very happy and your life is good.
The window is shimmering silver, like the soft hair between your fingers, so soft like the lips lightly pressed against yours, and it shimmers and flicks out of focus like the tongue pressing into your mouth. You suddenly feel very tired, and morning is drifting into your consciousness but you donít want to see it, and Ron is waking up but you donít want to hear him, and the special world you made up is disappearing but you donít want it to go.
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