![The Doll Palace Home
[Where Cartoon Dolls Live]](http://ww2.thedollpalace.com/images/tdp_banner.gif) |
|
| Every doll has a story behind... |
|
Want to try to make one or see what other people came up with?! Every story will participate in The Doll Palace ratings. Good stories will be awarded with Dollpoints.
|
|
|
|
All created stories have to follow . We do not allow any sexually related material. The Doll Palace will be enforcing this rule and completely blocking access to the accounts that disregard our policy and create sexually oriented stories.
|
|
|
|
Hi, my name is Landon
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 | Dead Magic (Part 1) |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 4.92 with 12 vote(s)
|
|
| Created: 2008-07-16 01:08:48 |
|
|
|
Harry Potter is a fairy tale. Nothing more and nothing less. It’s just a story the Wizarding World made up to stop children from looking into Dark Magic. A stupid lie intended to forcibly place all young magicians on the straight and narrow. When you come right down to it, Harry Potter is nothing more than a blindfold that keeps us from seeing all of the Magical World. It’s an old-fashioned fear that they hope will still scare the children.
The World of Magic is wide and deep as the sea, encompassing as broad a spectrum of magic as there are colors in a beam of light. There are rituals and sacrifices, there is pain and there is pleasure. There is no harm in knowledge of these arts. The only reason they are forbidden is because some were afraid to open their eyes. They were afraid to look past the fabricated truths the world had put over their eyes to blind them to the truth. We are only ever free when we have wisdom enough to look past what the world tells us. We will only ever have power when we know the whole of the truth. If we cannot do this then we are no more than petty slaves to stereotype and cultivated fears.
*
As a child I always wanted to be just like Harry Potter when I grew up. I wanted to save the world from Evil, to be a Hero. I wanted to be the Chosen One. This all changed when I met the man behind the stories.
My father is an auror. Saving the world one petty criminal at a time and all that. He met Harry Potter through his work, the man had retired ten years about before but that didn’t stop him from showing up at the Ministry every so often to act the Hero and to be ogled by all the lesser mortals. He and Dad took a liking to each other and Dad talked him into coming over to our house for dinner.
I was five at the time, still too young to know what was truth and what was merely fiction. I thought Harry Potter was God.
Needless to say I barely slept the whole of the week before Harry Potter came to our house. I made my mother re-tell for the umpteenth time the old stories about his triumphs over the Dark Lord Voldemort. I even dug through my toybox, on the afternoon before he showed up, throwing to the side the toy broomstick and the plush hippogiff until I found my thick-rimmed plastic Harry Potter glasses. I’d bought them nearly a year ago. The lenses were scratched and the tape holding the bridge of the glasses together was not decoration but necessary because of the time I’d left them on the living room floor and my father had stepped on them, breaking them cleanly in half.
They made my head hurt, even though the lenses were only clear plastic, and so I didn’t wear them much. I put them on and ran down the hall to the bathroom to see myself in the mirror. I was disappointed to see that even with them on I didn’t look a thing like Harry Potter.
I had a narrow face, with what my mother called “delicate features”, I later came to realize that this was just a nice way of saying that I kind of look like a girl. Large grey-green eyes stared back at me, magnified slightly from behind the dirty plastic glasses. A spattering of freckles lay across my nose and cheeks. My hair, a tad too long even then, was a dirty brown-blonde color, streaked in places with lighter shades of gold and yellow from where it had been bleached by the sun.
A thick blonde fringe covered my forehead, but when I lifted it up I could see no scar there. I did have a scar on my right hand, a puckering jagged line that ran across the palm of my hand and made it hard to close all the way. This was fresh, only a few months old, but it wasn’t a mark of heroism so much as a badge of my mortality. If I moved my fingers right and squinched up my eyes it was vaguely lightning shaped. But not really.
I sighed. I wondered if I could dye my hair darker. I really didn’t want to. I let my bangs fall back into my eyes and left the bathroom. I kept the glasses on, but no sooner had I stepped into the hallway then did I run into my mother.
She took in the glasses with the amusement mothers save for when their children do something so stupid it’s cute.
“What’s this, Land?” she asked.
I shrugged, suddenly embarrassed. “’S’nothin’” I muttered.
She smiled at me. “Looks to me like those are your Harry Potter glasses. I thought you told me they hurt your head.”
I frowned. “They do.” I said.
“Go take those off and help me make some pudding for dessert, okay?”
I nodded and removed the glasses. I was no Harry Potter.
Harry Potter himself was not worth the dinner we made for him. For one thing he was old. Nearly eighty, with a shock of grey hair streaked with white, and wrinkled like a grape left out in the sun. Behind his own thick glasses he looked more like a turtle than the man whose face I’d seen in books and newspapers.
He smiled at me when he saw me standing apprehensively at the foot of the stairway.
“And you must be Landon,” he said. “Your father’s told me a lot about you.”
I smiled nervously. Surely my father had brought home the wrong man.
“I’m Harry Potter,” he said. He didn’t say the name like it was important, as if it were the name from the history books, he said it like it was just a name, his name. This puzzled me. He held out a hand for me to shake. I took it.
He noticed my scar.
“What’s happened to your hand?” He asked, turning it over to get a better look at the wound. His tone said he thought I must have fallen off my toy broomstick or something dumb like that.
I pulled my hand away. “Siobhan did that,” I said. “I cut it on the broken glass.”
He nodded as if he understood. He didn’t. His next question made that painfully clear. “Is Siobhan a friend of yours?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No, Siobhan is my big sister. But she got really sick and she had to go ‘way for a long time.”
There was something like pity behind his eyes. “I see,” he said. He thought she had died.
“She’s in a hospital.” I said. “In a big hospital. But when she gets better she can come home and see me and we can play again.”
“I bet that will be a lot of fun for you both,” he said.
My mother saved him from having to continue the awkward conversation, by announcing that dinner was served. About halfway through our soup Harry asked about my sister. My parents shot me the furtive glances that I had taken to mean the topic was one they wished I wasn’t present for.
“Siobhan was Landon’s older sister,” my father said in a hushed tone. “She would have been twelve this year. She was born sickly and the illness slowly stole her magic away from her. We knew she wouldn’t be with us for much more than ten years, but Landon took it hard. He still won’t accept she’s gone.” My father’s eyes clouded with tears.
*
Notes: I'm sorry for not using anyone's characters yet. They should be in by at least part three. A certain amount of introduction I felt was necessary to explain why Landon is the way he is and why he feels how he does about certain things. I hope that's acceptable. Even if it isn't I don't intend to stop writing. Characters I've been given will be used, in time. |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
© 2008 The Doll Palace. All rights reserved.
|
|
|
|
| |
