CHAPTER 2: Regret

Harrison had been staring at his door for the past hour, inspecting the spells he had placed on it. They were hastily done in a fear-driven endeavor, the anxiety of his Father charging at the door ever-prominent as he flipped through his notes frantically, placing every defensive hex or spell he knew on the door.

And his fears were justified, as right after he had placed the last spell on the door, his father began to yell, shaking the door, screaming about his appearance downstairs. He didn't have to see his face to know his eyes were crazed, mouth and teeth bared in anger. He could remember his face, from so long ago. 

He wasn't scared. At least, that's what he convinced himself of.  Perhaps, unprepared to face him when he came to the door. At a loss for what to say or do in the face of an unpredictable man. 

He had learned to burn the fear a long time ago.

It reminded him of a rabid dog he had seen once, dashing across the road, its fur mangy and matted, limbs bony and crooked. Its eyes had been bloodshot, and foam had been choking its maw. Its teeth bared and a constant snarl marring its snout. 

He had watched as it pounced on a rat, paws pinning it as it sank its sharp canines into its soft, furred flesh. He had taken a breath as it tugged the meat from its body, blood spurting from the cavity in its chest, pooling onto the ground and staining the rabid dog’s snout. The rat’s beady eyes fogged over, becoming glassy as they stared at nothing, their body feeding a creature that was bound to die soon anyway. 

He had never seen death before, not really. He didn’t truly remember what had happened to his mother, besides having died at the end of the Dark Lord’s wand. Trying to delve into those memories brought a wave of terror so profound that it made his breaths get tight and short. Made his body tremble. Made him lose all sense. 

Fear made him weak, he learned to burn the fear a long time ago. 

It did nothing but cause problems. 

Anxious, dread pooling in his stomach as he slumped down the stairs. The fear grasping at his heart made him want to vomit, it made his head spin and legs shake. 

Ashis foot touched the bottom floor, the yelling began, and the fear rose up to make him fall to the floor as his father towered over him, his screams unforgiving to his ears, the hate in his eyes too much for him to bear. 

The sadness reached his eyes, and he let tears pull through. That only made the yelling man angrier, his words like razors. Each tear pouring from his eyes made him angrier. 

Nothing stopped the man, nothing made him stop for one second to listen to the boy.

It all just fuelled his rage.  

With a hiss of disgust, he stomped that weed back into the dirt of the Cottage’s flowerbed, making sure that the monkshoods were still pristine as ever. He leaned against the now still door, left ear pressed against the wood, listening. Other than the melodic rhythm of his own magic, he could hear nothing. He tried his other ear, and it came back with the same result. 

Heaving a sigh of relief, he retracted from the door, hands shaking, and backed away, not finding himself standing silently in the middle of his room. Fear attempted to rise to the surface, unbidden, but he shoved that down, throwing it into the roaring fireplace of The Cottage of his mind instead. He was gone, for now, it did him no good. 

    ̵̭̕ ̷͙͝ ̶̞̋      ̶̖̋ ̵̰́      ̵̖́ ̵̨̓  ̶̝͝ ̴͙͋          ̵̡̀

̸̟̊ ̵̫̅T̷̩̋h̶̪͐ḛ̶́ ̸̢͊ ̶͉̂š̵̹m̷̢̉o̸͎͗k̸̪̈e̶̬͊,̴̥̃ ̵̜̃b̶̲͑ ̴̆ͅi̴̤͐ḷ̵̆l̷̟̇ǫ̶̈́ŵ̷̹i̷͉̓n̵̠̑ḡ̸̫ ̴̬͗f̶̲̔r̷̳̐ ̴̫͠õ̷̹m̷͉̎ ̷̦̈́ẗ̶̡́ḫ̴̛ẽ̴̗ ̸͙̊ ̸̱̽f̸͇͘l̴̑͜a̵͉͘m̷̮͛ ̴͔̑ȇ̵̫s̶̤̔,̸͖̉ ̷͓̕s̵̤̓t̴̠͝i̷̳͐ĺ̵͖l̸͙͆ ̶͉́l̵̖̇ì̷͎n̶̼̋g̶̲̔ ̴̩̊e̴̯͝r̷̻͑s̷̬̕ ̶̪͋ ̸̟̀ ̶͇̌ ̸̱̎

    ̸͖́                                    ̸̙̃       ̸̦͝      ̷̟̓        ̶̘͝      

The world around him fuzzes for a moment, his peripherals fading to a back, colors whipping around that he cannot place, before he is snapped back into the present. His body feels shaky, and so he takes a seat at his desk, pulling open the drawer that holds the book, tugging it out from under the pile of notes he had taken. The bookmark is lopsided, he notices, as he fingers through the pages to find where he left off, in both the book and his notes. 

And so, he falls back into that unconscious state of doing, the cozy, cushioned couch of the Cottage where the aged, small-fonted newspaper talked about the spells Aurors used. The scratching of a quill soothing as white-noise. 

Though, suddenly, his eyes caught on something. A spell, or- rather, a Charm. The Disillusionment Charm, used to turn the target invisible by casting a thin sort of bubble around them and making it match the surroundings near perfectly. 

Hidehidehidehide. 

Out of sight out of mind. 

It is commonly activated on the head, as it can cloak one faster with the assistance of gravity. The only thing left was a slight distortion of the projection, but it seemed one would only see it if they were looking for it. A spell for hiding. 

It was… 

It was perfect. 

But… 

He felt himself turn to the full-body mirror across his room. A hand, lightly shaking, reached up to his face, just under his left eye, where the thin layer of magic lying there sparked with his touch. His fingers traveled across his cheek, to his ear. 

He wished, with his entire being, that it was smooth under that thin blanket of magic, under that glamour. 

But it wasn’t. 

It was mang- NO 

No, no, no, no. 

Focus. Focus on the book in front of you. 

Don't think about it. 

His magic picked up the quill, allowing him to rest his quaking hands around his stomach as he jotted down the notes for the charm. He was much more thorough, the small calligraphy filling up the entire page, and then half of another. Finally, when the section changed to another spell, he shakily placed the bookmark back into the textbook. 

He scanned the notes, allowing himself to post it on the wall of his Cottage’s office, before moving over to the mirror. 

Now, he just needed to get the spell right.

And keep his composure in front of his reflection. 

𓆩✧𓆪

Harrison’s brows were furrowed, staring at his magic that had decided to pool stubbornly on top of his head, instead of draping across his body to disillusion himself. 

With an annoyed huff, he tried again, and this time studied the distribution of his magic as it drooped down his head and a little past his shoulders. And then, it stopped. 

He looked closely, and it hit him that, in fact, there simply wasn't enough magic to cover him entirely. He looked up at his chest, and saw there was a clump of it that simply wouldn't move. He tried to poke at it, but it didn't move, as if sleeping, dormant. 

There were two options here, either his magic was being stubborn, or he simply just didn't have enough control to mold the magic. With a sigh, he grabbed onto the cloak-like sheen of the Disillusionment Charm and tugged, removing the spell. His magic coiled around his arm once again, with the few pieces that didn't nesting in his hair. 

Why…. Why couldn't he just get it right? Why can’t he just do it?

He was doing it right, he was sure! But… it just wouldn't work. 

Maybe…

Maybe I'm too young… 

Young, what an odd thought he certainly didn't feel young. Not with the death of her. Not with the shattered remains of a family left behind when she was cast into the cold hard ground. Not with the blurred, murky memories of a night bloody and gruesome. 

Blood, flowing down his face, dripping down his chin, and staining his shirt red. 

His eyes were heavy, though slowly he managed to pry them open.

However, one of his eyes was still dark when he opened it. 

The moon… the moon…a glaring light above. 

It was certainly bright, that night. 

Not with the fake reflection that stares back at him, taunting him with the knowledge that he hides his true appearance, telling him that he is a coward. 

His hand reached up to his face once more, near the middle of his forehead. The glamour sparked once more at his touch, but he kept going, until he met skin. 

Rough, bumpy skin. 

His hand followed the path of scarred skin. Down through his eye, useless and broken. Through his cheek, ending at his jaw. There was another trail of mangled skin near his ear, reaching out from his ear canal. 

It didnt matter how many times he placed a glamour over the imperfections that marred his face. 

It would always be there. A forever dismemberment. 

He doesnt remember how they happened. Except they happened the night his mother… 

And, maybe he doesnt want to remember, because if this was the aftermath… 

His reflection glares back at him, but its distant, obscured by the black impeding his vision. 

If this was the aftermath…

He hopes he never remembers.