A Most Curious Blue
He was running out of air, he was angry, and sad, overwhelmingly sad, it crushed his lungs, and it burn his heart, he felt so much, it was scaping out of him. “The sacrifice of your mother is one of the bravest moments in history yet, we have been trying to get permission to raise a statue in her honour, a mother’s love is one of the greatest forces in this world after all, if you were—” Floated the words of Minister Fudge, his voice too far to be understood.
“My mother loved me?” Hadrian couldn’t help but ask, holding onto his consciousness with the strength a boa would use to kill a man, he saw more than heard the horrified gasps of all those around them, but he couldn’t help it, he didn’t mean to burden the memory of his late mother, but it truly was the first time he heard of it. A little drizzle hit his face.
“Of course she did Harry!” Wind in his ears “She died for you, both of them did.” Lighting underneath his skin “Oh, it was such an awful time then, people were dropping like flies, your grandparents both, Euphemia and Fleamont not long after the war broke out, and we heard of the Evans shortly before Lily’s death.” Thunder rumbling inside his chest “I’m sure they would’ve all loved to meet you, you are such a polite young man and—” Rain against the back of his neck.
He had grown used to the notion that he was not one to be loved, or accompanied as the years passed, but the knowledge that it had not always been his fate hit him like a slap in the face. He had had parents once, and a life, and they probably called his name then, before they died, before they were killed, then perhaps they had loved him, and remembered him. He didn’t remember them, he couldn’t no matter how much he tried, and he knew their names just now, but he would never get to call for them or love them or remember them. He had been loved so much he would never get to meet them ever at all.
And it just wasn’t fair, and it hurt so bad, there wasn’t a single spot in his body that didn’t hurt, he felt punctured, like he had been cut open, he felt like he was bleeding out, his clothes were wet with his blood, and they could all see it. The crowd he had stumbled into, they all knew, that he was alone, that there was no one left to use his name to call for him and love him and remember him, he had no use for a name after all, since there was no one to use it anymore. Perhaps his Aunt Petunia had had the right idea hiding him away, where this hurt wouldn’t reach him, where he would never have to know the horrifying truth of his name, and his family and his destiny. He was dripping and swaying in a storm, it was destroying the room, and it was ripping him whole.
He was the desperate holler of the wind, and the rattling of the rain, and he was the fire in the lightning burning away his sorrows. He was the roar of the thunder, and he was the storm. He was the storm.
He remembers the storm, back during Dudley’s sixth birthday, when he was locked inside the cupboard and the sound of laughter and family and love teared him whole. He remembers the storm, the lightning and thunder cracked and burned and destroyed, and the rain didn’t stop for hours, the wind hurt by the sheer force of it.
Dudley had to have every present replaced for it all got destroyed in the storm, they had to replace the roof of the house for it all got destroyed in the storm, and they had to take Uncle Vernon to the hospital for it all got destroyed in the storm.
He was the storm, it belonged to him then, and it belonged to him now as well. He felt the rain in his face not his tears, and he knew. He had brought the storm inside the room. But he couldn’t do that to this room, he saw the terrified faces of other children, and the frantic adults all around him, there were more of them now than before, with wands pointing in every direction; they were trying to stop the storm. Because the storm was destroying the room, he was the force of destruction itself.
He needed to leave, he couldn’t control the storm, it hurt too bad, it hurt too big. He needed to get out of here now, he needed to go where storms went. He needed to go now.
And with one last look at the room, he did just that, he gathered his storm and his hurt, and he squeezed himself away to where storms belonged.
With his eyes closed, he wasn’t sure he could consider himself awake, no feeling in his body could reach him and no sound could disturb him, he existed away from all, in the land inside him where he could hold his own mind and ensure no harm to come to him he was lost to the blue of the sky, the sea, and the air.
For as long as he could remember on the night of the thirty-first of October, his aunt Petunia would sit with him underneath the stairs, where they were not to be found, nor heard or seen. She would unravel packets and packets of toffees, and while all the other kids went from door to door in elaborate costumes allowing themselves one only day a year to forgo their perfectly normal attitude and attire, he and his aunt had their quietest moment of the year.
She never spoke on the day of Halloween; he didn’t push it lest she found it too strange and withhold her company. She would cry, long and unburdened by her normal concepts of decorum and propriety, and in the haunted night of the dead, he would look at her ashen face and feel a deep sadness inside his bones that left him so cold he was sure to freeze by dawn.
She would leave once he was taken by sleep, and not a soul would mention it the day after, before, or any day for the matter.
In those nights he would find himself plagued by dreams of laughter and screams and so much fear at the light of a green beacon. A light lullaby would guide him away from the darkest corners of his mind, a bark and a growl to defend him off the danger, little feet keeping him company, and a pair of absurdly big antlers would open up a path for him to cross away from dreams he had no way of understanding.
Just like Cricket Sir, his companions offered no name, and yet he knew it anyways. A large black dog called Padfoot, a mournful white wolf named Moony, a too tiny rodent named Tail, and an imposing stag named Prongs. The wind would blow whispers of a song as two more presences joined them, little figures made of light fluttered around him blossoming a garden of flowers and enchanting the wind to be kinder with a gentle song he could not make out the words for. Lillies and marigolds, and peace and calm.
He was here again, unburdened and unknowing. Inside his own head he was weightless, gently moved by the breeze to meet back with his very own cast of companions. They all curled themselves around him, like a heavy blanket. It was so sour. He was restless. Blue, a most curious blue. Where was he? Blue, a most curious blue.
“Hadrian” He muttered, slowly as to not spook himself, he saw smiles on the faces of the fluttering lights, “Lily” one of them muttered back, holding onto his face, as it was so very tiny it was taking her a great effort, but she just kept smiling. He wanted to tell them all his name, he hoped they were happy for him as well.
Swish, swish, swish, Tail was running away from them. He was so tiny; you could barely catch sight of him. Until he reached the very end of the field, where Sir Cricket stood, his mouth was frowning, he guessed the rest of his face must’ve as well (behind the snake mask, of course). Tail climbed him all the way to his shoulder, and with his cane Cricket Sir started stomping on the flowers to get to them. Prongs stood then, almost making him fall, he walked around them to stand right in between them and Sir Cricket. The fluttering light, Lily, started shrilling more words he couldn’t quite catch, they didn’t sound very kind this time.
He was having a hard time grasping where he was, “Hadrian” he thought to himself, unsure where he had learned his name. His name? He had no name, he made no sound, and he was never seen. Blue, a most curious blue.
“Hadrian, a word if you would?” Said Cricket Sir.
Padfoot and Moony started growling at that, showing their teeth and standing by his sides. They did this often, they just wouldn’t get along, no matter how much Hadrian thought to himself they should, it seemed his creations had escaped his hold, he was Prometheus, cursed away from his creations, only allowed to observe as they carved their own selves.
“There is no need for all this, Sir Cricket is being perfectly polite, now, if you all must, I will be having that word now.” At this they all seemed to settle but not move, Prongs sat right where he stood, and Hadrian had to climb onto him to be able to speak with Cricket Sir.
“You need to wake up, Hadrian”
Blue, the most curious blue, Hadrian could see a little better then, just behind the flower field, there was a storm. “He IS the storm!” he heard, a tiny voice far away, screaming for its life. He was the storm, it was Hadrian, Hadrian was the storm. The most curious blue, oh, but why a storm? He understood the thought process given the scar but—oh, the scar, his parents. His family. The Potters, the Evans. Lily and James Potter; his parents. His parents who loved him. His parents who loved him and died for him. The storm got worse then, or perhaps just louder, wind over the garden, he would fly off soon.
Blue, the most curious blue, and white, lighting and thunders, he was a storm, he felt it from the tips of his fingers to the core of his heart, he was the storm, and he couldn’t control it. It hurt too bad; it just wouldn’t do.
“Hadrian, you must wake, we are losing control” Repeated Cricket Sir panic in his voice, and Padfoot growled, and Hadrian’s head hurt, and since he was inside it so did the rest of him. Moony cried, howling at the sky, in a mournful show of solidarity for his hurt, or perhaps it was hurting him as well, given that he lived inside his head, and his head was going to explode from the pain.
“I can't sir, it would be of no use, I can’t control it”.
“Nonsense boy, you are the storm, it is simply an extension of you, you just must control the emotion.”
“The emotion?”
“The hurt, Hadrian, is what’s causing the storm; you must accept the hurt and take control of your magic it is only reacting to you”.
“Oh, but sir I simply can’t. The emotion is too big, there is just not enough of me to feel it all.”
The wind rattled everything inside the garden then, hollering like a desperate cry, almost human in its desperation, a most heartbreaking sound. Was it him making the sound? He was the storm after all. Cricket Sir tumbled down onto his knees from the strength of the wind, it didn’t reach Hadrian, standing in between his protectors as he was. But on his knees Sir Cricket begged:
“Allow us then! We will help carry bits of it, so you can feel it a piece at a time!”
Oh, and what a wonderful thinker Cricket Sir was, fixing all his problems as he often did. He looked and reached for it, lost in his own pain desperate to reach its centre. He guided, wonder lost in his pain, it was all lost to him, he could not think, he could not hold, he could not cry, just feel. Holding onto all of them as he crossed, they tumbled and stumbled to the heart of the storm.
In the very middle stood a door, his door. His little cupboard door, the wind striking it over and over and it held still, firm and formidable against wind and rain and thunder and lightning. It stood, haunting Hadrian.
Sir Cricket reached for it, a lightning striking his hand as it made contact with the handle. He hissed, an animalistic sound Hadrian felt in his bones rather than heard, a language, his language. And with the blackened hand he struck the door. Thunder rumbling as the pieces hit the floor.
Each of them took a piece, Cricket Sir’s the biggest, a wooden plank roughly his size he balanced on his back like one would a backpack. And Hadrian’s the littlest, the handle felt heavy and blue in his hands, like the bitter taste of blood, and the feeling of dryness after having lost all of one’s tears. He felt spent by it, like it drew life out of him, but still the wind calmed, whistling a devastating tune, and the rain became a drizzle, and the blue, the most curious blue became all too clear.
He was the storm, and he needed to hold the storm now. He reached inside him, from below his throat, through the burn in his heart, all the way to his fingertips, he breathed and with one last mournful cry he pulled the storm back. An electric feeling, like goosebumps rushed past him, leaving him in a freezing floor, gazing up at the most curious blue.