The Forgotten Child

Chapter 7: The Explanation

Shampoo147: I'm sorry about this, but with school, and my new job, i just don't seem to have the time to sit down and write on the computer. I got a C in Psychology and I still have a GPA of over 3.5! BONZAI!

Ayame: WEll, Mittens ran away, Jackie ran away, and now we have Garfield.

Shampoo147: WE didn't name him.

The Explanation

Grey, wasn't it black a moment ago?

Or was it white?

Or was it always gray?

A different color, maybe?

Harry didn't know, and quietly contemplated the mystery of "what color was it before blue?"

Harry didn't know how long he was staring at the colors, five minutes, five days, five years, he couldn't tell, and found that he didn't care.

Harry was contemplating what color had come before red when he felt something, something, real.

He felt a sense of being solid.

It came slowly, maybe quickly, Harry couldn't tell, but he was gaining his senses.

The time came when he was able to feel, but that was all he was sure he had. He could feel his fingers, his toes, his nose, and the rest of his body; they were tingling. He concentrated on flexing his toes and felt them move; he flexed every muscle in his body (that he knew how to flex) and was pleased that he could do this.

He could suddenly smell things, not a very unpleasant smell, or a very pleasant cocktail of aromas. There was freshly cut grass, the musty, stale odor of a neglected cupboard (probably had spiders), and the sharp smell of disinfectants. Startled, he turned (he could move, that was new, or was it old and he just couldn't remember?) and saw a nondescript house, nothing spectacular, nothing dingy. Figuring that since he could turn, he could walk, he willed himself forward and was pleased as he felt his legs, knees, ankles, and feet work together to bring him closer to the house.

As he got to the door, he noted the shiny, brass 4 beside it, the address of whatever street this house is from. He opened the door and stepped in.

The inside of the house was completely the same as the outside, barren, nothing spectacular. There were no paintings, pictures, personal effects, or even carpeting. It was just barren, like a warehouse, and there weren't even any shadows in this place, the edges unobscured.

Hesitantly, Harry began to walk forward, and was drawn to the cupboard in the wall under the stairs.

He stopped, and waited.

Nothing.

Where was his voice?

Gulping, and just now realizing how dependent he had gotten upon the voice, he opened the cupboard door, which had vents installed.

There was nothing in there but a barren cot, very small. Small enough for himself, he noted. Glancing around, he withdrew from the cupboard and closed the door. He glanced up the stairs, having wished this was a movie so he could hear something.

He quietly began to walk up the wooden stairs, pleased (and unnerved) by the unmuffled, 'click, click' of his shoes hitting the floor.

When he got to the top of the stairs, he turned to his right, and opened the door.

The first bit of sensory information that he registered was the dimness, shadows, different lighting. Real lighting.

Then there was the clutter.

This room was filled with old, broken toys, dusty books, a birdcage filled with bird poop, scatters of the Daily Prophet (all with dates have yet to pass, years and years left to go), and a small bed with a man sitting on it, his face in Harry's direction.