Narry: One Shots

A Narry Cinderella Story

As a single teardrop rolled down his right cheek, how wrong he was about the limit of tears. When you had enough to cry about, they could fall forever 

--Five years later--

“Harry! Breakfast isn’t ready yet. I have to go to the theatre in an hour!” he hears the shrill of Maybelle’s voice carry all the way up to his room in the attic.

In time, Harry had grown quite fond of this space. He could get away from anyone here, including Eugene and Neville. And those moments alone were the one’s he’s learnt to cherish most.

“Coming!” he yells back. He closes his leather journal with a sigh and tucks it away under his lumpy mattress. This was his prized possession, the only thing that solely belonged to him. Even his nosy stepmother had yet to discover his secret treasure.

Des had gifted it to him on his thirteenth birthday, a few weeks before his passing.

“Harry, feelings are important,” Des had told him. “Feeling are what make us human. From love to anger, everything you feel is very important.”

Harry had nodded unsurely.

“I have your birthday present,” Des had said. He pulled out a brown package from underneath his coat.

Harry had smiled with excitement, hands already grabbing for the present in his father’s hand. When he’d ripped the package open, he couldn’t hide his disappointment. It was a journal. A thick, leather bound journal. He looked at his father, praying that his was some sort of a joke.

His father had caught his disapproval, but merely smiled. “Harry, write things down. Write what you feel, why you feel them. Words are beautiful things, Harry. They convey messages our mouths often cannot.”

“Do you have one?” Harry had asked.

“I do. It’s one of my most important possessions,” Des had told him.

“Really?” Harry questioned skeptically. How important could a few scratches on parchment really be?

Des had nodded. “Words are good listeners. They wait patiently, never interrupting, taking in everything you give them. They help you figure out a lot of things, and they do it silently. They hold your memories, your triumphs, and your tragedies. They’re important. At least try. Promise me you’ll try.”

Harry had shrugged. He didn’t understand why this held such a significance to his father. “I Promise, ” he’d agreed and left it on his desk. Then he’d forgotten all about it.

He’d forgotten all about it until the night Maybelle had banished him to the attic. He saw it, the brown leather, resting a top the rest of the things she’d packed up.

And Harry had been livid. How could his father leave him like this? How could his father just leave him with nothing to depend on but his spiteful step-mother?

He’d thought about burning it. He’d even found a lighter.

But then he remembered his promise. And Harry Styles, even at thirteen years old, was a man of his word.

So he found a quill, flattened out the journal on his bed, and began to write. And write. And write.

And Harry had found that he could not stop writing. Not that night, not ever.

--

Making his way around to the kitchen he can hear Maybelle mumbling something about a “lazy and ungrateful imbecile”. Harry sighs because there is no one in world Maybelle loves to insult more than Harry.