citrine

The only modern thing he couldn't leave behind was his record player and favorite records (mostly Fleetwood Mac and Stevie Nicks' solo albums). He played a different record everyday, never tiring of the notes of music and powerful voices of each singer (Stevie was his absolute favorite, though, he could tell there was something extra special about her, like him). He kept all of his clothes from his socializing days; his large flared out bellbottom pants, sheer shirts, and glittery accessories. His ruffled blouses and fringed jackets all stayed with him, even though no one ever saw him, he liked dressing up and feeling nice. He even was able to put together a pot of glitter paste that he would smear across his skin when he was feeling extra special that day. All of the surrounding wildlife seemed to love it as they all gravitated towards him even more when he had it across his cheekbones or down his chest. That was all he needed. Materialistically, anyway.

But he yearned for a companion; a person to speak with, be around, and love. He didn't care whether that person would be a friend, a lover, or just someone that would drop by occasionally. He just needed someone. He was lucky he found his little bunny, Dandelion (he found her when she was chomping on dandelions not too far from his cottage), and the mountain lion cub he raised, Bonnie (a bratty thing, really, but very loyal and loving when she wanted to be), but he needed more. He knows he could go out and find someone—anyone—to talk to, but he doesn't know how to anymore. He used to be quite the social butterfly back in the day. He loved a good party, and loved it even more when he was the center of attention. But now, almost forty years out of practice with the most recent memories of others being unpleasant, he was scared to go back. Who's to say he wouldn't be found out for what he truly is now; he doesn't know what could have advanced while he was hiding.

He doesn't know if he could make it out there and he's too scared to try.

His magic was really the only thing keeping him sane. It's all he had to entertain himself, to give him some sort of purpose, to feel. But it's progressively getting harder and harder to get by, as his magic had been on the more unreliable side for the better part of the last couple of decades or so. Some days it's just as it's been before with him being in perfect tune with his intuition, the energies vibrating from the earth, and all of his own abilities, just as it should be. Other days, it's a different story. He still feels vague connections to his flowers and the animals he helps maintain and take care of, and if he tries enough times he can complete a simple spell, but it's hard. Harry knows how to get by just fine without depending on his powers, it's just the loss of feeling that hurts him the most. He needs to feel the life force from the plants and other living things around him, he needs that connection to Mother Earth or he feels useless. It's an unsettling feeling not being able to connect with the most basic source of happiness and purpose; the feeling of being incomplete. He hates those days. He doesn't know why they keep occurring. For almost a century, his magic went uncompromised, precise, and complete, then one day it just stopped. He couldn't communicate with that side of himself, and he suffered those first few years trying to cope. He learned to live with those inconveniences, just by spending extra time outside and with all of those bits of life to help compensate for what was missing. It wasn't perfect, but it was better.

Harry felt at peace with just about everything in his life, he just needed to figure out why his magic was so wonky all the time, and he wouldn't mind the help of another person. He hopes wishing is all the magic he'll need for these two things to come true.

—————

Today had been a particularly good day for Harry.

His magic was being extra cooperative. Not even once had he had to concentrate extra hard on a simple command, like the peeling of a summer squash for tonight's dinner, or having to physically touch one of his plants to know how healthy it was. It just all came to him like it used to. The sun was particularly bright, warming his skin through his white ruffled blouse and plain black, high waisted trousers. The flowers smelled sweeter, Dandelion's fur felt softer, the river looked bluer; everything was at its peak. It felt special.