The Girl With Brown Eyes
folder
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
3
Views:
1,142
Reviews:
6
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
3
Views:
1,142
Reviews:
6
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Discovery
A/N: I don’t know how far I’ll get with this one… it was just an idea that came to me yesterday, so I’ll try it out. Please read and review! It’d mean a lot to me, seeing as this is my first one! Thankies xxxx
I know the first chapter doesn\'t seem like anything much, but I have a good idea of where this is going to go... I don\'t know whether it\'ll include what happens in the HP books in where this comes in though... I\'ll have to decide.
DISCLAIMER: I don\'t own any characters you recognise from the HP books.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Fourteen-year-old Willow crept out of the house, sat on the front wall, and sobbed. She was left undisturbed for about 5 minutes before her drunken stepfather burst open the front door.
\"Get back in here, bitch! Get of the street!\"
Willow hurried back inside. Mr. Hardman did a fake salute to the neighbours peeking through the net-curtains and slammed the front door shut.
\"What were you doing out there? What will the neighbours think?\"
\'A lot less if you\'d stop yelling,\' thought Willow, as she trained her eyes on the spot in the distance that she often focused on.
----------------------------------------
FLASHBACK
----------------------------------------
\"Look at these grades!\" screamed her father into her ear. \"A Hardman should do better than this! Look, three Cs, two Ds and one E! You need to do better! Do you hear me?\"
\"Yes father,\" whispered the eleven year old, cringing as a mix of beer and lemon wafted past her nose.
\"You what?\" he bellowed, grabbing a handful of her beautiful brown hair and twisting her face to look at his un-shaved red one. \"Can\'t hear you!\"
\"Yes father,\" croaked Willow, slightly louder.
\"Can\'t... can\'t... yo... can...\" Mr. Hardman collapsed on Willow.
Struggling under his dead weight, Willow squeezed out from underneath the limp body on top of her. She rolled him onto his back, and gazed down at the unconscious man. Tears sprang to her eyes as she felt the red-hot pain on top of her head. Willow bent down, sniffing, and took the blank piece of paper out of his clenched fist.
-----------------------------------------
END OF FLASHBACK
-----------------------------------------
\"You always were good-for-nothing!\" Mr. Hardman continued to shout. \"Your parents were probably good -for-nothing too! No wonder they got rid of you! LOOK AT ME WHEN I\'M TALKING TO YOU!\"
Willow sighed inwardly and turned her hazel eyes on his bloodshot green ones.
\"And you can take that look off your face too!\" Mr. Hardman lashed out wildly, hitting Willow across the right cheek with the back of his hand, the hand that had a ring on. The ring cut a deep scratch across her face, and Willow instinctively clapped a hand to it, falling to her knees with the force of the blow.
Now Willow was out of his sightline, Mr. Hardman staggered out of the hall and into the lounge, where a 6 pack of beer and photos of his dead wife were waiting for him.
The teen sat where she had fallen for a few minutes until she heard mutters of \"Marie... Marie,\" and she knew her adoptive father had gone back to memories of Marie Hardman, his wife. Willow pulled herself to her feet using the banister, and crawled up the stairs, one hand still on her cheek.
Once in her room, Willow pulled a first aid kit from under her bed and a mirror from her untidy windowsill. She looked in the mirror first, gently taking her hand away from her face. Taking a cotton wool bud from a small packet that was half used already, she dabbed away the blood that was smeared over her cheek, where it had run down from the deep cut. Then, wincing, Willow applied an antiseptic wipe, stopping herself from crying out loud at the sting. She applied a small white plaster, packed the much-used kit away, and tried to sleep.
***
The next day was uneventful, the summer holidays were just starting, Willow was trying to organise a club she could go to, something, anything to get her out of the house over the course of the next few weeks.
Mr. Hardman, after poking Willow’s cut and frowning, announced that he was going to the pub with his mates, and proceeded to lock Willow in her room.
Willow waited until the roaring of his car had well disappeared into the distance before she started picking the lock. This was a talent she had found quite useful, being able to roam the house, while her “father” came home, completely drunk, forgetting he had locked her in there in the first place.
Willow realised that she didn’t know anything about her birth parents, and cursed herself for not remembering this before, when she was around the house, alone. She opened the unlocked study door, and stepped inside.
It was an absolute tip. Papers and files were scattered over every possible horizontal surface. Vegetable racks were being used for storage space, and were wonky, teetering on their wheels. Filing cabinets and bookcases lined the dark walls, and one single picture sat on the smallest filing cabinet. Marie Hardman. Willow gazed around at this for a few minutes, wondering how on earth she was going to set about finding any specific files.
She pinched herself to get started. Willow went to the desk to start with, searching through the drawers and the cupboards. Then onto the bookcases, checking the bigger books for secret compartments (she wouldn’t hold it against her father to make a secret compartment in a book), and lastly, the filing cabinets. In the cabinet with the picture on it, there was a file marked W. ARMSTRONG. Willow guessed that was her original last name. She took it out, arranged the other files so it wouldn’t look like there was anything different, turned out the light, and went back to her bedroom.
Sitting cross-legged on her bed she lifted the front cover. On the first page there was her birth certificate, and for her mother’s name; Flora Adams, obviously using her maiden name; Joss Armstrong was the name of her father. Tears sprang to her eyes as she softly touched the names on the yellowing piece of paper. ‘Mum,’ she whispered.
Willow laid it on it’s front on her bed, and moved onto the other pieces of paper, stuck in higgledy–piggledy and creased at the corners.
The next few were nursery school details, and a few of her better pictures. She smiled as she passed a rabbit, what might have been a giraffe, and her, her mum and dad and her house.
Then, secondary school. But Willow didn’t get that far. On top of these was a thick envelope, made out of a heavy yellow parchment. Willow turned it over, and there was a red seal on the back, broken in two. Opening the envelope she pulled out the thick pieces of paper.
It seemed that when she was eleven, she had been accepted to a boarding school. But this was a strange letter. ‘Wizards?’ Willow asked herself. ‘Witches?’
All that she could think of was years ago she could have been away from this house. Away from Mr. Hardman. She could have escaped all the knocks and bruises he had given her. Willow turned her eye to the scars on her arm, the only way out she had known two years ago.
She closed the letter. It said term started on September 1st, and the train left from Kings Cross station. September 1st was only a week away. She could still go.
Willow stood up, as anger surged through her, fuelled by hope. She was going to get her father for this.
I know the first chapter doesn\'t seem like anything much, but I have a good idea of where this is going to go... I don\'t know whether it\'ll include what happens in the HP books in where this comes in though... I\'ll have to decide.
DISCLAIMER: I don\'t own any characters you recognise from the HP books.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Fourteen-year-old Willow crept out of the house, sat on the front wall, and sobbed. She was left undisturbed for about 5 minutes before her drunken stepfather burst open the front door.
\"Get back in here, bitch! Get of the street!\"
Willow hurried back inside. Mr. Hardman did a fake salute to the neighbours peeking through the net-curtains and slammed the front door shut.
\"What were you doing out there? What will the neighbours think?\"
\'A lot less if you\'d stop yelling,\' thought Willow, as she trained her eyes on the spot in the distance that she often focused on.
----------------------------------------
FLASHBACK
----------------------------------------
\"Look at these grades!\" screamed her father into her ear. \"A Hardman should do better than this! Look, three Cs, two Ds and one E! You need to do better! Do you hear me?\"
\"Yes father,\" whispered the eleven year old, cringing as a mix of beer and lemon wafted past her nose.
\"You what?\" he bellowed, grabbing a handful of her beautiful brown hair and twisting her face to look at his un-shaved red one. \"Can\'t hear you!\"
\"Yes father,\" croaked Willow, slightly louder.
\"Can\'t... can\'t... yo... can...\" Mr. Hardman collapsed on Willow.
Struggling under his dead weight, Willow squeezed out from underneath the limp body on top of her. She rolled him onto his back, and gazed down at the unconscious man. Tears sprang to her eyes as she felt the red-hot pain on top of her head. Willow bent down, sniffing, and took the blank piece of paper out of his clenched fist.
-----------------------------------------
END OF FLASHBACK
-----------------------------------------
\"You always were good-for-nothing!\" Mr. Hardman continued to shout. \"Your parents were probably good -for-nothing too! No wonder they got rid of you! LOOK AT ME WHEN I\'M TALKING TO YOU!\"
Willow sighed inwardly and turned her hazel eyes on his bloodshot green ones.
\"And you can take that look off your face too!\" Mr. Hardman lashed out wildly, hitting Willow across the right cheek with the back of his hand, the hand that had a ring on. The ring cut a deep scratch across her face, and Willow instinctively clapped a hand to it, falling to her knees with the force of the blow.
Now Willow was out of his sightline, Mr. Hardman staggered out of the hall and into the lounge, where a 6 pack of beer and photos of his dead wife were waiting for him.
The teen sat where she had fallen for a few minutes until she heard mutters of \"Marie... Marie,\" and she knew her adoptive father had gone back to memories of Marie Hardman, his wife. Willow pulled herself to her feet using the banister, and crawled up the stairs, one hand still on her cheek.
Once in her room, Willow pulled a first aid kit from under her bed and a mirror from her untidy windowsill. She looked in the mirror first, gently taking her hand away from her face. Taking a cotton wool bud from a small packet that was half used already, she dabbed away the blood that was smeared over her cheek, where it had run down from the deep cut. Then, wincing, Willow applied an antiseptic wipe, stopping herself from crying out loud at the sting. She applied a small white plaster, packed the much-used kit away, and tried to sleep.
***
The next day was uneventful, the summer holidays were just starting, Willow was trying to organise a club she could go to, something, anything to get her out of the house over the course of the next few weeks.
Mr. Hardman, after poking Willow’s cut and frowning, announced that he was going to the pub with his mates, and proceeded to lock Willow in her room.
Willow waited until the roaring of his car had well disappeared into the distance before she started picking the lock. This was a talent she had found quite useful, being able to roam the house, while her “father” came home, completely drunk, forgetting he had locked her in there in the first place.
Willow realised that she didn’t know anything about her birth parents, and cursed herself for not remembering this before, when she was around the house, alone. She opened the unlocked study door, and stepped inside.
It was an absolute tip. Papers and files were scattered over every possible horizontal surface. Vegetable racks were being used for storage space, and were wonky, teetering on their wheels. Filing cabinets and bookcases lined the dark walls, and one single picture sat on the smallest filing cabinet. Marie Hardman. Willow gazed around at this for a few minutes, wondering how on earth she was going to set about finding any specific files.
She pinched herself to get started. Willow went to the desk to start with, searching through the drawers and the cupboards. Then onto the bookcases, checking the bigger books for secret compartments (she wouldn’t hold it against her father to make a secret compartment in a book), and lastly, the filing cabinets. In the cabinet with the picture on it, there was a file marked W. ARMSTRONG. Willow guessed that was her original last name. She took it out, arranged the other files so it wouldn’t look like there was anything different, turned out the light, and went back to her bedroom.
Sitting cross-legged on her bed she lifted the front cover. On the first page there was her birth certificate, and for her mother’s name; Flora Adams, obviously using her maiden name; Joss Armstrong was the name of her father. Tears sprang to her eyes as she softly touched the names on the yellowing piece of paper. ‘Mum,’ she whispered.
Willow laid it on it’s front on her bed, and moved onto the other pieces of paper, stuck in higgledy–piggledy and creased at the corners.
The next few were nursery school details, and a few of her better pictures. She smiled as she passed a rabbit, what might have been a giraffe, and her, her mum and dad and her house.
Then, secondary school. But Willow didn’t get that far. On top of these was a thick envelope, made out of a heavy yellow parchment. Willow turned it over, and there was a red seal on the back, broken in two. Opening the envelope she pulled out the thick pieces of paper.
It seemed that when she was eleven, she had been accepted to a boarding school. But this was a strange letter. ‘Wizards?’ Willow asked herself. ‘Witches?’
All that she could think of was years ago she could have been away from this house. Away from Mr. Hardman. She could have escaped all the knocks and bruises he had given her. Willow turned her eye to the scars on her arm, the only way out she had known two years ago.
She closed the letter. It said term started on September 1st, and the train left from Kings Cross station. September 1st was only a week away. She could still go.
Willow stood up, as anger surged through her, fuelled by hope. She was going to get her father for this.