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    Summary

    Being the Chosen One isn't all it's cracked up to be. Especially when you're filling in for a role you never auditioned for and are eternally waiting for the punch line of a really bad joke.

    SI/OC as Fem!Harry

    Series
    Language:
    English
    Words:
    10,514
    Chapters:
    3/?
    Comments:
    13
    Kudos:
    220
    Bookmarks:
    90
    Hits:
    4518
  2. 08 Aug 2018

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    Bookmark Notes:

    Chapter 3

  3. 22 Jul 2018

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  4. 02 Jul 2018

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  5. 28 Jun 2018

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  6. 20 May 2018

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  7. 06 May 2018

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  8. 09 Apr 2018

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  9. 30 Mar 2018

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  10. 21 Mar 2018

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  11. 16 Feb 2018

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  12. 14 Feb 2018

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  13. 07 Feb 2018

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  14. 29 Dec 2017

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  15. 22 Dec 2017

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    Bookmark Notes:

    I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory

     

    I am five when I first wake to awareness.

    It is dark, the air dusty and stale, and my first thought is that I am in a coffin. It isn’t a particularly coherent thought, but the last thing I remember was sort-of-maybe dying so I had some legitimate concerns.

     

    I have never been overly scared of the dark, but for some reason this one seems consuming.

     

    Because I am this five year old who deals with an abusive household and has ingrained responses.

    Because I’m dead, but I’m not. I’m alive in this purgatory.

    It feels like the breath is sucked out of me, the panic I have been desperately suppressing clawing at my throat. My head feels stuffed, the ridiculousness of my situation making everything feel surreal. Tingles erupt throughout my body and I want to crawl out of my skin – get out of the body of this child. This child who cannot exist-

    Boom

    A flair of light then darkness.

    Somehow I knew I would come out of that room to more darkness.

    My ears are ringing but I can still vaguely hear Vernon’s bellow. He’s calling me a freak, accusing me of causing the power surge. Which is ridiculous since I can’t control electricity or have any strange powers. That’s just crazy because I’m, I’m just-

    Fuck all: I am Harry Potter.

     

     

    I wonder—

    Am I the girl dreaming of being a butterfly

    Or the butterfly who dreams of being a girl?

     

    That was an inner existential crises on top of the larger one my present existence creates. In the dark of the cupboard, after having been thrown back in after the debacle with the lights, and furiously ignoring many, many other issues, I debated the existence of Harry Potter.

     

    Because this isn’t all my fear, see. The child did not have my grown mind and experiences to filter her abuse through. She had enough snippets of my knowledge flow through for her to understand that not everything that happened to her was alright, but that wasn’t enough to mitigate the damage.

     

    Then my rational mind kicks into gear and I am furious. Furious at myself and this situation, because this is just stupid. I am a grown ass adult who does not tolerate anyone’s shit and I am perfectly capable of kicking this white suburban family to the curb. The fear of a child should mean nothing in the face of my decades of experience, my own will.

    But abuse is not so cut and dry. It does psychological damage. And for all that abuse survivors survive, that does not been that those hurts and that fear will suddenly disappear. Those stuck in a cycle of abuse are in an even tougher spot; rationality and willpower have nothing to do with it. I know that. I’ve been taught that. But I’ve never gone through it personally before and it’s hard to truly understand something otherwise.

     

    And so I’m angry at myself for not being able to overcome my own fear and angry for not being able to accept that this pain is natural and not shameful. And so I’m just angry and fearful until I decide to just disappear into the recesses of my thoughts and imagination and ignore life entirely. Which is absolutely counterproductive and there are so many things wrong with my current situation – beyond even being in an abusive home, dear God Harry Potter’s life is fucked up – that it’s really not a solution I can afford.

     

    Thinking about my ongoing existential crisis and how I’m ignoring my problems isn’t a particularly productive past time.

    But it’s hard to do much otherwise. The reality I’m living in, for all that it feels like I’m in the Twilight Zone, is too harsh to be anything but the truth. Having such a jarringly different life creates a sense of dysphoria itself. It makes me want to question reality, to believe I’m in a dream or some strange fugue state. It also makes me want to question my experiences, my belief in a past life.

    Am I a child or an adult?

    Am I Harry Potter or me?

    The butterfly or the man?

    But I’m not dreaming now, and I wasn’t then. I cannot deny my current state as reality and it is far, far too implausible that a small child could create a life so detailed and different than her own, no matter how miserable and imaginative.

    So, the question comes, what’s the punchline?

    Because, clearly, reincarnating as the main character from a dearly beloved childhood story can be nothing but a bad joke.

  16. 20 Dec 2017

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  17. 12 Nov 2017

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  18. 28 Oct 2017

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  19. 10 Oct 2017

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    Bookmark Notes:

    3

  20. 15 Sep 2017

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  21. 24 Aug 2017

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