Penname: type-n-shadow [Contact]
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Member Since: 07/07/08
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I'm a sixteen year old living in Texas, whose friends got into fan fiction bug so I did too; fortunately they recovered slightly but I've been marked permanently! I enjoy writing in general, but Harry Potter fan fiction is an endless sort of entertainment for me - plus I'm lazy and creating characters and settings for them is hard work reserved for times when I'm in a serious mood...which I'm generally not. :)

My favorite characters are without a doubt the Marauders, Lily, & Dobby. (Oh my goodness... I love dead people. Not that it's hard to do when J.K. Rowling kills everyone off!)

I love reviews and I can handle criticism, so feel free to rant and rave. I like nice comments too, though....;)

This is my drabble titled "A Real Gryffindor" submitted to the Gryffindor Drabble Challenge:

It was my first year. What a year to go. I almost felt guilty; I had had no share of the turmoil that most had to face. My family had gone into hiding before the real conflict had broken the surface. My parents were non-magical, but Granddad and me were wizards. Granddad said he had seen the conditions of war before, and recognized the signs; he told us it was time to lay low.

That’s the way he felt. Me, I felt like a coward. Being cooped up in a hidden apartment was no vacation, though. We had had two other families in hiding with us.

Platform 9 ¾ was alive that day. All the old faces were there, joyful with reunion to their friends. Although, that was from my perspective. There were single-parent families; even orphans present, looking sad and alone.

I found a compartment with some other boys. A few were older than me in the same year, prevented from going earlier by the previous circumstances.

All anybody could talk about was the fall of Voldemort. Harry Potter was the chiefest topic – his defeat of the most powerful dark wizard that ever lived. I’d never seen him, but Robby Brighton said he had, so they were gibbering about that, but I kept feeling pangs of guilt. To me it almost seemed as if they’d all been at the front – friends of friends harmed or missing; at least they had been awake to the scene. I’d been in my hole.

Then, looking out the window, past the smiling faces of my parents and Granddad, I saw him. Harry Potter! I was sure it was him. He had turned just for a split second, and I had glimpsed the scar! I hobbled through the other kids’ legs. I had to get out. I raced out onto the platform. It was him! He looked young. With no small trace of disgust I realized he was snogging a girl. That didn’t stop me. I marched right up to them. They broke apart. I started to say to Harry Potter everything I had always want to – how much I admired him. The words caught in my throat. All I managed to say was,

“I’m sorry!” I started sobbing like a baby.

He gazed down at me with confusion.

In between wails, I cried, “I couldn’t help. But I would have, Harry Potter! I would have been brave! I just c-couldn’t help!”

He bent and looked at me earnestly, placing his scarred hands on my shoulders, just like one man does to another.

“That’s all that counts, anyways – that you wanted to,” he said to me, smiling. I think he was a bit scared, too. “That’s what makes a real Gryffindor. It’s the heart.”

After that I boarded the train again. Harry Potter said I was a real Gryffindor – saying the words over and over washed away the guilt. I would have if I could have.

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