The Stalker, Chapter Two
Jul. 14th, 2005 09:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
queenofzanBecause Shannon likes it. Therefore...:D
Monica, as last we saw her, had settled down in the tree in the Dursley's front yard, waiting for Harry Potter, her stalk-ee, to do something worth watching. Two hours later, she was still there. He'd moved his leg twice, and, as far as she could hear, had yawned once. Yet Monica still sat there, waiting, waiting, ever waiting, for the "dangerous Potter boy" to do...something. Monica didn't mind the waiting so much; she was very patient, and besides, it gave her something to do.
For, you see, while she was sitting in that poor, dying willow tree, she wasn't only staring at Harry. Oh no, she was thinking. The serious, deep type of thinking that psychologists and inventors do. Unfortunately, Monica wasn't pondering something particularly useful, like what the meaning of life was (she already knew that), or why people said Harry Potter was dangerous when he clearly wasn't. She wasn't thinking about whether there was life on other planets, she wasn't trying to figure out why there never seemed to be the right kind of batteries when you needed them. Wondering about where the hell socks go when they disappear out of the dryer? Not her (not right then, anyway). What was this not-so-deep thing she was thinking so deeply about?
At that very moment, this girl, this girl that looked as if she belonged in an asylum, as if she might someday crack and bring a gun to school, this girl called Monica, was thinking very intently about how any person her age could sit so annoyingly still for that length of time. She had, herself, moved a whole lot more in the past two hours than she had. He wasn't asleep, that much she knew. How she knew, she didn't know. But he wasn't asleep, and he had stayed so impeccably still that it was slowly driving her mad.
Just then, a loud booming noise startled her. She nearly fell out of the tree before she realized that it was merely Harry's uncle knocking on the door.
"Come in," Harry called dissolutely. The door opened, and Harry's uncle, Vernon Dursley, squeezed through the door. But not, Monica observed, with as much difficulty as Dudley, Harry's cousin, the neighborhood gang-leader, would have had.
"Boy, we're going out," the beefy man with practically no neck, known as Vernon Dursley, told his nephew. But the man didn't act as if Harry were his nephew; indeed, he acted as if he were an annoying house guest he couldn't get rid of, but was forced to put up with. Interestingly enough, what Monica didn't know was that this wasn't far from the truth.
"Alright," Harry said flatly to his uncle. "You're taking Aunt Petunia and Dudley, too, right?" He said it more as a statement than a question.
"Yes," Vernon said. He turned to leave, then said, "Have you written to those... friends of yours lately?"
Harry sighed. "Yes," he said. "I wrote them yesterday. If you cared to look, you'd see that Hedwig was still gone."
Vernon looked irritated. Annoyed at the boy's insolence, Monica supposed. Wait, who's Hedwig? she thought, confused, as Vernon said to Harry, "Alright then. We'll be back before ten. Don't—I mean, you'll have to fix your own dinner. Don't burn down the house, hear me?" he warned as he turned to leave once more.
"Yes Uncle Vernon," Harry replied from his bed as Vernon stopped, turned around, looked straight at the barely-hidden Monica, then shook his head and left the room, closing the door so firmly it was very nearly a slam.
Monica heard Harry sigh. Annoyed at herself, she studied his room more closely. She berated herself for not looking more closely. She'd be a horrible stalker if she didn't get it together and continued on like this!
At first glance, Harry's room was normal. A bit small, but relatively normal. On the second look, you could see that there was an owl cage in the corner of the room, the desk was littered with parchment, and robes spilled out of the trunk at the foot of the bed. A third, closer glance revealed that the books scattered in various places around the room had odd titles, like Quidditch Through the Ages, A Guide to Magical Fruit, Maladies That Can Be Cured Only In Rare Instances, and a large, Encyclopedia Britannica-sized book titled Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.
Man, Monica thought, he sure is self-centered. Probably bought it because he thought it was about him. Oh well. At least I'm finding stuff out, and isn't that why I'm doing this? she asked herself. Monica looked more closely at the book and discovered that the title was not Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, but The Roof is Rotten, How Do I Fix It? (A guide to magical repair). Realization that she needed to go to an eye doctor hit her like an ice cream truck.Just then, Harry got up from his bed. Monica quickly shook herself out of her mental conversation and watched closely. He didn't do anything particularly exciting; he just left the room and returned a few minutes later, a sandwich in one hand and a glass of milk in the other. Not very exciting at all. Monica sighed. This was going to take some getting used to, apparently.
Also: I totally need to write a fic where the real life thing happens. You know, where two people keep liking each other, but not at the same time. I mean, that happens all the time in real life, but how many times does it happen in fic? Not enough, I say!
Monica, as last we saw her, had settled down in the tree in the Dursley's front yard, waiting for Harry Potter, her stalk-ee, to do something worth watching. Two hours later, she was still there. He'd moved his leg twice, and, as far as she could hear, had yawned once. Yet Monica still sat there, waiting, waiting, ever waiting, for the "dangerous Potter boy" to do...something. Monica didn't mind the waiting so much; she was very patient, and besides, it gave her something to do.
For, you see, while she was sitting in that poor, dying willow tree, she wasn't only staring at Harry. Oh no, she was thinking. The serious, deep type of thinking that psychologists and inventors do. Unfortunately, Monica wasn't pondering something particularly useful, like what the meaning of life was (she already knew that), or why people said Harry Potter was dangerous when he clearly wasn't. She wasn't thinking about whether there was life on other planets, she wasn't trying to figure out why there never seemed to be the right kind of batteries when you needed them. Wondering about where the hell socks go when they disappear out of the dryer? Not her (not right then, anyway). What was this not-so-deep thing she was thinking so deeply about?
At that very moment, this girl, this girl that looked as if she belonged in an asylum, as if she might someday crack and bring a gun to school, this girl called Monica, was thinking very intently about how any person her age could sit so annoyingly still for that length of time. She had, herself, moved a whole lot more in the past two hours than she had. He wasn't asleep, that much she knew. How she knew, she didn't know. But he wasn't asleep, and he had stayed so impeccably still that it was slowly driving her mad.
Just then, a loud booming noise startled her. She nearly fell out of the tree before she realized that it was merely Harry's uncle knocking on the door.
"Come in," Harry called dissolutely. The door opened, and Harry's uncle, Vernon Dursley, squeezed through the door. But not, Monica observed, with as much difficulty as Dudley, Harry's cousin, the neighborhood gang-leader, would have had.
"Boy, we're going out," the beefy man with practically no neck, known as Vernon Dursley, told his nephew. But the man didn't act as if Harry were his nephew; indeed, he acted as if he were an annoying house guest he couldn't get rid of, but was forced to put up with. Interestingly enough, what Monica didn't know was that this wasn't far from the truth.
"Alright," Harry said flatly to his uncle. "You're taking Aunt Petunia and Dudley, too, right?" He said it more as a statement than a question.
"Yes," Vernon said. He turned to leave, then said, "Have you written to those... friends of yours lately?"
Harry sighed. "Yes," he said. "I wrote them yesterday. If you cared to look, you'd see that Hedwig was still gone."
Vernon looked irritated. Annoyed at the boy's insolence, Monica supposed. Wait, who's Hedwig? she thought, confused, as Vernon said to Harry, "Alright then. We'll be back before ten. Don't—I mean, you'll have to fix your own dinner. Don't burn down the house, hear me?" he warned as he turned to leave once more.
"Yes Uncle Vernon," Harry replied from his bed as Vernon stopped, turned around, looked straight at the barely-hidden Monica, then shook his head and left the room, closing the door so firmly it was very nearly a slam.
Monica heard Harry sigh. Annoyed at herself, she studied his room more closely. She berated herself for not looking more closely. She'd be a horrible stalker if she didn't get it together and continued on like this!
At first glance, Harry's room was normal. A bit small, but relatively normal. On the second look, you could see that there was an owl cage in the corner of the room, the desk was littered with parchment, and robes spilled out of the trunk at the foot of the bed. A third, closer glance revealed that the books scattered in various places around the room had odd titles, like Quidditch Through the Ages, A Guide to Magical Fruit, Maladies That Can Be Cured Only In Rare Instances, and a large, Encyclopedia Britannica-sized book titled Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.
Man, Monica thought, he sure is self-centered. Probably bought it because he thought it was about him. Oh well. At least I'm finding stuff out, and isn't that why I'm doing this? she asked herself. Monica looked more closely at the book and discovered that the title was not Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, but The Roof is Rotten, How Do I Fix It? (A guide to magical repair). Realization that she needed to go to an eye doctor hit her like an ice cream truck.Just then, Harry got up from his bed. Monica quickly shook herself out of her mental conversation and watched closely. He didn't do anything particularly exciting; he just left the room and returned a few minutes later, a sandwich in one hand and a glass of milk in the other. Not very exciting at all. Monica sighed. This was going to take some getting used to, apparently.
Also: I totally need to write a fic where the real life thing happens. You know, where two people keep liking each other, but not at the same time. I mean, that happens all the time in real life, but how many times does it happen in fic? Not enough, I say!
