Gryffindor Traits by wind rider

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Gryffindor Traits

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Gryffindor Traits

 

Scene I

 

Setting: A large, dimly-lit vault with large mounds of gold, silver and bronze coins stacked against the smooth stone walls. Wooden chests and barrels are gathered on the centre alongside several elongated tubes and containers, a few stacks of books and baskets of knick-knacks. Overall, it should reflect the look of a wealthy person’s hideout for his money and accumulated items of questionable worth over a very long time. The character playing Harry Potter should already be seated nearby the nearest and largest basket of knick-knacks.

 

Harry: (looking around the vault, in a musing tone):
So here’s the Potters’ vault? I thought it’d be more impressive… Why did they put so many guards outside? Hagrid’d love the dragon though.

 

(looking at the nearly-overflowing basket beside him, in a slightly disgruntled tone)

 

How can I sort these out? Why’d in Merlin’s name they collected these anyway? It looks more like a magpi’s nest than a potter’s treasury!

 

(picking up a gaudy beaded, multi-threaded necklace, back in the musing tone but rather amused now)

 

Hmm. I wonder if Ginny’ll like this… But that Bat Boggy hex looked quite painful. Nono, perhaps another then?

 

(dropping the necklace unceremoniously, right on top of a glinting jagged piece of otherwise smooth black metal sitting on the side of the pile)

 

Tiny voice: (indignant)
Watch where you are dropping that thing, young man!

 

Harry: (not sorry at all)
Oops. Sorry…

 

Tiny voice: (huffing)
You never learn manners nowadays, eh? No honour too. What has the world coming to?

 

Harry: (bemused)
Where, who are you anyway? I can’t see you. Are you…

 

(trailing off, picking up the shard of black metal gingerly using the aid of an ancient letter opener from nearby on the same pile, then pinches the shard on the smooth surface of its centre with his left thumb and forefinger, with a conflicted look on his face)

 

Hello? Is this you then?

 

Tiny voice: (huffing again)
Of course! Who else? I was once part of a mighty sword, you know. You ought to treat me better than this.

 

(prattling on, but in a slightly smaller voice so that Harry’s voice can be heard)

 

Harry: (thinking to himself)
Well, I only see a sample metal here. Perhaps Uncle Vernon will like it? Seems tough. Might be good for drills.

 

Tiny voice: (snapping)
Hey! Are you listening?

 

Harry: (startled, jerking back slightly with a guilty expression, speaking hesitantly)

 

… No. Could you please repeat again?

 

(a long silence, during which Harry fidgets nervously and begins to lower the shard back to the pile of knick-knacks before raising it up again in the air (but farther from his body) as if changing his mind. And then…)

 

Tiny voice: (wickedly-pleasant tone)
Well, I shall just show you, then?

 

Harry: (looking horrified and putting the shard even farther away from his body, seeming ready to drop it)
Umm. Show me how?

 

Tiny voice: (positively gleeful now)
Well, it’s like this…

 

(Light effects: as if colours are swirling around the room. Then Harry is obscured completely by white smoke, and complete fade-out.)

 

Scene II

 

Setting: A small but ornate royal conference room with three chairs: one a comfortable, ornately-carved and brocaded overstuffed armchair occupied by Túrin, one an ordinary leather-clad chair occupied by the scribe, and the last is a plain, hard wooden chair to which Harry’s lower legs and whole arms are strapped by leather thongs. There are two tables in the room: one for parchment and writing tools manned by the scribe (a scholarly-looking Elf-man), and the other laden with small refreshments plus a goblet and a jug of red wine (placed conveniently near Túrin). Overall, it should reflect an interrogation with powerplay involved without outright torture, which has lasted for some time already. Túrin poses and acts like the owner of the place and very much in power of the interrogation, Harry alternates between (strong) emotions, and the scribe looks just bored as he records the words said. During the scene, the scribe is busy doing his job and there is even the sound of quill scratching and paper shifting when the two main characters of the scene stop talking for a moment (which actually begs the question of what he is doing aside from recording… but that is for another time and another place).

 

Túrin: (irked)
Who are you again?

 

Harry: (a little mockingly)
Can’t you tell?

 

Túrin: (a little disappointed, as if he did not achieve the result he had wanted)
What are you called?

 

Harry: (sighing in exasperation)
I told you already, Sir. My name’s Harry, and you didn’t believe me when I said that. What made you think you’d believe me on the second time?

 

Túrin: (getting angry)
Careful, boy. I am in the position of power here.

 

Harry: (sniffing)
Well, what of it? You’d judged me already before I even knew where I was. And you aren’t that much older than me, you know, gloomy boy. I bet my professor at school can predict your death ten ways already from seeing you alone – if she’ll ever see you, that is.

 

Túrin: (torn between getting even more angry and curious)
What is a school? What is a professor?

 

Harry:
You’ll tell me who you are and where I am, then?

 

Túrin: (back to his haughty bearing and voice)
Of course not. I am responsible to keep this realm safe from dangerous intruders such as you.

 

Harry: (brightly)
So it’s a kingdom then? Great! Now what’s the name? And who are you? The King?

 

Túrin: (chagrined, muttering in a very low tone to himself)
I should not have said that…

 

(snappishly, to Harry)

 

I am not the king here, but I am very close to him as it is. So if you say one more misplaced word…

 

(trailing off threateningly, glaring balefully at Harry, who looks plainly disbelieving and amused)

 

Harry: (easily and matter-of-factly)
The guards talked about you when you weren’t here, you know. They said you have many names, ‘cause you always change names when you go to a new place. So that’s why you don’t want to tell me your name, then? You know, the last person with so many names that I knew was considered half-mad by the society; and he got most of those names by birth anyway. I wonder if you changed your names because you ran away…

 

Túrin: (gritting his teeth and balling his fists)
I. Did. Not. Run. Away.

 

Harry: (thoughtful and slightly self-amused)
Heh. Uncle Vernon looks more impressive when he’s angry.

 

(to Túrin)

 

You know, you reminded me of my cousin when he didn’t get his way. But he was many times fatter than you, and doesn’t have black hair and eyes.

 

(Túrin looks taken aback and baffled for a moment, but then snipes back)

 

Túrin:
I am the son of a lord who died bravely fighting against the Dark Lord, and I am favoured by two kings of Elves – who can make your life miserable.

 

Harry: (interested)
Dark Lord? Hmm. Well, I guess everyone’s the same anywhere they are. Greed and selfishness are common traits after all. But did you mean the house-elves?

 

Túrin: (trying to conceal his confusion by striking back at the first part of Harry’s statement)
What do you know about human nature anyway, you miserable child?

 

Harry: (playing along)
That’s like pot calling the kettle black, you know. And you seem to be the one being miserable here, although I’m the one bound. What? You don’t like your life? Or your past? Is that why you ran away and changed names?

 

Túrin: (gritting his teeth, his face slightly flushed)
I. Did. Not. Run. Away.

 

Harry: (shrugging as best as he can in his confines)
Suit yourself. But I tell you now, you aren’t being brave about it all. I tried running away from my past several times already, and it always got back to me – with a vengeance. Bravado is useless when it comes to doing what is right to what is easy.

 

(in a softer voice, half to himself and with a more subdued look on his face)

 

Lost friends in the process, too. And now because of that damn ugly scrap of an ugly iron I can’t go back to my remaining friends.

 

(Túrin is observing him guardedly now, but Harry does not seem to care.)

 

What are you afraid of, I wonder? You seem to have quite a good life, from what I’ve glimpsed so far. You don’t seem to be someone who’d hide hideous secrets too.

 

(Túrin’s face blanks and hardens)

 

Túrin: (biting out his words)
Enough. I shall let Orodreth handle you then, brat. Let us see if he is more lenient than I am, eh? I want to see how “brave” you are after he is done with you.

 

Harry: (musing, a little sadly)
I pegged you for Gryffindor qualities when I first saw you, you know. But you keep running away…

 

(Túrin freezes on his way out of the chair, but then completes the motion without even turning a glance at Harry as he exits the scene. Harry sighs and looks morosely at the scribe.)

 

Harry: (guiltily)
I botched things up, didn’t I? I didn’t mean to insult him that much. He seems to be a good person despite everything. I guess I misjudged his character, eh?

 

(laughing sadly)

 

Can you please tell him sorry from me?

 

(The scribe does not answer, nor does he look up from his papers, but he does stop writing.)

 

Please tell him I wish he could be less distant and gloomsome, and that we could be sort of friends.

 

(then, reluctantly)

 

Please tell him too that I feel like a cowards sometimes… like now.

 

(He squeezes his left hand, and a trickle of blood can be seen soon escaping his fingers)

 

(The same effects of colour swirls from earlier, and amidst this the scribe looks up with a level but penetrating gaze towards Harry – who has begun to be enveloped by the white smoke.)

 

Scribe: (calmly but as if from far away)
I shall.

 

(The smoke thickens, and then complete fade-out.)

 

THE END