(OoP) Lullabye, and Goodnight... Heir of Gryffindor.

[Tom Wall]

No: HPFGUIDX 67141

Tom is strolling along the debris-strewn shoreline of Theory Bay. 
Although still quite covered in various junk and jetsam, the remains 
of the storm, the beach is being cleaned up.

It is late evening. The wind is gentle, and fresh salt smells 
stimulate his nostrils. He eyes the proud vessels still sailing on 
the slightly-choppy waters, occasionally jumping to one side in 
order to avoid the weird plethora of newly-ballistic objects that 
have taken to hurtling through the air. For some reason, empty 
Butterbeer bottles seem to be flying around him and crashing in 
spectacular displays of glass that catch the setting sun's light. 
And although he cannot see anyone, Tom is sure that he is catching 
bits of muttered conversations and disgruntled complaints from 
within and behind the shadows. Murmurs of rebellion, and of burial, 
permeate the shore.

Pretending to have heard none of this, he continues past some more 
wreckage, and, ducking another flying bottle, he passes a mournful-
looking ghost of a ship, the U.S.S. SAD DENIAL, which is surrounded 
by a distressed cluster of Bay citizens emitting wails and shrieks.

Being very careful to avoid this scene, Tom meanders onward, until 
something so pathetic catches his eye that he just *has* to stop.

There is a droopy wreck of a man sitting amidst the rubble of what 
seems to have been a once-proud, relatively modern-looking vessel. 
The man is sobbing incoherently into the crook of his arm, and is 
clad in strange scarlet and gold robes, which by their appearance 
were once likely quite fine and respectable. Now, however, they are 
torn and tattered, and would barely qualify as rags. 

The man abruptly looks up from his arm, and glances at the ruins of 
what was once the framework of a fine-looking manor house up on the 
dune, his tangled hair flying haphazardly around his head. 
Apparently, the sight of the house in ruins is so distressing that, 
with a bellow of grief and a lengthy string of curses (accompanied 
by a vengeful fist thrown up to the heavens) he throws his head back 
into the crook of his arm, and convulses with sobs.

Feeling pity for the man, Tom stoops down and, eyeing him 
cautiously, taps him on the shoulder.

"Who, wha- whadda-" the man sputters, looking up from his knees and 
glancing frantically from side-to-side. His eyes appear to be glazed 
over with tears. He apparently can't see Tom, though, because after 
a quick glance around him, he continues bawling.

Not knowing quite what to do, Tom taps the man on the shoulder, this 
time asking "Are you who I think you are?"

Again, the man looks up, and again, appears to see nobody. This 
time, however, he doesn't lower his head, but stares defiantly at 
the beach and screams "Who am I? Who AM I? I'm NOBODY, that's who! 
My house, my boat, my very credibility is all gone, gone, gone... 
That forsaken prophecy, that *obnoxious* hat... Oh me, oh my... Oh, 
oh, oh... Nobody, I'm RUINED!" At this point, the man flings himself 
onto the sand, flailing his limbs what is unmistakably a tantrum 
beyond the capacity of any three-year-old Tom has ever met before.

Nodding grimly, Tom thinks he understands. He tries diligently to 
suppress an urge to smirk at the ruined figure before him. But, 
since he's been dying to see the end of this particular theory for 
months now, this is a more odious and difficult task than it seems, 
and, with an attempt at compassion, he asks "So, you're the Heir of 
Gryffindor, are you?"

The man rights himself on the splintered wood of his boat, and, 
nodding fervently, begins spilling his guts in a rambling torrent of 
babble, although it is still not clear to Tom that the man even 
recognizes that he's here.

"Was, I WAS the Heir of Gryffindor, WAS! Now I'm nobody, NOBODY! 
It's all that Sorting Hat's fault! Why couldn't it keep it's big, 
fat, ugly brim shut, anyways? Slytherin and Gryffindor were the best 
of friends? AAAAARGH! How can I be destined to defeat Slytherin's 
heir if there wasn't a conflict in the first place, if Gryffindor 
and Slytherin were the best of friends, if-if-if..." he trails off, 
looking around him again, over his shoulder, eyeing the shadows 
suspiciously, as though defying the world to respond to his grief.

A few anxious second pass, as the man shifts his attention all 
around, muttering, babbling under his breath, as though he thinks 
he's being watched. With an ominous whistle, a butterbeer bottle 
plummets from the sky and crashes onto some of the debris nearby,  
causing the startled man to jump with fright. Then, twiddling his 
thumbs together and staring stolidly at the sand, he 
continues "Gryffindor was biased too – he only took the brave ones; 
yes, one takes the pure bloods, one takes the brave ones, yes, all 
fine and good, all fine and dandy until Slytherin leaves... but when 
do I come in? NOWHERE! The hat says that the houses are supposed to 
stand together, not be divided! As a prophecy, I'm USELESS! I lead 
only to division! I'm a cliche!" he whines, sputtering profusely 
into the arm of his robes.

Tom begins to wonder how this theory has survived at all, given the 
carnage along the beachfront, but before he can continue his 
musings, the man erupts with rage.

"And that prophecy... who KNEW there was a prophecy... it should've 
been me... IT'S NOT FAIR! I'm ruined, it has RUINED ME, DESTROYED, 
all destroyed! I have nothing to do with Harry's destiny. He's not 
destined to *anything* because he's Gryffindor's "heir," no, he's 
destined because... because... Waaaaaah –" and at this point, his 
tale devolves into a brief spell of coughing, choking, and faux-
vomiting.

Tom rolls his eyes, and, crossing his arms, waits patiently for the 
man to continue. After a few minutes of pseudo-sickness, and after 
realizing that his fit is garnering him no sympathy from his 
solitary audience, indeed, still not clearly realizing that he even 
*has* an audience, the man goes on.
 
"He destined because he was BORN AT THE END OF JULY TO DEFIANT 
PARENTS! Not an Heir, no, not the long awaited descendent of Godric 
Gryffindor, no! Nothing, not a WORD about the special male line of 
Potters! Special, indeed. Special - hmph. Liars! NEVILLE could have 
been the One with the power. Neville, for Merlin's beard... Oh the 
humiliation, the shame, oh, oh, oh
 where am I to go, what am I to 
DO? I've lost it all, all! This boat," - and at this, he lovingly 
pats the board upon which he's sitting - "this house" - and he gazes 
longingly towards the dune - "Oh woe is me, ME, The Heir of 
Gryffindor, condemned to be a nomad, a vagrant... HOMELESS!" and, 
glancing frantically about him, the tattered theory snatches up a 
paper bag from the flotsam and begins to wheeze and cough into it, 
his breath raspy and broken, tears pouring out of his eyes.

"There, there..." Tom says absentmindedly, patting the shrunken 
little man on the shoulder. He stares at him for a few moments, and 
frowns, wondering "How did this guy survive when his boat and his 
house are gone? Shouldn't he be toast?" Furrowing his brow with his 
hand on his chin, he ponders for a few more seconds until BAM! The 
solution pops into his head.

"That's right," he concludes. "A theory won't die as long as there's 
someone out there who'll defend it... I guess this guy'll be picking 
through the trash for the next few years, trying to scavenge enough 
to stay alive... Another unforeseen consequence of Hurricane Joe's 
path o' devastation... note to self: check on homeless theory 
population...."

Tom gives the man a brief pat on the head, and, dodging another 
flying butterbeer bottle (which unfortunately lands on the pouting 
man's toe, prompting a fresh wave of howls,) he wanders off towards 
another pile of refuse in the distance. 

"I wonder how many threadbare survivors there'll be," he thinks, 
and, shrugging, trudges up the sand in the twilight.