I Hear You Calling In the Dead of Night

Chapter 8: Mates?

~Oh, I feel overjoyed when you listen to my words.  I see them sinking in. Oh, I see them crawling underneath your skin...~

I hear you calling in the dead of night

Thursday morning, Harry arrives at school early and grabs a copy of the new issue of the literary magazine from outside Ms. Burnes' office before anyone else. He wants to experience this moment alone. The last few seconds between being the old Marcel and becoming some bright new creature capable of things he'd never dared to dream.

The hallways of the school are deserted at this hour – looking like the recently abandoned epicenter of an airborne viral plague. It's strange and unsettling seeing a place normally packed with hormonal teenagers so completely deserted. But there's still that familiar scent lingering in the air – of sweat and textbooks and desperation – that never quite goes away no matter how hard the caretaker scrubs and today, it's oddly comforting.

The thin sheaf of paper feels deceptively heavy in Harry's hands as he heads for the staircase, taking the steps two a time. He's been waiting for this moment for nearly two weeks – well, for his whole life really – and he can't quite believe the day has finally arrived. There's no going back now. Harry's put something in motion that he's helpless to stop. His words are out there in the world and it's dual parts exciting and terrifying.

He thinks about what it will be like to see his words in print, where anyone can read them, and not just on the bright monitor of his laptop in the quiet, dark of his bedroom where they're his alone. He knows if his piece did get in, everyone will know about it by the end of the day and the thought makes his skin prickle. He's spent so long flying under the radar that the idea of exposing himself to a large portion of the school is completely daunting. He thinks of the Valentines he made all those years ago – the last time he really tried at anything - and wonders what he'll do if they don't like it. If they don't like him. He wonders if his skin is thick enough to face that yet. Again.

Harry closes the door to the disabled toilet stall and perches as comfortably as he can – being all gangly arms and legs – on the closed toilet lid. With bated breath, he flips open to the table of contents. Slowly, he runs his finger down the rows of titles and names, but he doesn't see his own. He checks a second time and a third, the awful realization spreading through his chest like black mold spores flourishing in a damp cellar. He feels like his lungs are shriveling, like the walls of the stall are closing in on him, like the light is growing dim. He takes a puff of his inhaler and steels himself.

Maybe it was a printing mistake. Maybe they'd forgotten him in the table of contents, but his story was still in the magazine. It was possible. Anything was possible. Ignoring his growing sense of unease, Harry goes through every single page systemically, but his piece just isn't there. A crushing wave of disappointment rolls over him and he's glad he skipped breakfast because he's pretty sure if he hadn't, he'd be revisiting it right now.

It's not that Harry imagined he was some sort of literary genius or anything, but he read some of the pieces in the last issue and surely his was better than some of them? Better than a rhyming poem about some kid's dog? I mean, sure it was just a first attempt, but he's been an avid reader all his life and he knows what he likes in a good book. And he's fairly sure the idea was original enough. And he'd spent so much time on it.

Not good enough. The words crash down him out of nowhere, catching him like fingers in a slammed door. It takes his breath away. With everything going on with Louis, he'd just – he'd wanted this – he'd wanted it so bad. He didn't realize just how badly until now, until it was in sight and he'd lost it. He knows he shouldn't be so hard on himself – that in the grand scheme of things – it was just a minor setback. Heck, he'd read somewhere that even JK Rowling had been rejected from twelve publishing houses before someone took a chance on Harry Potter. But Harry wasn't JK Rowling. He wasn't anyone. He was just a kid – just a stupid kid with an impossible dream – who'd set himself up for a fall.