Fandom: Harry Potter
Word Count: 650 words.
Notes: I question whether this is technically fan fiction, but one of my very first Harry Potter stories was in this vein as well - so I shall class it as such anyway.
When it was very still, with nothing but the wind rustling through the leaves, he would tell his son stories. Often these stories were real life stories he'd picked up along the way, but occasionally he'd paraphrase the classics. Camping under a starlit sky in mock wilderness that was actually their backyard, the two males of the household proved their resilience against the pests of mosquitoes, climate change and no TV. The son adored the ritual. He was seven and not yet apathetic to the wonder of nature. The father was adamant he would not make the same mistakes his own parents had made.
"Harry Potter was a wizard…" he began, using his narrative tone. He always used a special voice for recounting his stories. It was deeper than his own and slower spoken too.
"What's a wizard?"
"A wizard is someone like us, but with special powers," the father replied quickly.
"Oh? So a superhero? Like superman?" The son crept closer to the bag of marshmallows.
"Not quite. More like… well it's someone who does magic. You know what magic is don't you?"
"Mom says love is a kind of magic."
"Yeah. Love is a kind of magic, but I'm talking about spells and potions and curses and things." He was starting to forget why he even started this particular story, he now realised a thrilling rendition of 'the day your Dad started school' would have been better.
"Like witches do?"
"Yes! A wizard is the male version of a witch."
"Why didn'tcha just say that, then?" The son ate a handful of soft confectionery.
"I'm sorry, I'll remember in future. Want me to continue?"
"Harry Potter was a wizard…"
"You said that."
"But he wasn't just an ordinary wizard…"
"I thought wizards already had special powers?"
The father glared at the son.
"Look, do you want me to tell you the story or do you just want to get into your sleeping bag for the night, 'cause we're going to be here for weeks if you keep interrupting me."
"Sorry." The son put his hand over his mouth and wriggled about.
"Harry Potter was a wizard," there was a pause, "but he wasn't just an ordinary wizard," another pause, "he was a famous wizard to all wizards and witches everywhere. Harry Potter was the kid who lived." He stopped, staring at his son for effect. The son stared back with his eyes wide open. "This meant that he had survived an attack when he was very young, when he was only just a baby in fact."
The son wriggled again.
"What does survived mean?"
"It means that he, er… lived through it."
"You see, there was once an evil wizard called Lord Voldemort."
"That's a stupid name."
"I think it's scary."
"S'not… it sounds like a nasty thing you get on your foot."
"That's a wart."
"The stupidity of Lord Voldemort's name didn't stop him from being a very bad wizard who hurt and attacked many other wizards and witches. He hated Harry Potter and one day he came to his home and…"
"Why did he hate a baby?"
"I can't answer that yet, it comes up later in the story."
"Dad, I'm tired." The son rubbed his hands into his eyes.
"What? How can you be tired? I've only just started!" The father poked a stick into the campfire.
"It's such a good story it's making me sleepy," the son replied.
Without another word he stood and walked over to the tent. He climbed in and zipped it all up. The father stared at him in bemusement. Feeling slightly lost now, he looked all around the backyard and wondered what to do. There was not enough light to read by, and they had an unspoken rule against radios. It was very still, with nothing but the wind rustling through the leaves.