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Retribution
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There were four -- no, five -- flies flitting from one dark corner to another, only illuminated by the glow of a setting sun outside the window. Five was a good enough number.
The boy watched their progress across the ceiling, scowling as he lay on his dingy bed, one hand clasped around his wand, the other opening and closing convulsively on top of the bedsheets. He twisted his thin frame briefly, irritated at the way the pillow beneath his head might as well have been nonexistant, from the amount of cushioning it actually provided.
The largest fly, buzzing loudly at the far end of the room, was his father. A father who never had a kind word for his only son, a son who was too weak, too soft, too slow. He was only good for being knocked down, sneered at, told he would have to try harder if he could ever hope to be good enough to contribute to the family name. It was his father's fault that the bed he slept on was so hard, that his clothes were shabby and unkempt; his father had the money to change this, but it was all squandered on dark artifacts, and thrown away to buy a more prominent position in an hierarchy of dark wizards. There was no love in the boy's heart for this kind of father, but then none had been given to him in the first place.
The other four flies were grouped closer together. The small one that flew around the others in excited circles, that was Peter Pettigrew. A ratty little pest, always hanging round his friends like a useless but eager lackey, agreeing with whatever they said or did without a thought of his own, unless perhaps what might lead to his best advantage. Bold and eager when they were near, but cowardly without their protection. The boy almost hated his type the most. But there were others far more worthy of his loathing.
The slower fly that didn't call as much attention to itself was Remus Lupin. While he had never done anything directly offensive, he still stood back and let everything happen, turned to one side and pretended to smile, but not before the boy caught the look of shame and guilt in his eyes. It is always better to do something than nothing at all, and he despised Lupin for his inactivity. It made him appear weak, spineless and fearful of what would happen if he simply spoke up and opposed his friends' actions for once. And the boy knew that to be weak like that was shameful.
He turned slightly, making the bed creak. He tried to settle the anger boiling just below the surface of his mind, making his palms sweat and his stomach twist in uncomfortable knots. But there would be no stopping the usual rage as he went over all of these details in his mind for the thousandth time. This was what always happened when he was home, at dusk, locked into his room for the night. There was nothing else to do.
Sirius Black was the fly that had settled on the ceiling, as though trying to prove it was above the others. Oh, how the boy hated Black. Mostly because he was everything the boy could never hope to be: attractive, charming, completely confident, naturally talented. The boy had to work hard at everything he did, to obtain the high level he desired; Black seemed to have to do nothing to have everything. And the way Black treated him, with a mixture of contempt and ridicule and malice... It would have seemed hard to imagine how he could despise someone more than Sirius Black. But he did.
The last fly, the one the others congregated near the most. James Potter. James Potter was perfect in every way, similar to Black, but there was just something about Potter that invited even more rancor. Every step he took, every word he spoke, every action he decided upon was flawless and uncriticized. But what if hedidn't have it so good? What if he had to go through everything the boy had? Because James Potter had never been laughed or jeered at in the middle of a crowd of unsympathetic onlookers. James Potter had never been pushed down a crowded flight of stairs just for the entertainment value it would bring. James Potter had never been called words like "ugly" or "sniveling" or "worthless" or "disgusting". The boy was willing to bet things would be different if he had. But that was too much to ever hope for.
He forced his panting breaths to subside, compelled his body to relax its taut muscles. Slowly he raised the wand, fingers barely trembling, and calmly began to shoot each fly down, one by one.
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I happen to love angsty teen Sev. -sigh- If you enjoyed this, let me know.