Disclaimer: Good thing I don't own Harry Potter. With my penchant for angst, he'd be dead fairly quickly.
Post Date: 15 August 2006

Revision Date: 21 June 2009


Don't try to fix me
I'm not broken

Hello, Evanescence


Chapter One: Hello

I'm not depressed.

Really, I'm not.

Okay, so here's the basics:

There's this madman out for my blood… well, my life, anyway, since he's got my blood already, but we'll get to that later. So, this psycho, he killed my parents when I was one, so of course I don't remember them at all. He tried to kill me too, of course, but failed because my mother died protecting me or some such nonsense (not that I'm complaining, or anything). So, since the curse failed, I got this stupid curse scar on my forehead, making me bloody famous, and he got to spend thirteen years as a bodiless spirit. I honestly think he got the better deal on that one. But that's neither here nor there.

Since I was an already-famous, newly-orphaned baby with an ugly gash on his head (and because Dumbledore is the most oblivious bastard you'll ever have the misfortune to meet), the Headmaster of Hogwarts thought it bloody brilliant to send me to live with my maternal aunt, her husband, and her pig of a son.

Never mind the fact that they hated my parents and everything else to do with the Wizarding World (which I didn't find out about until my eleventh birthday, thankyouverymuch) and, therefore, hated me as well. They thought me a horrible burden, so I got the pleasure of doing all the household chores, cooking for my so-called relatives (who don't even deserve to be called relatives, really) while not getting to eat anything myself, living in a cupboard under the stairs for the first eleven years of my life, and getting terribly abused by them as well, in hopes that my "freakishness" would squash itself out of me.

How's that for the Wizarding World's fucking saviour, Albus?

So. Every year at Hogwarts (except third year), I've met some form of Voldemort. First year, he was possessing the back of my horribly incompetent Defence teacher's head. Second year, I had the distinct pleasure of meeting his oh-so-wonderful sixteen-year-old self through the means of a demented diary and my best friend's little sister. I didn't meet him again in third year – oh, no, I was lucky enough to be able to help out the convicted escapee of Azkaban (though innocent) who was – what do ya know? – my godfather, and I was also privileged enough to learn more than I ever wanted to know about dementors. Fourth year, I was graciously allowed to witness (and take part in, unwilling though I was) the actual resurrection of Lord Voldemort. That was where he got my blood, by the way. And fifth year? I fell fool to Voldemort's stupid trap and ended up one of many factors contributing to the death of my godfather.

But I'm not depressed. Really.

How the fuck do you die by falling behind a stupid veil, anyway?

My stomach hurts too much to cry anymore.

… Damnit, I am depressed.