Disclaimer: I don't own HP, I'm not J.K. Rowling.

Louis

Sometimes, you wake up in the morning after another sleepless night, and it seems like something should have changed. But the strange thing is, nothing has. Nothing has changed and everything is so perfectly normal that you are so sure something is wrong. Then you ascend from your bed and suddenly the world seems to spin. It spins and spins and spins. The world is spinning so hard and you can't see, you can't seem to breathe or balance. The turbulence lasts for about five seconds but it seems like forever. You can't tell which direction you're walking or what's in front of you. Nothing seems to make sense anymore. Everything is a blur. Everything is moving along on a normal pace while you, you're stuck in slow motion and everyone else was a video cassette being fast forwarded.

Everything suddenly feels so heavy, so inescapable, so…much like nothing you've ever felt before, but in actuality, it's been there. It's been there, existing, growing. You've just never noticed it until now. Now, everything is different. So now you know why. You've always been different. Everything you once knew is now so foreign and new to you. You can't help but handle with care.

So this is me. And you. And the person sitting to the right of you. And the person sitting to the left of you, behind you, in front of you. We are all the same. We are all supposed to breathe. Think. We are all supposed to feel.

I wish I could feel.

I am just a hollow shell full of empty words and phrases. Around me, people walk past and don't look back. They smile. They laugh. Their hearts get broken. They get healed. They move on. I have never experienced this kind of feeling, this kind of empowering sensation you get when you achieve something, or learn to become a better person. I've stayed the same for a while now. I'm at my limit, maybe. Maybe not. The thing is, I have no clue. I have no idea. There is nothing in this world that I am sure of except the fact that I am beautiful.

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

I am beautiful.

Glossy silver hair, eyes the color of water, tall, lean, pointed chin and faint freckles. I am something. I am perfection. I am thought. I am imagination. I am a work of art.

There is not a single blemish on my body and they love it.

They love me for me, they love me for me, they love me for me, oh God, they love me. They love me for who I am, but who I am is just an image. I am an image, a picture, a portrait and nothing more. They love me for me. My appearance is me and I am my appearance and they love me for me.

I'm like that Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz. I seem so indestructible and strong, don't I? But I'm missing a heart. Where is that heart that everyone says breaks once in a while, and then heals after time, and then it repeats that cycle?

And that's all there is to me, because all I have is my appearance. I am a work of art. I am beauty and simplicity. I am this inhuman sort of perfection, and yet I am empty because there's nothing there besides that. Not even a heart.

I don't have.

I can't.

I need.

I want.

I feel.

I am.

I have been cursed with wretched perfection and I want to want and I want to fucking feel and shouldn't that matter? Why doesn't it matter? Why doesn't it matter? It should matter but it doesn't and I want to cry and I want to laugh and I want to love something other than myself.

Just like everyone else.