Life or Something Like It
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Disclaimer – I own naught, and that includes Forest Gump. :P
Hey everyone. I decided to write this because Quillian dedicated a story to me, and I felt the need to do the same. So, Craig, this is dedicated to you! Enjoy it, hate it, or whatever. I'm not sure where it came from, because I don't like writing in first person. Please review and all that. This story is seriously weird, it even freaked me out. This is mostly me rambling on about jack-crap, or anything that floats through my chocolate-influenced mind. So, whatever is written below, read at your own risk.
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Life.
Life is supposed to be something that you've never experienced before. Something that is so mind-numbingly awesome that you want to do it again ... and again ... and again...
I can't say I want to do mine that many times over. Or even do it once more.
Not that it hasn't had its up-sides. Some Christmases were fun; like that one at the Weasley's where we all laughed, ate turkey, and wore those funny looking hats that made me look like Dumbledore.
But other times ... weren't so fun. Especially when I had some deranged mass-murderer trying to kill me, stick my head in a glass jar with funny green water, and give it to Snape to stick in his office. Those times were just stupid. I can't say I was a fan of days like that. Did I say days? I mean years. My whole life actually.
Yes, that's right. My whole life revolved around some deformed guy with anorexia, who was pissed because he was bald. Why blame me? I was just some kid who was born in July. Did Voldemort just do eenie-meenie-minie-moe on a bunch or pregnant women? Did he say, "Yes, I think I will kill this unborn child, because I believe he will cause my downfall in eighteen years."?
If he did, than he deserves someone stomp on his grave.
Seriously, that guy was disturbed. Not that he wasn't scary. Far from. Every time I looked at him I was reminded of the people he took from me. My parents. The people who brought me into this God-Forsaken world. The people who gave me my name. The people who decided one day that they wanted a child. The people who died trying to save the son they were never given the chance to know.
If I didn't kill Voldemort for myself, I killed him for them. That way, Voldemort can fry in Hell like the giant chip he was. I hope he died knowing that I was the one that killed him. That the 'moe' boy finally got him in the end. That he can spend eternity being cooked in Earth's Oven with my face engraved in his mind.
At least he can spend forever with something good to watch.
Back to the matter at hand, my life, the one that I'm leading now, is very dumb. I don't fancy it very much, except for a few good points. Like my friends. They are like choc-chips in a bowl-full of shit. The one sweet part of a life gone to the toilet-bowl. They were the ones that kept me alive through all this Dark Lord nonsense. They were the ones that stayed with me when everyone else left. And they were the ones that were by my side when Lord Moldy-Warts ate dirt.
Ahh ... I don't think I'll ever forget that day. Even though it has been a fair few nights of partying and a fair few mornings of ear-splitting alcohol-induced headaches, I can still remember the feeling I had when Voldemort hit the ground: relief.
I was relieved that I didn't have to fight anymore. I was relieved that my parents' death was finally avenged. I was relieved that no one else would suffer like I had to suffer. I was just plain relieved.
Relief was accompanied by a large amount of 'I told you so". I told Voldemort years ago that I would kill him, that I would be the one standing over him when he sat begging on the ground. Well, my plans didn't turn out quite as I hoped; Voldemort was long dead before he even hit the dirt, therefore unable to beg me for his life.
Not that I would've given it to him. It just would have been classic to watch.
Okay, I was side-tracked again by lovely thoughts of groveling Dark Lords ... I was telling you about my friends. Ron and Hermione. That friendship started when a mountain-troll tried to kill Hermione; Ron and me went to save her, and my wand was somehow lodged up the troll's nose. I swear it still smells of bogies. That was the beginning of a charming fellowship that is still lasting to this day. Of course, we've had our fair share of domestic disputes. There was that time when Ron was jealous because I was chosen as a Tri Wizard Tournament when I hadn't even entered the competition; it would have been fine if it hadn't been another plot to kill me (just half my luck). Then there was that time when Hermione and Ron had a fight ... oh wait, there were about a billion of those occasions. That number will be doubled before this year is out, figuring we're stuck with each other in this cockroach-infected house for Merlin-knows how long now that school's out.
So it's Hermione, Ron and me. The Trio. Three friends that have fought a werewolf, a murderer, an escaped-convict, Dementors and Snape all in one night. Three friends that have lost so many house-points over the years that McGonagall is still in debt. Three friends that are now living together in a house that is likely to consume them at any given moment. It's Harry, Hermione and Ron. My two best mates and me. The survivors of seven years of Potions with Snape.
So, that's life.
Life is never giving up. Not when you sleep in a cupboard. Not when your one hundred-kilogram cousin sits on you. Not when a giant snake tries to eat you. Not when you fall off a broom and lose all the bones in your arm. Not even when you're stuck in a dungeon with Severus Snape. Life is about not giving up. You can't stop fighting; if I stopped fighting, I'd be dead long ago, strangled by a plant deep in Hogwarts.
My life was stupid. I admit it. But that was only the first eighteen years. I've at least got another hundred left to go. As long as I don't meet another three-headed dog, or Voldemort's son (I try not to think about that as it gives me a highly disgusting mental picture), I should be fine. But I still have to live through Ron and Hermione fighting about who gets to use the bathroom first, who gets to open the door, what colour plate they want...
I don't know what will happen in a hundred years. I don't know what will happen in a few seconds. This old house could devour us all. I don't know.
Life, it's about the unknown. As Forest Gump once said: life's like a box of chocolates; you never know what you might get.
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What did you think? Review, and let me know. Even if you think it was a waste of a thousand words, or even a waste of the few minutes it took for you to read. Let me know!
Laters...
Dana Xx