My name is Stag. Many years ago I went by the name of Harry Potter. But Harry Potter is no more. When Albus died, and Hogwarts shut down, my whole world came tumbling down around me, suffocating me in a wave of broken hopes and unfulfilled dreams. One thing eased this pain - murdering Voldemort. He, the Dark Lord, the one evil Wizard. I killed him, in the end … and I am proud.
As I have grown I have learnt that the more you love someone, the more likely they are to be stolen from you. Everyone I have ever gotten close to has been killed before my eyes. I have suffered years of pain and agony for each one of them, and will continue to do so.
Ron "The Weasel" Weasley, as he became known in his later years. My comrade, my partner in crime, my best friend. After the completion of a Horcrux mission, he was swallowed by the earth, never to return. For months I believed he would come back to me. But I knew, deep down inside, that he would be just like the rest. Gone forever.
Hermione Granger. Sweet Hermione. The busybody who was far too intelligent for her own good. She deserved nothing that happened to her. There are terribly frightening things in this world which a young woman should not see. In her short life, Hermione saw many of these. And it was all because of me. She didn't have to reach out to grab that Horcrux. I would have done it, Hermione. I would have done it.
Deserted. Betrayed. Abandoned. Lost. I feel these things each day. Each puff of smoke from a cigarette fills my lungs with toxic gas. I casually blow it back out into the air of the cruel world. I know it will kill me. I know. But the smoke is bliss. A life force that I can suck from such an innocent-looking white stick. The liquor feels like liquid gold, running down my scarred throat. Oh yes, I have the scars. Each slit is the proof that one more person in this wretched world wants me dead. There are nine.
I know the drink will kill me, if the smoke doesn't get there first. The fun part is, which will it be? Heart, lungs, liver? I play this deadly Russian roulette with my body daily as I muse over my thoughts, alone in this house. The house of Black. Considering this, I take a glance in a nearby mirror. It is completely coated in dust. I smooth away the dirt with the sleeve of my robe and gaze upon my reflection. At least, I try and make out as much of myself as I can.
Defeating Voldemort came with a price. The weakness, yes, I knew it would happen. That was obvious; I had destroyed a part of myself, after all. Half of me no longer exists. What I did not expect was the loss of sight in both my eyes. My eyes that once shone green with childlike naivety and curiousness. No more. From what little I can tell, they are black. Black as the depths of space, black as the thickest night, black as the name of this house. Why this happened, I am not sure. As I rose my wand for that final blow, the strike that I will remember for the rest of my days … a bright green light, and nothing more.
I try to get myself in focus. It is difficult with eyes as broken as abused as mine. I remind myself of someone. The younger version of someone who once lived in this old house. Sirius Black. A young Sirius Black. It's the hair. God, it's like staring at a photo of him.
The veil. The curtain. Whichever … that harmless seeming flap of material was the death of my Godfather. And so young … I was so young when it happened. Too young. Now that I look back, that was the turning point. That was when it all began to go wrong for Harry James Potter.