Midnight, the witching hour, it goes by many names and it was the time where our story begins.
A shadowy figure sped across the pavement. Careful to not make a sound, it used the darkness as cover. Lights were constantly whizzing by in pursuit of it as the figure sneaked through an unseen alley. Being on the run was difficult for a guy like mortem and especially white a name like that. He retreated to a shabby building, abandoned by its previous owners and makeshift hideout for him.
A plain and worn out matters laid in one corner, a laptop and charger next to it. A single table and a lonely chair was opposite to the setup and a small fridge laid under the table. A bucket was hidden in the corner and the room itself was illuminated by a soft, yellow glow from one of the only functioning lights. Harry laid back on the mattress, tired from all the running and bleeding wounds all over his body. Soon though, began the infinite battle of attempting sleep.
Memories flooded his worn-down mind and tortured him. Images of figures pointing fingers at him, whispering as he wandered the halls filled with lockers. He never lived what could be considered a simple life as rumours of what he had done spread like wildfire across his new school. He was shunned by all and yet, he found joy in the ignorance everyone gave him. He could escape the abuse he suffered at his home. His uncle and aunt reveled in his torture and yet now, of all times, he wished he could have been something else.
He always dreamed of being someone else, perhaps in a world of magic and wizardry but thoughts such as those had long been banished to the darkest pits of his mind. As he lay there though, on his bloody matress, he thought of how his death would mean so little to anybody, he would just be another tale of a corpse, one who dies at midnight. A corpse that lay on a bloody matress, in the cover of darkness. For no one would spare a thought for a boy called Harry Potter.