The hallways are cold and bleak, and so, so silent. You cannot hear the stories they tell, the whispers that brush your ears lightly as you wander, far, far away from your father and his so called friends. The pictures stare down at you with distaste- you know they never liked you, and they like you even less once they figured out how much you a coward you are and that you have wavering loyalties.
You gulp, not audibly enough for them to hear, and count your footsteps carefully. You make sure to never step on the emerald green diamonds woven into the long carpet beneath your feet, and instead maneuver your way through the place you once had the- what you thought then- privilege to call home by stepping only on the small silver squares. This place is no longer a home, but instead, a prison where murderers lurk and prisoners scream and the victims come to die.
Briefly, you wonder what it must feel like, to come from the warmth of a loving home to take your final breath in a dreary place like this one. You figure that it must be awful, but you had never known the comfort of a real, cozy fire, only the cold ones that are without passion. You have never known the joy of having siblings, nor the frustration that came with it hand-in-hand. You never knew the love of your parents, for they have always been rather distant. Once, this place might have been warm, but the fog rolled in and stole it all away, leaving only mildew and blood in its place.
Your wand feels slippery in your sweating palms, and you attempt to hold the thin stick tighter, but the attempt fails because such a feat is not possible when your knuckles are already white. The white-blue light that shines from the tip of the black wand shimmers, and you rein in your emotions to prevent it from going out. The pictures always just at the opportunity to freak you out.
It feels like it takes hours to finally reach your bedroom but when you do, you sink to the floor in relief and crawl over to your closet. You slip inside the dark space, illuminated by your wand, and curl into the corner. Carefully, you reach for the radio and hold it close, whispering the password under your breath and tapping the machine with your wand. Soon, you hear the voice of your third year Defense professor coming softly through the speakers, and you can only sit in fear while you listen carefully, hanging onto every word. The thought crosses your mind- it is truly a shame when a seventeen-year-old boy cannot feel safe in the only home he's ever known.
…
You wake later to a buzzing radio and a crick in your neck. You hear your aunt's mad laughter coming from the main room, and you wince, sitting up and rubbing your shoulder. You flick your wand- that has, amazingly enough, retained its light after all this time- and the buzzing ceases with a short popping noise. You blink your gray eyes and run your long, thin fingers through your thinning light blond hair, yawning. You wonder how long you've been asleep, but you receive your answer when the clock strikes one, and you're suddenly annoyed that your stupid, bitch of an aunt had to wake you in the middle of the night.
Perhaps the last paragraph was unnecessary, but I wanted something after that horrible, hypothetical ending before the ellipsis. Something a little kinder, even though I feel it does not fit the mood of the story. What do you think?