SQUIB
He sat, legs crossed, small eyes watering with thick, tears, looking out into the scum covered window of his home. The cat lay circled up at his feet, purring and nuzzling softly, comforting the scrawny boy.
He was all knees and elbows, with skin that wrapped around his bones, and an unpleasent looking face, covered in too many freckles. He had thin long brown hair which covered his eyes and almost reached the tips of his shoulders. His mouth was set in a thin line of defiance, but still the tears ran down his dirty cheeks, criss-crossing a pattern on his grimy, gaunt face.
The cat purred.
He stroked her soft fur as she nuzzled next to him, he fell asleep hours later, his tears still clinging to his lashes.
The letter wasn't coming.
He should have known it wasn't. He's always known, in a way, that there wasn't a spark, no fire, no magic, about him.
His eleventh birthday had come and gone, tomorrow everyone would be heading off to school. Packing their owls and toads, tucking their wands into their belts and gathering up their books. Parents would be waving good bye as their kids headed toward the train. They would learn things, he could never learn, do things, he would never do.
"You disgusting boy," said someone from behind him," you filthy, disgusting, worthless boy,"
Wheezy laughter followed, his parents, giggling at his despair.
"Hoping to go to Hoggy-warts ickle Filchy?" he heard his mother say.
"Turn around," bellowed his father, when he didn't obey he shouted." TURN AROUND!".
He kicked him, till the boy lay on his side, limp. The cat hissed.
"CRUCIO!" he father cackled with glee pointing his gnarled wand at Filch, eyes blurred with the smoke of whisky. His mother squealed in delight.
He screamed, as the knives pierced his skin, he writhed and his leg struck something, he thought he heard a snap, but he could feel anything but the pain. The pain.
Finally, it subsided, but he didn't move. His leg ached, and without looking he knew it was bent at an unnatural angle.
He felt the gob of spit, land on his cheek, from his father's rotting mouth.
He kicked him again.
And Flich lay, eyes closed, broken.
A squib.
-nrdyfresh