He didn't understand any of it. How could they despise him so much when he was so small and vulnerable? They were his family, his protectors, and they mistreated him. He had been a baby when he was taken to them and it wasn't his fault, not really.

They lied to me. Car crash? Murdered more like. The lie made understanding worse. Not that I ever said anything to anyone.

They locked him in a cupboard for most of his life. He only got a proper room because they were petrified of what might happen should those who had his safety in mind find out. But they had known all along. Or at least one of them had. But he had done nothing.

He never helped me even though he knew what they were doing to me. I hate him for that but I think I understand that. Maybe…

He was healthy when he arrived at school. And that was all they could ask for. That was healthy and breathing. He wasn't happy but he was alive. Many believed he would never make it through his first year there.

That first year, good and yet bad. Thankfully though the good vastly outweighed the bad. I began to understand.

He got friends, allies, mentors, enemies. All in one year. But he went home happy. And stayed that way. For a while at least. His second year was no better. Facing evil and death, horror and peril. He faced and defeated him again. He saved his first life.

I understood why he was feared so much. He was horrible but, strangely, I felt fear only for her. She couldn't fight him but I could. I didn't understand why.

The years kept getting worse. He faced trouble at every turn and though he had help, he was lonely. He needed someone to care for him for a change. But he couldn't see the truth. People did care for him. But fear and hatred blinded him. Both feelings were directed at the same being. The being that had destroyed his life, took his parents, took his godfather, took his competitor, took his freedom. He would make him pay.

I don't like killing. I don't like the thought of taking another's life. But I would take his gladly. Because of everything he had taken. I understood.

When it didn't seem as though it could get any worse, he took his mentor. Not personally but it was close enough. He would never get over it. Just he would never get over his godfather's death. It was too much for him to deal with. He couldn't just forget them and move on. It was impossible for him. Their deaths hurt him too much. And he refused to lose anyone else.

I began to understand what a desire to kill felt like. And I didn't like the feeling. It was too much for me to bear. But I understood.

His decision to leave wasn't a surprise to his friends. It was expected. And they had always known that they would go with him, the brave things that they were. They fought, all friends do, but they always made up. Even if it sometimes took a little longer. They fought, bleed and grieved together. But he had always known that he had to face the last part on his own. With no help, no back-up, no one else's protection. Just the two of them.

That was the only think that I had always completely understood. Fighting alone. It seemed right. I had always known and understood.

When the end finally came, the three grieved together, re-built together, and moved on together. They had the support of everyone else but their bond could not be broken by anyone. Not even their families. They stayed together. They became a family.

I understood love totally. Love for my friends, for the girl I saved in second year, for my new family, for everyone who had fought and lived and died. I understood loss more than anything else. I learned to grieve openly, and along with others. I still shut myself off. But she pulled me through. My beautiful girl.

I became alive. I became a human. A husband. An uncle. A father. A grandfather. I became who I wanted to be.