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Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series; I am not writing this for profit.
"Ill's logic"
My greatest fear is being forgotten, or simply forgetfulness. I misspeak often—stress kills my mind—and hide evermore. I am melodramatic verging on suicidal. I have no close friends. I am a means to an end.
I act outrageous to be noticed. By nature, I am quiet. Only by a knife—my mind, my tongue—attention is brought. I enjoy others' emotional pain, but cannot stand physical abuse and bullying.
I dress in plain black and hide my body, but I never bother with bodily hygiene (my clothes are always clean). My teeth are disgusting, my hands yellow (I am sickly sallow), and my hair does not bear thinking about.
I despise obsession--so many orphans of the first war idolize their flawed parents! I turned a once-kind figure (she really was not, she dropped me and used me) into my motivation.
No one has ever gotten close enough to tell me I am the ultimate living oxymoron.
If I were desperate, I would have killed everyone I see. I have steely emotional control, but find myself upset by smaller and smaller things—that boy looks just like the person who made my life hell. I hurt him. That girl is my younger self, just as plain and book-smart as I once was. I cut her down.
Time travel, though I have read many texts on the subject (including many fiction novels, I simply cannot resist slipping into fantasy), is beyond my reach. I want those lost years back, the years I am living now, my future back.
Will it ever end? All I want is peaceful oblivion, death and redemption. Will I ever find it? I see that boy's eyes, a brilliant, envious, deadly green stare at me. There is no emotion in them; the eyes themselves show nothing. He is as dead as I am. Do not forgot me, my mouth moves as I let my formative memories (my motivation for life, for life!), "look at me."
Then blankness. I am conscious of my soul. I close my eyes and rest.