I don't own Harry Potter
Existing
I don't exist. That's the answer – I don't exist, because no one believes in me.
Isn't that the way it works? If they can't see you, you're invisible, and if they can't hear you talking, you must not be able to speak. Yes, if they don't see you, you're not there and if they don't hear you, you have no opinion, right? Isn't that how it works? But they don't see me because they aren't looking. And they don't hear me because they aren't listening.
Like in that movie I'd heard once, sitting in the cupboard under the stairs, how if you say, "I don't believe in fairies", a fairy drops dead. So perhaps if more people were to believe in Luna's Crumple-Horned Snorkack it would exist. Right? Right.
Yes, that's how it works. That's how it'll always work. But it's different with me, than with fairies. There's only one of me, so it doesn't kill me. No, much worse. Bit by bit it makes me cease to exist.
Not existing creeps up on you, like a cat stalking it's pray. It's been stalking me since I was one. Slowly nibbling at the edges like the ocean eats the beach and now there's barely anything left, as I am swallowed by nonexistence.
They could save me, you know. Reach out, take my hand… and together we would fight off the immutable tide. I don't exist, not only because they don't believe in me, but because they don't see me and they don't hear me and – and – they don't want me to exist and neither do I.
I think that's the root of the matter. I don't exist because I don't want to. Because what everyone else sees and hearsis so much better than what is. And isn't that always the truth?
It's like that with me every day. "Hi." Ron greets me, and I just know he's thinking I wish I were him. But you don't want to be me, Ron, because I don't exist. You don't see me. And just as an empty house is to a home, as am I to who you see. Same shape, different emotions.
Because nobody believes in me, not in mind, nor in heart.
Because there is no one to verify my existence, and so I do not exist.
Because no one wants me to, not even me.
Because we all like homes more than houses, don't we?
On the other hand, perhaps it isn't like that. Perhaps it was that I never did exist, and so it could not stalk me because I was not there. Maybe I ceased to exist on that night, so long ago, and I'm the only one who's realized it.
Uncle Vernon might have known, at least a little. I was always being told to, "Go up to your room and pretend you don't exist." Maybe I did it one too many times, just a bit too well, and poof—I was gone.
I would tell you, but I don't exist. And even if I did, no one ever listens. No one hears. No one wants too. Because I'm just a child, right?
But if I could talk to you, and you would listen, there's one thing I could tell you about not existing: it's cold.
It's like someone's tossed you into the middle of the ocean, and there's nothing around for miles and miles, just water and sky and a cold, desolate feeling that you were going to die there, and no one would care, or know, or even try to find you. Every once and a while, you see something on the horizon, an island, a boat, something, and the first few times you swim for it but eventually you give up.
You can scream all you want but you don't exist and so no one can hear you, no one can see you, and everyone who you've ever met barely remembers you. They don't miss you and they don't care about you.
So you float there and you look for something, some one, but also hoping at the same time that no one else is there, because how could any one ever wish this on another person?
Eventually you sigh in relief because you confirm that no one else is there and you're all alone. We're all alone, all the time, anyway.
But that's not all, no, it gets worse.
You can't tread water forever, you know. Not with no food and water, water, everywhere but not a drop to drink. Not without something to believe in, yourself or your friends or love or God or hope or vengeance. Without the belief that there must be someone who can hear you(which there isn't, just to be clear), you lose energy, you lose strength, you lose your mind, and you lose precious inches that stand between your mouth and the water.
So you slip, and you fall down and down to the bottom, and there's no light at all, but somehow you can see. You look around and at first you don't see anything, but then you shift to try and swim up to the surface and you uncover— you uncover — fairies and the Crumple-Horned Snorkacks, dead as dead can be. Hacked and mangled and empty as the ocean, because no one believed in them. A desolate grave that no one ever lays flowers on. And you know that you will soon join them, because in a hundred years – in five years – no one will remember if they ever knew who this Harry Potter person really was and –
It's so very, very cold.