Disclaimer: All intellectual & physical property rights to Harry Potter belong to JK Rowling & Warner Bros.
Inner Monologue: Take 1: If it went the way it went, rated 16+ (platonic)
Year 1: Harry Potter and Why Must My Life Be So Shitty?
Life isn't fair, or so I've heard.
I have been rebuffed. I have been dreading this night for a decade. Has it already arrived? Must time pass so quickly? They say it does when one is having fun. Right. As if the last decade has been anything but miserable. I have begged, pleaded, and offered exchanges I would have never imagined to skip this evening's Welcome Feast, but to no avail. Albus has insisted I attend. I am now forced to seethe inwardly as I sit at the head table and await the first years. Next to that imbecile Quirrell. What in Zeus' name does he think he's doing, wearing that ridiculous turban on his head? Must I be forced each year to work with inane fools who are woefully under-qualified for their positions? Of course, I myself am overqualified. You know what they say, those who can, do. Those who can't…well, I am reminded, looking over at the old fool on his throne, that in my case, it's more of a 'those who fuck up royally are enslaved forever in repentance.' Ah, yes, the doors of the Great Hall open with McGonagall at the lead of the reasons for my future headaches. How I love that woman. Her lips pressed into a fine line even in the happiest of expressions, the way she talks to the staff as if they are still students in her Transfiguration class…But my sarcastic musings distract me for only so long. I find myself searching the pool of new students…searching. A mop of red hair. Another Weasley. As if this year couldn't get any worse. And Draco. *Sigh* I had forgotten Lucius said he would be here this year. I look at my dinner knife and wonder if perhaps it is sharp enough to slit my wrists now and get it over with. And then I see him. Immediately, I feel an invisible foot make contact with my gut. I instantly begin a list of a hundred ways to torture that old man to death. He told me she had her eyes. But what does that really mean? You have your father's nose, your grandma's ears, really, it's just a way for people to feel connected, but nothing's ever really a true replica. Maybe sometimes a ghosting close to the original, but…Dear God, it's like they were transplanted from her directly into his face. It's like looking at her once more, after all this time. My heart skips a beat. But that's not why I want to kill the old man. No. He conveniently failed to mention that while his eyes are his mother's, he is an exact replica of his father in every single other way. Same hair, same glasses, same lopsided smile, same wretched personality, no doubt. I have truly entered my own personal hell.
I am doing my best to not kill the brat whenever he is in my presence. Even his voice is reminiscent of James. And, as if things could not possibly be worse, he has been befriended by the newest Weasley (will they ever stop breeding?) and a ridiculous girl who thinks it is her duty and God-given right to memorize any fact she can get her hands on. It's like the Three Musketeers from some awful shop of horrors. Again, I am doing my best. But even the best of us fall off the wagon, don't we? Perhaps I can do just enough to keep myself satisfied in my desire to torment the boy without drawing unwanted attention from the old man. Toeing the line. It's what I do best.
A troll? Seriously? This year could not possibly make me want to end my life more. Traipsing after Quirrell, trying to keep Potter Jr. from killing himself while alternately keeping myself from killing him, and putting up with the antics of him and his migraine-inducing friends. I cannot believe McGonagall gave them points for tackling a troll. When they were supposed to be in the common room. Have I mentioned how much I dearly love that woman?
I was wrong. I do want to die more fervently now than I have so far this year. Perhaps if I held my breath long enough I would pass out. More reliably, I could make myself a Draught of the Living Death. With my luck they'd actually bury me and then I'd die for real when I woke up. Would be better than this. Albus has given Potter's cloak to…well, Potter. Now the whelp is meandering around the school undetected after hours, unchecked, and unpunished. And I have been instructed not to interfere. Unless it is to save his life, of course. I have increased my list to two hundred ways for the old man to die.
Excellent. It is my fault. Why did I expect it to be any different? Of course he would make it my fault. If I had done a better job with Quirrell, if I hadn't ignored the boy's pleas for attention, if if if if if…the old man seems happy enough Potter was able to do what he did, I don't know why he can't leave me out of it. Summer cannot arrive soon enough. Three hundred ways doesn't seem like a complete list.