I remember the first time I ever met my two best friends, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. You'd think we'd never be friends. But then they practically sacrificed themselves when they saved me from that hideous mountain troll. We were inseparable then. We had a lot of great times too. The time when Harry won his first Quidditch match. The first time he won the House Cup for Gryffindor, the happy times we spent together at the Weasley's. I used to love those days. They were the best. Of course, there were bad times as well. When Ron broke his leg because a gigantic dog had nearly ripped him apart, when Harry nearly died when having a dangerous duel with the most powerful Dark Sorcerer. Oh, the times I cried. It used to make me laugh inside whenever I cried because something so good happened. "Tears of Joy" Ron used to call it. They both thought I was ridiculous for crying just because I was so happy. They never knew I was laughing inside too.

I miss the good days. Now, the good days are overtaken by sad, lonely days. Because I'm all alone now. Ron killed himself. When I walked in their dormitory, I screamed so loud that I thought mirrors could break. I cried so hard that I thought I would never have tears again. I found him dead on the floor, you see. Suicide. Deep in his chest was this long, gleaming, kitchen knife. I don't know how the knife got there – whether it just happened to be there or he got it himself. I don't know why he killed himself too. Harry reckons it was because of us getting together. I told him that that was the most stupidest idea I had ever heard. I'm afraid he was right. I cried for days on end after that.

Then Harry died a couple of weeks later. He duelled Lord Voldemort again. He realised that to destroy the Dark Lord, he had to sacrifice himself too. Stupid, stupid, stupid! If I had been there, I would have told him just to let Voldemort live on. Anything as long as he was still alive. But I wasn't there. There was nothing I could do.

Now, this morning, I woke up seeing light for the first time. I knew that I missed my best friends too much and that life just wasn't the same without them. So I used my brain and made myself a new Death Potion. I don't care any more. As long as the three of us are together again, who cares if I'm dead or alive? The Death Potion was sitting beside me right now, inside this special, crystal bottle that I had. I was at our muggle home, since it was the school holidays.

I unscrewed the shimmering lid and brought the bottle to my dry mouth. I was aware that I was sweating. I couldn't tell if it was because of the humid weather or my nerves. Must be the weather. Why should I be nervous? I was going to see my friends again. I pushed the bottle and let the fluid go down my throat, its icy texture freezing my insides. Not long now …

The bottle slipped from my sweaty hands and crashed on the tiled floor, smashing into a thousand, tiny pieces. The left over liquid oozed from it, spreading to my feet. I felt myself slide from the chair and my head bump the floor. I saw the dim, red colour of my own blood as it escaped from my head. Not long now …

My eyes began to water … everything around me was closing in … I felt like shouting out for help but found that my throat was closed … unable to open. My body was like ice, my feet and hands numb from the cold. Not long now …

I never woke up to feel my mother's tears as they fell on my deathly white lips.