Beer gut protrudes from armchair more and more. Can rest three butterbeers on now.

In the shower; less and less hair to shampoo, but still greys on the walls. Blame the moustache.

You-Know-Who taking over. Not your fault, didn't know… But why so guilty?

"Horace, deary. We need a new kitchen floor…" Can't afford it. Teacher pay not enough. Drink more, watch Muggle magic-picture box wife loves.

And you despise the life you're living; despise your wife for not noticing, your kids for their innocence, yourself for these feelings. It's too late, now. You don't even recognise the man in the mirror…