She was now lying there
Dying in a lake of ice and blood
While he, embracing her
Was killing them with his red eyes

-Prophet of the Last Eclipse, Luca Turilli

-This is a line break.-

Following his preemptive department from his second period math class, Harry took it upon himself to seek out a recreational activity worthy of his relatively short time on this planet. Of course "recreational activity" in this context means smoking a metric fuck ton of methamphetamine, but everyone had their vices and Harry was no exception. It's just that most of his vices weren't entirely legal.

Harry tried to push those pesky nagging thoughts in the back of his mind down into the deep pit of apathy that generally consumed him. He had no time for thoughts like "This behavior is unhealthy." or "You could go to jail for possession and use of an illegal substance.", or god forbid the age-old classic "Why would you smoke meth in a public restroom? Are you trying to get yourself arrested?". He leaned back against the crusty yellow tiles that coated the walls of the second floor girls' bathroom and let out a deep sigh. His finger tapped out a rhythm on the floor beneath him as he longed for the sweet cloudy high that awaited him. His vision began to blur. The sounds around him dulled into the background. The tips of his fingers began to tingle. A soft prickling that was just faint enough to be detectible, yet seemingly out of reach. It began to spread, slowly at first, but then increasing in speed until his entire body was alive with the tingling. Harry's heart soared as all of his sorrows and anxieties were drowned away in an overwhelming tidal wave of pure, unfeeling bliss.

His vision began to clear as a dark figure walked before him. His Uncle Vernon paced back and forth, slowly, methodically, examining Harry as if the young wizard were some piece of meat, ready to be butchered. He spoke, and just as before his voice rang with emptiness. It seemed to Harry that something was missing, as if all life had been ripped straight from it. His words carried no hint of anger of spite, as Harry had first heard the previous night. If anything his expression, one of extreme neutrality unnerved Harry more than the whole of their last unholy encounter.

Vernon spoke.

"You still need more convincing." He stated. It was just that, a statement of fact. There was no emotion behind his words, no deeper meaning.

He turned and left, as if he was a child in a school play; there to spew his line out to the audience and disappear without another word. Harry watched him go with confusion. There was no raving insisting, no bartering, no attempt whatsoever to convince Harry to go on this insane quest. Harry felt extreme terror overwhelm him, but for what reason he didn't know. Did his Uncle's empty words carry a meaning indeed? Or was he just a figment of Harry's unstable mind?

The tingling in Harry's body subsided and he stood to stretch out the stiffness in his back. Some time had passed, enough for the sunlight pouring in through the tinted windows to change position and hit Harry right in the face. The young wizard was momentarily blinded as he stumbled forward. His foot slipped on something, a patch of wet tile perhaps. The ground in the second floor girls' bathroom was always wet with bodily fluids of every variety, and this time was no different. Harry glanced down to see a large splotch of red shimmering in the dim sunlight. One of the girls must have had their period, Harry figured.

He took two more steps forward, and then he saw it. It was a body. Blood drenched its robes, the head was turned away from Harry. It was a boy, judging by the clothes, with bright orange hair and skin that practically blinded Harry when he gazed upon the victim's mangled face. It was Ron. His face was dented in on one side, forming a grotesque sunken bowl where blood now pooled. Ron's nose had been entirely removed in almost an entirely surgical manner. Whoever killed him seemed to have used extreme precision to properly detach the facial extremity without causing further damage to the facial region. Well, apart from the whole bashed in face thing. Ron's fingers and toes lay strewn around his head, forming the rays of some bizarre sun. They had each appeared to have been bitten off where they had attached to the knuckle and now look small and sodden compared to what they once were.

But it was one wound that stood out to Harry, and as soon as his eyes had laid themselves upon it he knew that this was what struck the killing blow. Ron had been stabbed with a BIC ballpoint pen.

This horrific wound had surely lain the mighty beast upon its deathbed, for even the strongest man, woman, or parasitical organism colloquially referred to as "child" could not have survived such a grievous injury. The pen's penetrating point had perfectly perforated Ron's pelvis.

Harry's vision began to cloud in a haze of blood and tears. Lo, how fate had been so unkind to him, how it had left him in a state of despair beyond all relief. The universe had taken from him the one soul who was truly, objectively worse than himself. Now, it seemed that Harry had to be the worst person he knew.

Harry let loose a scream of anguish. It was a belch of emotion so mighty that it shook the walls of the girls' bathroom and sent shivers down the spine of any who were so unfortunate to hear its terrible melody. The halls echoed fragments of the sickening call, and for years afterward any who entered the accursed bathroom said they could hear the remnants of Harry's anguish trapped within the infinite echoes.

He would quest for the Mystical Enchanted Twelve-Gauge of Destiny, only then would he be able to vanquish death and bring Ron back into his dreaded existence. Only then could Harry rest, knowing that he was not the most vile soul to ever grace the surface of Earth.

Harry's flight from Hogwarts was as swift as it was terrible. As soon as the body was found, the blame was placed upon Harry. It seemed that everyone in school had singled him out as the scapegoat for the most fortunate crime of the century. How convenient for them the situation must have seemed, for the most dreaded monstrosity was dead and the second wasn't far away from the Hangman's noose.

Harry's ratty Air Jordans slapped feverishly against the ancient stone floor of the equally ancient and no less stony castle. His mind was racing with an extraordinary abundance of absurdly desolate thoughts. What would become of Harry if he were caught and sentenced? Would it be death? Imprisonment? Community service? Harry pushed the last image from his mind, as it was far too terrible to bear. It would be a burden upon him, a taxing realization that would haunt him until the end of existence itself.

A half man-half horse creature appeared at the end of the hallway, no doubt spurred to action by the sound of Harry's desperate flight. It was called a Horse Fucker, as they were only created when a horse fucked someone. There were quite a lot, since horses were given full rights as wizards in the 1950s, six weeks before pigs and a full nineteen years before the gays.

the Boy Who Lived drew his wand and shouted "Eqqus CREPITUS!" The Horse Fucker exploded into a million giblets. That was the only spell Harry could cast with any consistency, so he was very fortunate that he hadn't been stopped by someone who wasn't a Horse Fucker.

Then Hermione Bitchface, Harry's worst enemy rounded the corner just in time to get a face full of giblets.

"YOU RACIST FUCK" she screamed bitchily, "YOU AREN'T ALLOWED TO USE THAT SPELL! ONLY HORSE FUCKERS ARE ALLOWED TO USE THAT SPELL!"

Harry, naturally, had given up all hope of escape. After all, he'd used his only spell. He closed his eyes, plugged his ears, and was now reciting the Serbian National Anthem.

Suddenly, Hermione went silent. Harry nervously opened his eyes. Hermione's mouth had been stuffed full of socks by none other than Professor Oxsmall.

Oxsmall gave Harry a wide grin, complete with bits of cat fur caught between his teeth. His large pointed stones of mouth bones were yellow and marred with layers upon layers of scars. He gave a quick salute, one that signified him as a member of the Paperman's Guild. The salute was ancient, crafted before even the humble high-five. To perform the salute one simply had to extend their arm straight forward and raise their middlemost finger. In Oxsmall's case this was his eighth finger of his left hand, as he had seventeen.

Harry was stunned. He'd known Oxsmall was a member of PETA, but not a member of the Paperman's Guild.

"I can tell you're surprised" Oxsmall gurgled viscously, "But now is not the time to look stunned, now is the time for action!"

Harry nodded and said, "I'll follow your lead, Paperman."

Oxsmall looked delighted, if such a look were possible on his sat-on pie of a face. At the very least, the corners of his gaping maw curled into a shape that was marginally less ugly then it had been before.

"We'd better take the Hogwarts Secret Tunnels" Oxsmall blabbered. He turned ninety degrees until he was facing a wall, then punched it. the wall shuddered and a magical door instantly appeared where there had been a wall only moments before. Harry knew it was magic because it had a sign next to it that read HOGWARTS SECRET EMERGENCY MAGICAL SECRET EXIT.

The two wizards entered the tunnel faster than a coked up racecar moving at or above the speed of light. The magical emergency door slammed shut behind them, leaving both teacher and student in complete and utter choking darkness. It was blacker than all of the victims of police brutality in the last five years combined, which was saying something because all of the victims of police brutality had been black bears.

Suddenly Harry's inquisitive senses detected something in the darkness up ahead. It was a kind of darkness, but heavier, and darker too. Harry reached out with on hand, unsure of what his prying fingertips would feel. It was velvety as velvet with a hint of cloth. Harry thought for a moment, then it hit him just as the first punch connected with his face.

"Motherfucking Ninjas." Both Harry and Oxsmall muttered at the same time. The flight flicked on all at once, revealing a classic karate training dojo. Weapons were mounted everywhere along with those foreign symbols from the takeout boxes from Chinese restaurants. Harry cracked his knuckles and counted. There were four or five ninjas, all dressed in velvet robes adorned with golden symbols that resembled dragons from ancient Chinese mythology. Only one group had those symbols: The Cult of the Solar Wyrm. Ninjas from the Cult of the Solar Wyrm were said to be the best fighters in this universe, and Harry was facing four or five of them. He wasn't sure how many there were exactly. Harry wasn't great at counting. It was the number that came after six.

Harry wasted no time in throwing the first punch. His fist shot like a rocket towards the face of one of the ninjas, but the ninja was faster and caught his blow in mid air. Then, without missing a beat, punched Harry right in the face. The sheer force of the impact was like getting hit in the face with a sledgehammer. Harry's nose broke like that Lego AT-AT you spent two hours putting together then your little brother decided to push it down the stairs to recreate that scene from the Lion King. Blood shit everywhere and somehow spun back around and landed in Harry's eyes. Harry screamed and fainted from the pure pain he had endured. It was no lost on him that he had been knocked out in one punch, and he reminded his unconscious mind to put "Bloody Wimpy Wanker" on his list of many personal faults.

Then he had a dream about kittens.