There was once a time when I thought that my induction to the wizarding world was my saviour from a fate worse that death - living out my days in the closet under the stairs. But what did I know at the time? I had no friends, no real family. The only grief or sadness I knew was my own self-pity.
What is it, then, that I have become? What is it that I see when I look in the mirror, as I am doing, right now? I'm hardly into my 17th year and already look well into my 50th. I've fought Voldemort five times - I will NEVER call him Lord - and each battle has left its mark on my body. My ever famed scar is now a deep, dark purple - almost black. My once bright eyes have gone gray and dull. My face is drawn and tired, my body always slumped. In my final year at Hogwarts, I look the complete opposite to who, no what, I was in my first year.
I know it's hard for the people who love me to see me like this. Especially Hermione. I can hardly bring myself to look her in the eyes, now. I feel her watching me often; feel her eyes taking in all of my new scars. In particular, the deep, dark scar that runs from my ear to my mouth. The scar Ron gave me, doing Voldemort's bidding to save his sister, Ginny. He wouldn't kill me in the end. So Voldemort tore him limb from limb, right in front of me. A finger and a toe at a time. Hands. Feet. Ears. Nose. Eyes. Right in front of me. I can still hear him scream, even a year on. Whenever I see red I see his blood.
Since then, students and teachers alike avoid my gaze and move aside while I walk. Even Snape can't bring himself to say a word to my detriment. The one person who did, Malfoy, was expelled, despised by even some of his own foul house for impersonating Ron's last moments. Still, even I had to laugh when Hermione turned him into a slug.
I haven't played a Quidditch match or joined a feast since. All I do is learn new spells. Enhance my power, while waiting for Voldemort to attack again. But it never feels like enough. Forever at the ready, but never prepared.
I've accepted now that I probably won't survive our next encounter, as long as I take him with me. I've left a letter for Hermione with Hagrid, to give to her when it happens. Still looking into the mirror, I see my scar burn. There's only two questions I need ask:
Will I be alive in a day or an hour? Do I even care?
What is it, then, that I have become? What is it that I see when I look in the mirror, as I am doing, right now? I'm hardly into my 17th year and already look well into my 50th. I've fought Voldemort five times - I will NEVER call him Lord - and each battle has left its mark on my body. My ever famed scar is now a deep, dark purple - almost black. My once bright eyes have gone gray and dull. My face is drawn and tired, my body always slumped. In my final year at Hogwarts, I look the complete opposite to who, no what, I was in my first year.
I know it's hard for the people who love me to see me like this. Especially Hermione. I can hardly bring myself to look her in the eyes, now. I feel her watching me often; feel her eyes taking in all of my new scars. In particular, the deep, dark scar that runs from my ear to my mouth. The scar Ron gave me, doing Voldemort's bidding to save his sister, Ginny. He wouldn't kill me in the end. So Voldemort tore him limb from limb, right in front of me. A finger and a toe at a time. Hands. Feet. Ears. Nose. Eyes. Right in front of me. I can still hear him scream, even a year on. Whenever I see red I see his blood.
Since then, students and teachers alike avoid my gaze and move aside while I walk. Even Snape can't bring himself to say a word to my detriment. The one person who did, Malfoy, was expelled, despised by even some of his own foul house for impersonating Ron's last moments. Still, even I had to laugh when Hermione turned him into a slug.
I haven't played a Quidditch match or joined a feast since. All I do is learn new spells. Enhance my power, while waiting for Voldemort to attack again. But it never feels like enough. Forever at the ready, but never prepared.
I've accepted now that I probably won't survive our next encounter, as long as I take him with me. I've left a letter for Hermione with Hagrid, to give to her when it happens. Still looking into the mirror, I see my scar burn. There's only two questions I need ask:
Will I be alive in a day or an hour? Do I even care?