Warnings: Angst, and a couple of instances of bad language, not much else.
Disclaimers: Harry Potter by J K Rowling, please don't sue me, I'm making no profit blah blah blah. Also the 'Find your power animal' bit is from Fight Club.
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The Knight Bus shuddered to a halt to deliver the small, dark-haired boy at the foot of the path. His pale features downcast, he barely noticed the driver's farewell as he dragged his feet down the gravel of his childhood haven.
'Hello Mother. I brought you daffodils.'
He smiled and carefully arranged them in the vase.
'No, don't say it. I know. I'm sorry I haven't been to see you. They won't let me now I'm at school. I'm only allowed out the one day. It'll be our...special day.'
He turned away from her unchanging scrutiny and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stem the tears.
'I don't like it there Mother. I don't fit in. The other students don't talk to me because of...yeah. That.
The child sat down and hugged his knees, desperate for some small comfort.
'I know I'm being silly. It's only a school and you'll probably tell me it'll all be fine and I'll make friends in no time and I've got nothing to worry about but…what if I don't? No one even looks at me now, not even the other boys in my class. I don't know if I want them to notice me, I mean, its sometimes less scary like this, but, well, it'd be nice to have someone who understands me you know? Someone else I mean.'
He wriggled out of his boots and settled down for the day.
'At least I know you'll always be there for me, won't you.'
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The daffodils were dead, withered and browned by the sun, by the next year. The boy took them out and replaced them silently, stepping back to inspect his handiwork as if this was all he had come to do.
'I learnt how to preserve them in Herbology last term. So they won't die like the last ones. Not as quickly anyway.'
Having thrown away the dead remains, he sat in silence, unsure of what to say, as the wind blew relentlessly at the trees. He hugged his cloak round himself tighter and laughed depreciatingly.
'I've learnt a new word Mother. Aren't you proud of me? One of the fourth years called me a Mudblood. Do you know what that means?'
He held back a sob and kicked out in anger.
'It means I'm practically as bad as him, practically a muggle. It means they hate me. It means they sneer and turn their noses up every time I pass. It means they think I'm not fit to be in the same school as them, let alone the same room. It means I spend every breaktime by myself at the edge of the lake while they're off in their stupid groups ignoring me. I don't want to go back there, there's nothing there for me, I want to stay here with you. I'm safe here. I'm not leaving.'
The boy was still crying by the grave at nightfall when his professor came to find him.
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He was in a cold fury when he arrived at the churchyard the next year.
'What? I'm not angry, I'm not.'
Throwing the flowers down at the grass, he kicked a nearby headstone and let out a scream.
'I've just come from his house. My father's. You know that don't you. I go there every year to, well, to spy on him I suppose. I don't like that word. To see if he remembers, to see if he ever feels any regret, any remorse at all that this is day you died. He never does. He never cries, he never cares. But, oh god, today Mother… God. He's having a party! A fucking party! He's spending the anniversary of your death celebrating with all his filthy muggle friends! I hate him. I hate him.'
He wasn't holding back anymore. Furious tears flowed freely down his cheeks, flecked an angry red.
'I'll kill him. How can he do this? I don't care that he doesn't care about me, but he's supposed to still remember you goddammit.'
His fists slowly unclenched as he lay down on the grass beside the mound.
'I wish you were here Mother. I don't like being alone like this.'
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'My teachers are idiots. They think I'm suffering from clinical depression. They've suggested I get help. We have a school psychiatrist, did you know that. She's useless. Says whenever I'm feeling down I should "reach inside myself, find my power animal". Hypocrite. She doesn't know what I'm feeling. How can she? She isn't half-blood. She doesn't have everyone looking at her wherever she goes, muttering under their breath.'
The grass on the grave leaned towards him in the wind, as if in a futile effort to comfort him.
'I know they are. I've tried to make friends, I really have. And they're so nice to my face, all smiling and not mentioning you or my father. But I know they say it behind my back. They threw me a birthday party yesterday, to make me feel better.'
He laughed and threw a stone at the church, trying to shatter the windows.
'Lucky me. I get to celebrate fifteen years of being half muggle.'
He put his head down on his knees and bit his lip.
'Fifteen years since I killed you. I did, didn't I. You'd still be here if it wasn't for me, I know you would. I sometimes wonder if it would have been easier if I were pureblood, if the labour would have been easier. If my father would have been able to help. It's all our fault, the muggles, and I'm one of them. I don't want to be Mother, I don't want to be part of it anymore, I don't want to.'
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'I've done it Mother. I found out who I am. I found my power animal. She's there beside me whenever I call her, and she's beautiful Mother, glorious. I found out what you could never tell me. I know what I have to be proud of. I know my ancestry. I'm not like them anymore. It's my time now. I'm going to make them pay for what they made me. I'm going to make them pay for being what they are and not fighting it with every pathetic ounce of strength they have. And nobody can stop me now I know. No one.'
He didn't cry anymore. His face was dry and determined as he turned from the grave, the sunlight hitting his eyes, making them shine from brown to red.