Author: Lady CC Kagehoshi

Disclamer: Harry Potter does not belong to me. It belongs to JK Rowlings.

Summary: Frank Reflects.

I have not been able to find anyone writable in books two and three so I'm skipping directly to four. This chappy is about the guy who was killed by Voldie at the beginning of book four, if you don't remember. Reviews are hoarded.

p0pptartt- I'm doing Franky now. Thanks for putting me on your watch list. I'm probably gonna do Crouch Jr. and Sr. too.

Fragmata- I'm a favorite… :)

Why am I the way I am? People talk about me, not to my face, but to my back.

"Unfriendly, like…Never wanted to mix, he didn't."

They say I changed.

"War turned him funny, if you ask me."

War changes everyone.

I am not who I was before.

"Frank, come inside." A middle-aged woman with graying hair told her son.

"But mother-" A grimy hand wipes on well-worn trousers.

"No buts, young man. In!" The child runs to the cottage.

I was proud.

Three boys taunt another. "What do you do there on the hill? Does your mother steal scraps from the kitchen?" As the three laugh, the fourth lunges at them.

I had no father. My mother was all that I had.

A brown haired boy clenches his fists as his mother dabs at his scrapes.

She was devoted to our master.

A gray haired female with her head bowed is instructed by a man in fine clothes.

I left her.

"I'm twenty-one, mum! I have to go, my country needs me." Brown eyes shine as he pounds his fist on the table.

I left her so I could go to hell.

A grey sky and a reddish sun show. Shots and explosions fill the scene with noise. Bodies littered what once were streets. Falling debris wound others. Men cry out.

A soldier with a cry, shoots another. "Würfel!"

The bullet hits a leg. With an agonized scream, he falls down, clutching at the injured appendage.

I was in hell for six years. When it ended, I was numb from it all.

Men, crying in joy, laugh inside the camp, hugging each other.

An empty face looks blankly at the radio that tells Germany's surrender.

And so I returned, only to deal with another blow.

A blond haired youth looks with surprise at the haggard man. "Didn't you know? Ms. Bryce died two weeks ago. The funeral was held yesterday."

My mother loved the place, in turn, I will love it.

Weeds are plucked relentlessly as scarred hands pull. The garden the man is in looks loved and well kept.

I do not care for others, especially since the incident.

A sullen face repeats inside a sterile room "I told you, I didn't do it!"

For over forty years have I stayed, tormented by others.

Two boys on bicycles throw stones, hitting dusty windows. An old man, limping, goes outside shouting. The boys leave, laughing.

I will stay there until I die.

An old man screams, his walking stick clattering to the floor. Green light flashes and Frank Bryce crumples to the floor.

I'm thinking that he was born in 1918 if he was turning 77 by 1994. He'd be 21 when the war started in 1939. He'd have been around 27 when WWII ended.

Würfel- die in the German tongue.