I listened, heart full of disgust to my father's rehearsed excuses, recited flawlessly to the mediwizards as they brought away my mother's battered corpse. As the lines flowed, smoothly dripping from the fiend's lips, they reverberated within my mind. Sobs of, "It was a spell gone wrong", "She was everything to me" and "I loved her" repeating endlessly, madly, in my head
As each of the man's false tears fell, I felt my anger increase, threatening to explode my distraught heart unless the truth was told. So, hardly realizing what I was doing, I stood from my seat. Raw pain burning through me, I screamed at my father's back "Lying, Filthy Mudblood!!" "Murdering Bastard!, you've killed her, she loved you and you've murdered her!"
I knew I was in trouble when he whirled on me, murder in his eyes, his large, fat face red with fury, an sure demand for my silence, but the words were now flowing passionately and uncontrolled; I would not be shut down. I recounted the years of abuse and fear, my life story, telling the listening mediwizards everything, dredging up forgotten memories long blocked by hurt.
But I was not to be saved; his deceit won, for in a quick burst of thought I would have never expected such a brute capable of, my honest tirade was attributed to shock and "a desperate need to blame someone ". I was once again taken back to the hellhole, the place I knew as home, my father's said reason being I "needed rest".
But it wasn't a nap I would receive upon reaching the seedy shack that passed as a house. No, it was instead a beating like I had never before endured, endless hours of merciless agony, blow upon blow connecting with my body. He wasn't drunk this time, but his anger at my outburst more than made up for that. He bellowed loudly, as his calloused fist beat my head; his only coherent words were insults. I felt bones crack as he hurled me into the counter. When he was through, I lay bloody on the floor, gasping for air
But the torture didn't end there; my ill luck wouldn't allow him to be done. Tonight he went even farther in advancing his sadistic ways.
The battering had left me weak, to weak to resist him as he drug my broken form into the room once shared with my mother. He then threw me onto the bed, where I was painfully raped. I had now, due to my mother's absence, taken on the role of his father's sole punching bag and official bedfellow.
The next day, I awoke in shock, barely able to stand, every part of me screaming in agony as I tried to rise from bed. I would have collapsed, back onto the ragged cot, had it not been for him, roaring and swearing for his breakfast.
Later on, after another beating (the eggs weren't done right) I found myself alone in the house, painfully alone, for, normally I would have had my mother there, her bruised face smiling through the pain (I had gained a new respect for her now knowing what her nights were like), telling me of better days. But now she was gone, her pure life stolen and her spirit stifled at the hands of a mudblood, a filthy, impure monster. Why did it have to be her? What had she done to deserve this life? Questions raced through my mind as I flipped open the paper. It was filled with more news of Voldemort, more accounts of his vendetta against the half-bloods, stories of brutal murders like that of my mother, only, against those like my father.
That night I was again soundly beaten and raped, but this time while unconscious. The next morning I again woke painfully, again made breakfast and again was pummeled for it. This became a pattern of life, my normal, just like it was for mom.
And then one day, just after my 17th birthday, my life changed, you might say, in a flash (a bad pun). The Dark Lord (who I had since, for obvious reasons, come to agree with) finally got the worst of the half bloods; he took care of my problem in a burst of green light.
