Chapter 3.
The door swung open. I frowned in confusion. Neither Moony nor Ron had been able to open the door. Cautiously I walked
inside.
The room was covered in a thick layer of dust, boxes, school trunks, books, things the Black family had obviously collected
over the years, and a small lump in the corner were barley visible in the feeble lights of the candles.
I looked around on the floor for a way to get to the lump and upon finding a route I saw lines in the dust on the floor, as if
things had been dragged. Looking again ton the lump, I saw 3 Hogwarts trunks, and boxes filled with cloths, books, photos
and what looked like prank items.
Without looking where I was going I kept tripping over things and slipping on liquid things I hoped never to name. I reached
the lump and gently sat down beside it. I stared down upon the tearstained face of my best friend; the young man whom all
out hoped depended on, the young man who was always strong, the leader. The one who gave the hopeless, hope, the
weak, strength, the disbeliveers, belief, and the darkness, light.
But who was there to be strong for him, to lead him, give him hope and strength, and help him believe, to be the light in the
darkness of his life and mind.
He had no one to turn to, to see him at his weakest, to see him breakdown and show emotions he had kept hidden by a
force beaten into him in his years of hell and slavery.
Asleep. Not even at peace asleep. I watched his face screw up in pain, his legs kicking about as if he was running and his
back arched as he cried out in agony.
'NO! p-lease, I-I-I didn't m-mean t-to-please-NO!'
He yelped then fell silent. His whole body went limp and his face turned to stone.
I also stared crying. As he had moved the cloak he was wearing slipped off his shoulders revealing rags. He wouldn't have
looked out of place on the streets of London in Victorian times. A beggar looked better than he did. He had put his hands up
to protect his face and I was horrified as the skin was stretched to its limit over his bones. Sticks disappeared into the sleeves
of his cloak, collarbone jutting outwards. His trousers were tied around his tiny waist with a piece of string, his legs curled up
in a ball, the trainers he had worn all year all of a sudden seemed 4 times too big for him.
Suddenly his legs shot out with his arms by his side, palms facing upwards. His head rolled to the side facing away from me,
the sleeves moving upwards as he pulled his shoulders closer to his ears. I vomited at the sight.
Deep welts cut into his wrists and on his right wrist was a thin piece of rope still tied repeatedly around it almost cutting of the
circulation. I cleaned up my mess and I inched forward. Slowly I reached out and pulled the sleeve up and saw many other
cuts and welts covering his arm. They looked as if someone just lashed out at anything they could reach.
I screamed.