Dedicated to Darren Livingstone
The young boy lay sleeping on the narrow wooden bed. His eyes were tightly closed and his chest rose and fell rapidly, the tell-tale signs that he wasn't sleeping. The room was cold and the door was open slightly to allow a stream of light into the darkness of the room. The room itself was quite bare with only the bed, a wardrobe and a desk under the dirty window panes. The floorboards were badly scuffed and the curtains were stained and dirty.
The boy himself was extremely skinning with sallow skin and a long hooked nose. He lay curled up very tight under the covers which were tucked up under his chin as though he was trying to protect himself from something, someone. He was shuddering slightly and the hollow, black eyes were now open staring out into the darkness that was only streaked with light.
Shouting could be heard through the open doorway and the noise of someone crying hysterically. The boy lay huddled on his bed for ages before eventually pulling back the covers and slithering out of the narrow bed. Softly he snaked his way from the bed over to the door. He crouched down next to the door listening quietly to the male voice shouting.
'You stupid, good-for-nothing harlot,' came the cold, cruel voice recognised so well that made him shudder. 'I come home after a hard day at work and all I get is GRIEF!'
His eyes closed tightly waiting for the noise of a punch but it never came but he could still hear him thundering across the floor. He could still hear the noise of the woman sobbing. This was his life. Every night when his father came back the place that he called home was turned into a war zone. He lay awake listening in his bed to his mother scream as his father battered her. The boy shook in silence just listening waiting. There was a smash of a plate and suddenly THUMP! A crying of pain and the boy was on his feet hate surging through his body. He left his room and was down the stairs in the living room. A slim woman cowered a bruise forming already on her face, sobbing on the floor in the middle of broken crockery. A tall man with same black hair, sallow skin and hooked nose was advancing on her. The boy dived across the room to his mother only to be flung back against the stairs by his father. He got to his feet and stared at his muggle father with hate in his eyes.
'Leave her alone,' he snarled his lip curling a trait which was immediately copied by his father as he advanced on the boy slowly. The woman on the floor clutched at the man's leg terrified for her son.
'Tobias, Don't.'
The man wrenched his foot out of her grip leaving her sprawling on the floor cutting herself on the crockery. The young boy stood defiantly his fists balled trying not to look scared. As his father drew closer the boy pulled out his wand and pointed it directly at the man's face. He stopped eyeing the wand in distrust and then eyeing his son. Then he gave a laugh, cold and cruel like his voice.
'Put it away boy and fight me like a real man would fight,' he jeered coldly. 'You can't use magic outside that freak school of yours.'
He knocked the wand out of the young boy's hand and moved menacingly towards him ignoring the movement behind him as his wife pulled herself to her feet with a new determination. She ran over, pushing her son back and placing herself between him and her husband her wand in her hand.
'I can,' she whispered. 'CRUCIO.'
A sixteen year old boy woke startled in the Slytherin common room his face stuck to the pages of the book he had fallen asleep on. The fire had dimmed down but still crackled in the background giving the cold silver room a reddish glow. He glanced around to find he was alone. He looked at the heavy book that he had been reading before he had fallen asleep. It was his N.E.W.T Potions book. Potions was his favourites subject, the one he was best at, better than even the book was. He reached for the quill and dipped it in the ink flipping the book to the back. He pressed the quill upon the page poised to write his name but he stopped thinking on his dream. The dream which was his past reality. His mother had been an amazingly strong woman and he love her with all his worth. It was the only love he had ever felt for anyone. Once again he pressed the quill to the book leaning close as he wrote so his greasy black hair feel into his eyes and his hooked nose nearly touched the paper. He sat back and looked at what he had written.
This is the Property of the Half Blood Prince