Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or "My Papa's Waltz" by Theodore Roethke, although I enjoy both.

I remember, even when I was small, when my father would come home. I could hear him down stairs, shouting and throwing things and yelling at my mother. I would hide under the covers, praying that he wouldn't come into my room. I still do. Pray, that is. I'm not much one for hiding any more. But he always comes. Always for me.

The whiskey on your breath

Could make a small boy dizzy;

But I hung on like death:

Such waltzing was not easy.

I always hide the bruises, with long sleeves and pants. I've even, grudgingly, grown my hair out. If anyone found out, I'd get it worse. I know that, and he knows that, so I don't tell anybody. Mother usually tries to protect me, ever since I was little, but it never works.

"Leave him alone!" Smack! (sobs)

That's how it usually goes. Why doesn't she just give up? She doesn't realize that I take it all justto protect her.

We romped until the pans

Slid from the kitchen shelf;

My mother's countenance

Could not unfrown itself.

It's gotten worse, now. Ever since the Death Eaters regrouped, it's gone from four or five times a week to every night. Now I can smell the liquor before the door is even all the way open. I think the goons might suspect something, but don't say anything. Probably because it happens with their dads, as well.

I won't be too proud to admit that we're afraid. Yes, me, too. I'm very afraid. I'm usually silent at home over holidays, now. Only for lack of company in the day time and for fear of death in the evenings.

The hand that held my wrist

Was battered on one knuckle;

At every step you missed,

My right ear scraped a buckle.

I guess I should be used to it. It's been happening all my life. But it hurts every time. Sure, I've got a few battle scars, but nothing visible...except a small one above my right eye. That was years ago, but it's still there as if it were last week. I guess that's the price you pay for popping off, isn't it?

You beat time on my head

With a palm caked hard by dirt,

Then waltzed me off to bed

Still clinging to your shirt.

Sometimes I watch him and wonder. I wonder if I'll ever be like that someday. People are always saying how much like my father I am. I pray every night that they're wrong.

-Fin-

Please review. This is the first fic of this kind that I've written and I'd really like some feedback on it. Constructive criticism welcome, flames donated to the Eye of Sauron.