a BIG THANKS to all for being so incredibly patient with this. Yes, it
was a long time coming, however I feel it was worth the wait. I am afraid
you are dealing with a quality person and a perfectionist at heart. I love
my characters so very much, they are like family and I cannot let them down
by writing about them poorly. Hopefully things will come along a little
quicker now, and thanks for all those great reviews!!
6 Similarities As I sit here watching the Boy-who-Lived struggle to recover from his apparent attempt to be the Boy-Who-Died-At-His-own-hands, I as shocked by the similarities between the two of us. I don't mean physically, past the black hair and gaunt looks, which I had never noticed before, come to think of it, but that's beside the point. He did a good job on the Obscuro charm. By the time I got him back here to my home, I had expected my robes to be drenched in his blood it reeked so badly. and yet there had been nothing. Bloody fool just about succeeded he did, but he's too young yet to get away with that one. The other marks on him. someone set too on this boy lie I haven't seen in a long, long time.. As long as the last time I looked in the mirror when I lived under my fathers roof. Yes, there are some amazing similarities between the two of us, and as I wait for the Potions I've brewed and administered to fully take affect and begin to heal the child inside and out, I am left here to contemplate for a moment the circumstances which still have me here.
Why I have not killed myself yet, I cannot fully explain - let's just say that a peculiar set of happenstance has prevented me from it thus far. I get close, timing is good - wham! Something comes up and gets in my way!!! That no one has beat me to my demise is even more shocking - God knows, I have my fair share of mortal enemies out there in the front lines, and I am cautious, but not paranoid like some others in my position.. What good would it do to look over my shoulder constantly?
Being safe is a feeling I have never truly known - I cannot pull up a memory where I wasn't cautious about my actions, how I moved, who I spoke with and when, how I addressed people. Any wrong move could wind up in a painful predicament. Don't trust me, don't trust what is said around you or to you, don't trust a promise made. All just words, all easily broken or turned against you, nothing more than hollow lies to each other and oneself. My parents were VERY concerned about public appearances and being, correct and appropriate (that I be a boot-licking yes-man to everything they say) at all times, at all costs. The learning curve was significantly short and swift for me.
It's an interesting thing how you can stuff it all away, hide the pain and the anger and the hurt, hide the emptiness that can only be seen behind your eyes. funny how it comes out all on it's own, unbidden, outraged, wild in it's own self. I could tell things that would turn one's heart black, as mine has already become. Hard to control, harder still to hide, and once it starts, seems damn near impossible to get it to ever stop again. The worst is when I can't just turn it all onto myself. Christ, my poor bloody students! What did they ever do to deserve a teacher who is so blatantly resentful over their normal childhoods? It is no ones problem but mine, no ones " childhood" (sneer) but mine, no one else allowed themselves to be treated that way, saw what I saw felt what I felt...the only people who were part of it, they aren't here to take it out on anymore, dealt with their own deaths and will probably relive ever mistake they ever make in hell, for eternity... maybe then they will figure out that they fucked up. Maybe... It's just wishful thinking. There was never any remorse before, why would the simple act of dying change anything at all?
I look down at the boy with his bruised cheeks and black circles under his eyes.Black. I relate to that color - it is my soul, it is my mind, it is my heart and it is my core. There is nothing left within or without me anymore that is not just that. Black. Hollow.Empty . Abandoned. Severed. Destroyed. Disgusting.
Looking down at him again, all I feel is a purely black rage. Why do people speak of seeing red? All I can see is Black. Violent Black. Black swirls in front of my eyes as I give into the demon in me. Digging my fingernails into my palms as I mentally take out the razors, coping mechanisms that we all develop over time to deal with the pain that can't be seen. Blood for the tears which are not permitted to be shed. When I cut, I half expect what comes out of my veins to be that same color, Black blood seeping out of me. Creature of the night I have become, it only makes sense that I might be a black-blooded creature.
I rise to the window, looking for any sign of the first rays of light. If the boy makes it until then, I can breathe a bit. But no, it's dark as coal out there, not even any stars to note. Sitting back down and reaching over to take his mangled hand in mine, I loose myself to this exhausted reverie. I've always loved the night - no eyes to watch me, doors locked securely, safe on my own now, no one can come and get me, unsuspecting/// it s so much better, now, not fearing being attacked, not worrying about the physical abuse. The hitting stopped, sweet relief the day I moved out, not soon enough, should have done it when I was five, I think it wouldn't have LOWERED the quality of my life even had I lived on the streets on London. And yet, now that they have stopped it, I am trapped with a mind which seems to have believed the crap it was feed. I am a worthless git, I am deserving for every damn thing that happens to me, and if someone attempts to treat me kindly, clearly they can't see who I really am, and what I really deserve. Nothing. But. Loathing and Hatred. Can't they look at me and see, it doesn't matter??? None of it matters. Nothing but this boy who nearly ended his life because he wasn't a man yet and couldn't fight off his attackers; so he joined in with them admitting defeat.
I wonder, should I have been in his position and have been able to fulfill the task of taking matters into my own hands, would anyone really care past the initial shock of it all??? I mean, there would be plenty of reaction, but reacting and caring are to entirely different things.. I don't believe for a second that after the first "I don't believe it" shock effect thoughts passed through everyone's mind, that they wouldn't just get on with their lives, like I was yesterdays dinner. In retrospect, there is not really much to hold me back, is there. However at the moment there is young Mr. Potter keeping me around. Yet I wonder, at the potential in my killing myself. What would it start, or what could it start? What if there was one that really did care. cared so much that they felt that they could no longer continue on, or someone who was also hovering at the edge of the abyss, and decided that if I couldn't continue on, then maybe he or she couldn't either.Draco Malfoy's face flashes past my eyes momentarily and I wonder at it. Last thing I need is to go to hell with TWO deaths on my head.. (The icing on the cake of discrepancies. Bloody good thing I like hot climates.)
The boy gasps in his potion-induced sleep and appears to be fighting a war with something far greater than himself. The mind yearns for death and yet the body struggles against all odds for life. Sometimes I wonder if it is possible to cheat God - for example, if you decide that you want to die, but don't want to be too obvious about it, so you develop an eating disorder and starve, does that count as suicide? The actions of the boy. what if they were not fully deliberate? What if he had not intended to cut this deep? Would it then count as accidental or not? Maybe I should make a pot of tea. I am getting far too esoteric about this entire situation. Sleep deprivation will do that to a man.
I am loathe to tell Albus about this one. He would never, under any circumstances, have seen this coming for the boy wonder. He'll know in time, I will tell him, but for now Potter's secret is safe with me. I think I'll take a headache potion with my cup of Earl Grey. I don't need to be THAT distracted with the boy in this shape. It's strange, the things that go through your head, the secrets you cannot tell anyone, even thought they try to guess. or maybe I am less skilled at disguising things now than I used to be. I don't know if it is from my "intensity" as Albus calls it, or maybe from repression as I call it. Poppy fathomed that possibly genetics were to blame, though I know most likely the case might be that they are the legacy of getting hit about the head as a child. Whatever the cause, these frequent pains in my head at times are rather unbearable. Blinding and debilitating, it's no wonder why I am so miserable to be around! Here's a clue I should pass on to all my dear students - be in agony for 4 days, having to try to continue on with your day to day activities when you would prefer to apply the Avada Kedavra curse on yourself can be a little, shall we say, tiresome.
I have no energy for pleasantries, not even the strength to eat take care of myself. Where do pleasantries get one anyways? A pack of "false friends" such as this boy has? It's much easier just to let everyone believe the mean, cold-hearted prick impression, that to run the risk that one might actually have a clue of what I am, how I feel, how I hurt. I've learned to never let them know how you hurt, or what creates it; they will only use it against you. Potter here has certainly learned this the hard way. This I too have learned time and time again since I was a small child, and lately have been fortunate enough not to have to worry about it. They can't get you when they don't know about your weaknesses, your loves, your frailties. This boy understands frailties, of that I am assured. I sorely underestimated him, my grandiose thoughts of his famous life and fancy house and being waited on hand and foot. Guilt rides over me as a watch him battle to regain all he has lost. I will never forgive myself for this.
Penance. Penance for what I am, for the fact that I even exist - I have been in a state of guilt and regret since my first awareness. How is it that so many people in the world die, get killed, or acquire deadly diseases that they don't want? They have great lives, they enjoy their family, work, the experience of being. they have MEANING to their lives! I wonder how it works that these people wind up dying, and yet here I am, so many years later, still waiting and hoping for my chance to die and it doesn't get granted. After all, its not like I am serving one of God's higher purposes, is it? Bloody Potions Master to a pack of imbecile half- squib children. How lofty my lot in life indeed.
It's hard, the waiting - I want for the first time since I saw him in the Great Hall five years ago to see this boy's green eyes. To see some proof of life in him, other than this weak lift of a pulse that runs through his wrist every 10 seconds. The first striation of pink is edging across the sky. It will be morning soon, and the world will continue on while we wait at the edge of our existences to see what fate will decide.
6 Similarities As I sit here watching the Boy-who-Lived struggle to recover from his apparent attempt to be the Boy-Who-Died-At-His-own-hands, I as shocked by the similarities between the two of us. I don't mean physically, past the black hair and gaunt looks, which I had never noticed before, come to think of it, but that's beside the point. He did a good job on the Obscuro charm. By the time I got him back here to my home, I had expected my robes to be drenched in his blood it reeked so badly. and yet there had been nothing. Bloody fool just about succeeded he did, but he's too young yet to get away with that one. The other marks on him. someone set too on this boy lie I haven't seen in a long, long time.. As long as the last time I looked in the mirror when I lived under my fathers roof. Yes, there are some amazing similarities between the two of us, and as I wait for the Potions I've brewed and administered to fully take affect and begin to heal the child inside and out, I am left here to contemplate for a moment the circumstances which still have me here.
Why I have not killed myself yet, I cannot fully explain - let's just say that a peculiar set of happenstance has prevented me from it thus far. I get close, timing is good - wham! Something comes up and gets in my way!!! That no one has beat me to my demise is even more shocking - God knows, I have my fair share of mortal enemies out there in the front lines, and I am cautious, but not paranoid like some others in my position.. What good would it do to look over my shoulder constantly?
Being safe is a feeling I have never truly known - I cannot pull up a memory where I wasn't cautious about my actions, how I moved, who I spoke with and when, how I addressed people. Any wrong move could wind up in a painful predicament. Don't trust me, don't trust what is said around you or to you, don't trust a promise made. All just words, all easily broken or turned against you, nothing more than hollow lies to each other and oneself. My parents were VERY concerned about public appearances and being, correct and appropriate (that I be a boot-licking yes-man to everything they say) at all times, at all costs. The learning curve was significantly short and swift for me.
It's an interesting thing how you can stuff it all away, hide the pain and the anger and the hurt, hide the emptiness that can only be seen behind your eyes. funny how it comes out all on it's own, unbidden, outraged, wild in it's own self. I could tell things that would turn one's heart black, as mine has already become. Hard to control, harder still to hide, and once it starts, seems damn near impossible to get it to ever stop again. The worst is when I can't just turn it all onto myself. Christ, my poor bloody students! What did they ever do to deserve a teacher who is so blatantly resentful over their normal childhoods? It is no ones problem but mine, no ones " childhood" (sneer) but mine, no one else allowed themselves to be treated that way, saw what I saw felt what I felt...the only people who were part of it, they aren't here to take it out on anymore, dealt with their own deaths and will probably relive ever mistake they ever make in hell, for eternity... maybe then they will figure out that they fucked up. Maybe... It's just wishful thinking. There was never any remorse before, why would the simple act of dying change anything at all?
I look down at the boy with his bruised cheeks and black circles under his eyes.Black. I relate to that color - it is my soul, it is my mind, it is my heart and it is my core. There is nothing left within or without me anymore that is not just that. Black. Hollow.Empty . Abandoned. Severed. Destroyed. Disgusting.
Looking down at him again, all I feel is a purely black rage. Why do people speak of seeing red? All I can see is Black. Violent Black. Black swirls in front of my eyes as I give into the demon in me. Digging my fingernails into my palms as I mentally take out the razors, coping mechanisms that we all develop over time to deal with the pain that can't be seen. Blood for the tears which are not permitted to be shed. When I cut, I half expect what comes out of my veins to be that same color, Black blood seeping out of me. Creature of the night I have become, it only makes sense that I might be a black-blooded creature.
I rise to the window, looking for any sign of the first rays of light. If the boy makes it until then, I can breathe a bit. But no, it's dark as coal out there, not even any stars to note. Sitting back down and reaching over to take his mangled hand in mine, I loose myself to this exhausted reverie. I've always loved the night - no eyes to watch me, doors locked securely, safe on my own now, no one can come and get me, unsuspecting/// it s so much better, now, not fearing being attacked, not worrying about the physical abuse. The hitting stopped, sweet relief the day I moved out, not soon enough, should have done it when I was five, I think it wouldn't have LOWERED the quality of my life even had I lived on the streets on London. And yet, now that they have stopped it, I am trapped with a mind which seems to have believed the crap it was feed. I am a worthless git, I am deserving for every damn thing that happens to me, and if someone attempts to treat me kindly, clearly they can't see who I really am, and what I really deserve. Nothing. But. Loathing and Hatred. Can't they look at me and see, it doesn't matter??? None of it matters. Nothing but this boy who nearly ended his life because he wasn't a man yet and couldn't fight off his attackers; so he joined in with them admitting defeat.
I wonder, should I have been in his position and have been able to fulfill the task of taking matters into my own hands, would anyone really care past the initial shock of it all??? I mean, there would be plenty of reaction, but reacting and caring are to entirely different things.. I don't believe for a second that after the first "I don't believe it" shock effect thoughts passed through everyone's mind, that they wouldn't just get on with their lives, like I was yesterdays dinner. In retrospect, there is not really much to hold me back, is there. However at the moment there is young Mr. Potter keeping me around. Yet I wonder, at the potential in my killing myself. What would it start, or what could it start? What if there was one that really did care. cared so much that they felt that they could no longer continue on, or someone who was also hovering at the edge of the abyss, and decided that if I couldn't continue on, then maybe he or she couldn't either.Draco Malfoy's face flashes past my eyes momentarily and I wonder at it. Last thing I need is to go to hell with TWO deaths on my head.. (The icing on the cake of discrepancies. Bloody good thing I like hot climates.)
The boy gasps in his potion-induced sleep and appears to be fighting a war with something far greater than himself. The mind yearns for death and yet the body struggles against all odds for life. Sometimes I wonder if it is possible to cheat God - for example, if you decide that you want to die, but don't want to be too obvious about it, so you develop an eating disorder and starve, does that count as suicide? The actions of the boy. what if they were not fully deliberate? What if he had not intended to cut this deep? Would it then count as accidental or not? Maybe I should make a pot of tea. I am getting far too esoteric about this entire situation. Sleep deprivation will do that to a man.
I am loathe to tell Albus about this one. He would never, under any circumstances, have seen this coming for the boy wonder. He'll know in time, I will tell him, but for now Potter's secret is safe with me. I think I'll take a headache potion with my cup of Earl Grey. I don't need to be THAT distracted with the boy in this shape. It's strange, the things that go through your head, the secrets you cannot tell anyone, even thought they try to guess. or maybe I am less skilled at disguising things now than I used to be. I don't know if it is from my "intensity" as Albus calls it, or maybe from repression as I call it. Poppy fathomed that possibly genetics were to blame, though I know most likely the case might be that they are the legacy of getting hit about the head as a child. Whatever the cause, these frequent pains in my head at times are rather unbearable. Blinding and debilitating, it's no wonder why I am so miserable to be around! Here's a clue I should pass on to all my dear students - be in agony for 4 days, having to try to continue on with your day to day activities when you would prefer to apply the Avada Kedavra curse on yourself can be a little, shall we say, tiresome.
I have no energy for pleasantries, not even the strength to eat take care of myself. Where do pleasantries get one anyways? A pack of "false friends" such as this boy has? It's much easier just to let everyone believe the mean, cold-hearted prick impression, that to run the risk that one might actually have a clue of what I am, how I feel, how I hurt. I've learned to never let them know how you hurt, or what creates it; they will only use it against you. Potter here has certainly learned this the hard way. This I too have learned time and time again since I was a small child, and lately have been fortunate enough not to have to worry about it. They can't get you when they don't know about your weaknesses, your loves, your frailties. This boy understands frailties, of that I am assured. I sorely underestimated him, my grandiose thoughts of his famous life and fancy house and being waited on hand and foot. Guilt rides over me as a watch him battle to regain all he has lost. I will never forgive myself for this.
Penance. Penance for what I am, for the fact that I even exist - I have been in a state of guilt and regret since my first awareness. How is it that so many people in the world die, get killed, or acquire deadly diseases that they don't want? They have great lives, they enjoy their family, work, the experience of being. they have MEANING to their lives! I wonder how it works that these people wind up dying, and yet here I am, so many years later, still waiting and hoping for my chance to die and it doesn't get granted. After all, its not like I am serving one of God's higher purposes, is it? Bloody Potions Master to a pack of imbecile half- squib children. How lofty my lot in life indeed.
It's hard, the waiting - I want for the first time since I saw him in the Great Hall five years ago to see this boy's green eyes. To see some proof of life in him, other than this weak lift of a pulse that runs through his wrist every 10 seconds. The first striation of pink is edging across the sky. It will be morning soon, and the world will continue on while we wait at the edge of our existences to see what fate will decide.