Benjy Fenwick
It's cold. Everywhere in Great Britain is cold. The cities, the towns, the forests, the woods. There's no warmth anywhere. Not in my heart, not in my corpse. Yes, I am dead. My soul refuses to go on before one of the Order, or someone else, finds my body. They are looking for me now, Moody, Dumbledore, Diggle, searching for me. I'm watching without seeing from above them. None of them will find my whole body. You-Know-Who's Deatheaters did more than just kill me, no, that would have been too kind. I've been brutally mutilated, once seven of them found me I knew I was a goner, then more came, and Crusio after Crusio they tried to gain information. Then they each in turn put the killing curse upon, even after they had killed me the first time, they kept shooting curses at my body, by the time they left to their master my body was no more. It lays strewn across this meadow I was in.
My family will have no body to bury, a leg maybe, though mangled and bloody. Bits and pieces of me lie in random places, but mostly I had been puréed as though by a muggle "dlenber." I will never see my sweet April again, nor Whelma, my little girl who is more like her godfather, Carodac, than even his little ones, nor Duke, who is now the man of the house. He is only twelve but he is a man, this war has made sure of that.
I littered the meadow, I do not even remember why I was stationed there in the first place. Something for the Order, guard duty? Was I stationed here to save some one? Was I a look-out? I don't even remember. It's too cold. I wish they'd hurry up, hurry up and find a bit of me already, maybe then it wouldn't be so cold, too cold.