You should probably fuck off because nothing about this is going to be any interesting. Whatever. I’ve been to a lot of funerals. I’ve sucked off a lot of blokes too—mainly Malfoy lately—but that doesn’t have anything to do with the funerals I promise. I don’t make a lot of promises. Sometimes I’m the worst person you’ll ever meet. It’s funny because I guess you’d expect me to be nice. You shouldn’t expect a killer to be nice, it’s stupid, even if I only kill bad people it doesn’t matter. But bad is subjective, and that’s a massive word for me according to the papers. I’m really not a deep thinker so don’t expect me to be.
Got back from my mission early this morning and Malfoy’s in the kitchen pretending he knows how to cook something besides burnt water. Whatever makes him happy I guess. He tried to slit his wrists last year when he found out he’d never get his magic back. Azkaban hacked his magical core right out of him, the whole bloody thing. They weren’t supposed to do that. His dragons mind him all the same anyway, magic or not. I think they would’ve been really sad if Malfoy had actually died. When I told him that, he started crying all wet and snotty and shuddery. Gasping about how he couldn’t even kill himself the right way. Sometimes I say the wrong thing. This was one of those times.
Malfoy asks if I died this time. It’s a joke because I can’t die. He’s wearing those holey boxer briefs, the bright pink ones that I hate and maybe sort of like too. They’re not holy like divine but holey like real holes and tears. Not tears like how Malfoy cried after he cut his wrists too shallow but tears like rips in that ugly magenta satin. You get it I think. The kitchen smells like charred coffee which is weird because he’s not making coffee and we haven’t had coffee since Mrs Figg’s funeral last fall. You know that sour smell when you leave the coffee pot on all day and it sits in there and boils until it burns. Mrs Figg died in her sitting room with two fat cats on her lap and two more curled up on her chest, right over her heart. When I was seven, I started feeding a stray Siamese kitten every other night but Dudley killed it. Cats are supposed to have nine lives—nine like the number of months it takes before you’re born crying and screaming—so maybe she’s out there somewhere, reincarnated or whatever they call it. I don’t know, that’s another massive word for me according to the papers. Do they build coffins for kittens? I didn’t hold a funeral.
It’s hot in the kitchen. Malfoy’s got the oven turned on and the windows closed. He forgets to crack them open for fresh air. I guess you’d expect hell to be hot too, with all the dead scared people screaming surrounded by fire and fury or something. It’s not even like that, don’t worry. Turns out when you cheat Death too many times, the cunt doesn’t want you back. What does that mean for me, that not even Death wants me anymore. Yeah I call Death a cunt. Malfoy wants Death and Death doesn’t want me and we’re in a fucking love triangle like in the movies. Did you know they’re planning on making a movie about me? If they really do it, maybe they could get an ogre to play Vernon, I’d watch it if they did that.
Malfoy says to stop reading the papers and give him a proper hello. The obituaries are on page 18 unless it’s someone famous. Someone’s mum got breast cancer, some guy was ninety-eight and I’d be plastered all over the front page racking up the editor’s Christmas bonus. All really plain and boring - and horrible too, maybe. Local primary school put on a talent show on page twenty. If you’re good at something do you have to do it just because you’re good at it? Malfoy says the only thing he’s ever been good at is being a rich prick. That wry smile, the purple bandage on his little finger, a baby dragon bit him yesterday and you have to be all gentle when you’re holding them so I don’t. It’s stupid to get too close.
Page twenty-two says the first canine helicopter pilot will make his debut this June. Do you know how fast those blades spin? Faster than a dog’s tail, even a black lab’s and that means something. 500 rotations per minute. Read it in one of Malfoy’s table-top books, he has maybe sixty of them stacked in tall piles on the floor and I’m not joking. He’s supposed to read a couple pages whenever he wants to off himself, I don’t really know how it works. See why I can’t make jokes about it. In 1995, in the flowerbed under the window, the news was talking about a guy who got caught in those helicopter blades and sliced to bits. Vernon called the bloke stupid for getting too close. The black lab at Mrs Figg’s wake knocked over Malfoy’s coffee cup with her tail and it spilt all over the rug and all he did was smile all small and pat her head. Sometimes I want to ask am I good, like a wide-eyed dog looking up, for approval. My tongue’s a wad of chewing gum only you can’t blow bubbles with it but there’s bubbles in the air now so that’s cool. Malfoy’s soaping up his hands at the sink. He says he’s baking bacon, by the way, you’re welcome. He read in one of his dumb books it’s the best way to cook it. Oven gets it extra crisp. And dropping to your knees and mouthing at those ugly pink boxer briefs is easier than saying I missed you.