[1] //Harry J. Potter\\
July 31, 1995
I lie here, on the drab carpeted floor of the cupboard under the stairs.
“YOU SLIMY DISGUSTING TRAITOR!”
Pondering, how did it come to this?
“YOU NEVER SHOULD’VE BEEN BORN YOU SELFISH BASTARD!”
“I know.” The whisper ringing out unbidden. “I know, Ron.”
Floorboards groan under a massive weight.
“FREAK!” I flinched at the call of my most deep-seated fear. “WE’LL BE ON A VACATION FOR A WEEK! THE HOUSE BETTER BE SPICK-AND-SPAN WHEN WE ARRIVE!”
I nod, despite the fact it wouldn’t be noticed.
Darkness claims my vision, as I drift into Morpheus' realm.
_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_ Pain.
My head, arms, leg ribsstomachanklenosethroatPAIN.
I groan, and prop myself up on the broken cot.
Why am I alive, still?
Oh right- I’m the boy who just can’t seem to die.
I remember the gun locker in the garage.
Hopefully, we can rectify that.
With renewed energy, pushing through my aches and pains, I crawl to the door and unlock it, somehow.
The only thing saving me from panic is remembering the Trace is tied to a wixen’s wand, not magic.
I grab the keyring on my way to the gun locker, and twist the key through the lock.
Click.
Finally, I can end this cycle of living hell.
I raise the gun, unlocking the safety, and point it at the roof of my mouth. My finger curls around the trigger, as I pull the hook-shape until-
BANG.