She was picking on me again, my own personal Bellatrix Le'Strange. Every word she flung at me felt like a cruciatus curse. Like the book character, she enjoyed every silent scream, every nonverbal plea for help, for relief, for an escape. But, like Frank and Alice, and many other whom help never came for, or came too late, no one stopped her. I hated her. I hated her more than Voldemort hated his muggle father. However, deep down, I think Tom wanted his father to care for him, even if people say he's incapable of love. I have a secret. A secret buried deep inside me, deeper than the chamber of secrets; the truth is, she is me.
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School work
Kısa HikayeJust a collection of short stories/poems that I've had to write for school.
