Death ➹ Harry Potter

Little Master

He wasn't sure how he ended up here. Really, seven year old Harry Potter truly had no idea. He supposed it all began when his cousin, Dudley, decided to beat the snot out of some kid and blame it on him. Did the teacher really believe he could beat a boy double his size? He wished! If he could do such a thing his cousin and his friends wouldn't mess with him.

The kid who got his ass kicked by Dudley  was to afraid to say the truth so of course he got the blame for it. All of the adults seemed to thing he was some kind of miscreant. So of course they decided that he needed psychological help. Normally he would have had a quick chat with the school psychologist, but it seemed Lady Luck wasn't on his side. Apparently the old woman had died two days ago, and the new psychologist still hadn't arrived.

His teacher called his relatives about the situation. He had thought for sure that he was dead meat, his uncle would probably lock him without food for eternity. However that wasn't the case. While he did get thrown into the cupboard, like usual, his relatives were quite happy. They now had a reason to blame for my freaky business when they talked to the neighbors. Their poor, poor nephew was mentally ill, and it all came from the other side of the family.

Since my teacher and my relatives agreed that I needed 'help' has soon as I could, they told me to come to this place every day as soon as school finished. It was called the Azrael Mental Health Institute, although that was just a fancy name for nut house. 

While he was sure that his relatives wanted his stay here to be permanent he was just told to come to group therapy. The only psychologist around was the one that worked here, at least until the one that would take the position at his school arrived. But the woman was too busy to just have a chat, so group therapy it was.  

He took a seat on a chair, ignoring the world around him while he stared at his worn out shoes. Maybe having chats with mentally ill people would be more interesting than his normal routine. At the very least he didn't have to spent his afternoons after school doing slave work for his relatives. 

He was seven, but he was far from stupid. We knew he was smarter than his cousin. He knew he was smarter than most of the kids his age. He supposed that the only reason for that was because most kids his age were coddled and didn't see the the real world. 

The world that was hopeless, cold and not very merciful. He knew, because he knew that normal children weren't forced to work since they could stand on their feet. Because normal children didn't sleep in cupboards. Because normal children were given three meals per day.  Because normal children were loved by their family. 

But even so, even knowing what the world was really like, he still hoped. For love, for family, for something else far far away from his relatives. For Lady Luck to noticed his existence for once in his life. It was this silent hope that keep him alive and, at the same time, tortured his very own soul. 

He felt someone take a seat in the chair next to his and stopped thinking about his own misery. He fidgeted a bit at the new presence but kept his eyes on the ground, hoping whoever sat next to him wouldn't say anything. After a few minutes in silence he got the courage to take a peek at his 'neighbor'.

She wasn't exactly what he thought about when he imagined a insane person. If she had been at a punk rock concert nobody would find anything amiss. But here, where everything was either white or a pale color, she was standing out from the rest. 

She looked like one of the teens aunt Petunia was always complaining about, scoundrels his aunt called them. But emos, punks, goths, junkies we're words he also remembered his aunt saying. He couldn't exactly tell her age. She looked like a teen, yet she had a aura around her that screamed power. Like some of the teachers when they got pissed.