Outside on the front steps
OPen to anyone, really

Blood, blood, blood... Sometimes that's all that I ever think about. Sometimes I paint whole pictures in the hues of blood. I trace and document bloodlines, figure out the authenticity of pureblood claims, and sometimes I just cut myself and watch the blood drain. But I never dream about blood. I dream of fire and hate and those faces that are seared into my memory. The faces of the Death Eaters that burned my parents alive.
Ten years, and the rage still courses through me with an undiminished strength. All of the therapists I've ever been to have told me that a seven-year-old can't understand what hate is, can't hate with all of their being. But I did, and by god, I still do.

Amber's death has sent me into another blood frenzy, so here I am on the front steps, sketching with blood-red charcoal. And death begets thoughts of more death, so invariably, the sketch turns into a picture of my parents.

I relish the silence.

October 31, about 8:45.
Great Hall, Open to... um. whoever.


  I just had to be a cowboy, yeah? I feel like a berk in my costume, and I just want to stay in my dorm. And, like, give the leather back to whatever cow it came from. But Hannah will be there. Hannah. The girl you've spent the last three days dreaming about, you great ponce.
  I suppose that, with the tight jeans, and admittedly sexy chaps, I look rather like a cowboy. Yeah, real cowboys wouldn't wear a poncey white shirt, but, it looks damn good. I put the funny hat on and realize that I look pretty okay, even down to the awkward cowboy boots.
"Rawr."


  I get to the Ball and wend my way through the crowds of random oddities, looking for "a fantastic looking pirate." Or possibly, whatever Pansy decided on. Or Dean Thomas, because we have an artistic bond, and we could stand around and talk paint and like, graphite.

Scars and blood and doilies too. I have gone insane. Completely and utterly barmy. My conversation with that Amber bird just reinforced the fact that I am nothing; both Terran and Terry Boot no longer exist. I have no friends, no purpose in life. I am a ship on land. Utterly pointless. Worthless.

Terry doesn't live here anymore. He left no forwarding address.

I sit on the front steps of the castle and stare out at the grounds, uncaring of points and detentions. I no longer exist; why should I care? The stars are very bright. The world is very dark. I feel like scratching all of the scabs off at once and bleeding to feed the ground.

Scars and blood and doilies, oh my!

Ugh. Ugh, ugh, ugh. Sitting on my hands by the lake, I try to resist the urge to pick at the scabs on my arms. They itch, and I really really want to scratch. Very badly. It seems as if this is my punishment for drinking an entire bottle of Firewhisky all by my onesies in an abandoned old building.
I shouldn't have fallen asleep. I really shouldn't have. But some things are impossible to avoid, and when you're that drunk, you're going to fall asleep eventually. I just happened to have done it while laying on a derelict couch that had wood splinters, old springs and bits of glass littering it. But drunkenness is sometimes a boon in those situations. When you're drunk, you rarely feel pain.
Anyway, lake, hands, itching. My hands are starting to hurt and lose blood flow to the fingers, so I give up and let them scratch. Scratch, scratch. I pull off an entire long thin scab and blood wells up from the wound. Ew. I let the blood run down my arm and into the grass, leaving little droplets of myself to feed the plants with. I see something white a short ways away, and crawl towards it, leaving a trail of blood.
It's a doilie. A little white doilie. I stare at it incredulously. This school never ceases to amaze me by how weird it is... I pick up the doilie and inspect it, making sure not to stain it with blood. A doilie. No initials, nothing. Just... a doilie. I sigh lightly, and shove the doilie into my pocket. I'm not sure why. I just, well, want it.
Maybe I'll go swimming.

I finished the bottle. The entire bottle, and now my legs feel like they're attached to something else. An entire bottle. Oh, I'm going to die.

   Dumbledore, Dumbledore. You have such an innocent dream.
   The village is still a bit quiet at 8:30 in the morning, stores just opening and such. That's why most students will wait until about midday, or later, before coming down here. But I'm not looking to visit any of Hogsmeade's shops, I just want to stop in one that I know is open all of the time.
   The Hog's Head is a perpetually dingy, dim, uninviting place. But it becomes inviting when you find that the bartenders have no qualms about selling large amounts of liquor to underage kids. Zane, the early morning barman, is the only one who seems to have a bit of a hang-up. But he gets over it if you give him a large tip. Zane recognizes me. I guess I'm a regular.
   "Hey, Terry! How's it goin'? First Hogsmeade visit of the year?"
    "Yeah, yeah." I take a temporary seat on a barstool, trying to think of what to pickle my liver with today.
    Zane uses the same dishcloth he was just wiping the bar with to wipe out some glasses. The only other patrons this early are some goblins doing business with a frightened looking man, and a couple of old women playing tarot and cackling. I decide to bring death just a little bit closer.
     "So what can I get ya?"
    "Firewhisky. The bottle."
     Everyone seems to go a bit quiet and the women in the corner cast surreptitious glances at me from behind their scraggly hair.
    Even Zane seems a bit disturbed, even though he's got to have seen a lot weirder things than someone buying a bottle of firewhisky. Even someone underage buying it.
    "A wh-whole bottle?"
    I sigh. "Yes, a whole bottle, it's going to last me quite a while."
    "I, but, I..."
    I know exactly how much a bottle of firewhisky costs: 5 galleons, but I don't think Zane'll give it to me for the normal asking price. "Fifteen galleons, Zane, so that I can get out  of here..."
    Zane pales, but reaches under the bar for a new bottle. He thunks it onto the bar as I count out fifteen galleons. As I drop the coins on the bar, I grab the bottle of firewhisky, and wander out of the shop.

    Now, it's time to go somewhere where I can drink in peace. I head on up the main road, uncaring of who sees me with my liquor. I sidle through the fencing surrounding the Shrieking Shack and wander out to the side not facing town. I glance around, move a broken board, and step into the cool dampness of the Shack. I sit on a mostly broken old couch and take a sip from the cool mouth of the bottle.
    Oooh... It burns a bit.

"Jesus Christ, anarchy, and all that is good and clean and... burning! I just spent three bloody hours on that bloody essay and it's bloody burning!" I kick the table again for posterity, sending the inkpot and quill into the fire along with the Transfiguration essay. The acrid stench of burning feathers and the hiss and spit of boiling ink make the empty Common room completely uninhabtable, so I wander out into the empty halls of the castle. It's nearly three in the morning, so even the pranksters are asleep, and I have to redo my entire essay.
"If I do it at the same rate as I did it before, I should be done in time for breakfast," I whisper sarcastically to the shadow of a suit of armor. Then I feel the same old prickling at the back of my eyes, and the lump in my throat. I bite my lip, trying to hold it in, but the essay burning is just the latest in a decade's worth of hard times. The tears spill out, unhindered, onto my cheeks, and run in little rivulets down over my jaw, only to break away and fall with an inconsequential splish on the stone floor.
And that makes me even more upset, thinking about the tiny lifespan of a tear. Because I'm just like that, aren't I? Born wild and carefree, living rich and independent, like a river bursting its banks. Then, out of nowhere, a freefall into oblivion, spiralling, lost, only to splat. I keep wondering when my splat will come.
"Not that tears live anyway," I whisper to the shadow.