Tears of a Basilisk

Journal entry the third

Bah. Sometimes I wonder why I'm writing all this down. With my luck, this journal will probably be classified as a Dark, and therefore evil, book, and banned or burned upon my death. It's amazing how well people can live in denial, especially when they're nowhere near Egypt! Aaand I'm in worse shape than I thought, since I actually laughed at that horrible, horrible pun. I said that I would tackle my third year in Hogwarts in this entry, but I just don't feel like rehashing those memories right now, there's a rite I need to finish tonight and I need all my strength. So rather than proceed forward, I thought that I would provide a bit of background for the Boy-Who-Lived, clarify a few references I've made in my previous entries. Since no one will likely get past the second entry, this seems fairly secure.


Well, the popular view amongst the sheep, aka the Wizarding public, at the moment is that I was treated like royalty as a child, my every need seen to and my physical and emotional well being assured. That certainly does sound like a great childhood, I wonder how I could have gotten one for myself. The cold, harsh reality is that 4 Privet Drive holds no pleasant memories for me whatsoever, and is the key factor regarding my current state of mind and body.


I'm dying, plain and simple, and have been since I was 5 years old. Only my internal reserves of magic have kept death at bay, and they're running out. Most everyone, wizard and muggle, would be long in the ground by now. Why I'm dying is both a long and short story. My "relatives" were not very happy to take in the freak left on their doorstep that cold night. If a couple neighbours had not looked out their windows, I'm sure that I would have either been left out in the cold or thrown into the nearest ditch. With my presence came the perpetual scapegoat. Dudders wet the bed, well, it must be the freak's fault, beat him until he passes out in a pool of his own blood. That was my third birthday, I think. I never knew when my birthday was until I came to Hogwarts, but it was in the middle of summer. Freak didn't cook breakfast because he couldn't reach the stove, lock him away and starve him until he starts to lose skin tone, after the required beating of course.


Ah, my fifth summer of existence, now the real fun starts. Against all odds, I actually had a growth spurt where I was a relatively normal sized child for my age. Despite my beatings, I was also seemingly fair to look at, the very picture of hurt innocence. What little food I actually ate apparently cost more than I was worth, so naturally the walrus decided to find a way to recoup his losses. Enter the Freak, boy whore. Every day, usually multiple times, the men would come into the basement, where I was, more times than not, tied or chained up and ready. After all, that's all a freak deserves. Freaks don't deserve love, food, self-respect, and not to be turned into whores. Ah, but that wasn't the worst part. Not all of the men were as, shall we say, clean as they represented themselves to be. That was the only thing that Vernon insisted on, but a few slipped through the cracks. My only hope is that those pedophiles are now paying or have already paid the price for their actions. It would be easy to classify myself as a victim, but what's the point. I have no need for pity, there's no cure for my illness, and these events would be twisted somehow against me. Been there, done that, wrote the screenplay. The past is just that, the past, and right now there are more important things in my imminent future that, if I'm right, are important for everyone's future.


Dear reader, you are most likely thinking that I should have told someone, run for help before things got out of hand. I did try. The punishments were worse on account of my pathetic, ultimately futile attempts. I didn't know that I was sick until just after I started Hogwarts, because before that my magic didn't really have that much to do but keep me alive and in decent shape. Once I started using magic, I noticed that I felt weaker physically, and that I didn't heal bruises and cuts as well as before. My theory, gleaned from many sleepless nights of research, is that since I was too young to have access to my full magic reserves, I was using the resources that kept the disease at bay to perform charms and such. As I grew older, the illness developed and mutated to the point where it needed more of my internal magic reserves to keep it from spreading. I suppose I could have flunked out of Hogwarts, claiming that an accident made me a squib or such, but I couldn't leave the school with the shape that it's in. There are things that are greater than us, and to restore Hogwarts to her former glory would, one way or the other, cost me my life.


So, I'll go out in style, and at the same time right many of the wrongs that you, the reader, are surely aware of by now. I imagine, as I write this, that one of the wronged parties has been restored to his proper place, his much coveted and previously cursed position, and is giving the students the education and opportunities that they all deserve, regardless of petty House differences. I dream that he will, through my current efforts, be able to shop in Diagon Alley without fear, and live the life that was robbed from him long before I was born. Dreams, it may seem amazing that I still have them. But I wouldn't be making my current preparations if I didn't still dream. A Hogwarts without House strife, where differences are celebrated, not feared. Teachers that care about the welfare of each student without preference. Such a time did exist, long ago. And it will exist again.


Odd that, as I finish reading this entry, the man that Harry had such dreams for knocks on my door. He opens the door slightly, to reveal his newly restored appearance. Crimson eyes are long gone for green-blue ones, and his long black hair, lightly streaked with gray, shines in the candlelight. His appearance, which could once strike fear in the strongest wizard or muggle, has been restored to what he would have looked like in middle age if his life hadn't been horribly manipulated and twisted. Even now, having slowly acclimated to having him around in the castle, part of me still cringes instinctively. He asks me something, but I'm still in such a state of shock from this entry that I didn't hear him. I'm sure he noticed my choice of reading material, for a sad smile crosses his face and he leaves, closing the door quietly as I just sit there, still trying to absorb what I just read.


No wonder he was willing to sacrifice himself. To be dying for longer than you've lived, I can't imagine how he managed to not only survive, but play such a dangerous game with as much success as he did. I couldn't have done it. I would have snapped and jumped off the astronomy tower. I don't think that anyone today could have achieved what he did with such horrible circumstances. Enough reading for tonight. Time to open up a brand new bottle of firewhiskey and try to get at least close to a night's sleep.


-S.S.