Once (you are seven, just, and the walls are too thin for you to even imagine that your father doesn't mean for you to hear), you thought that going away to school would solve your problems. That you could learn happiness in the classroom. Find solace in revenge. (You are eight, nine, ten, and your mother says, "please, no, I'll do anything." You are eleven, and the train pulls away from the platform. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, and Sirius Black laughs and calls you Snivellus and those are fangs are they fangs they are-) Once, you thought that this would all end, if not well, than at least definitively. That it would end.
Tea is served. The rat scurries away before you can properly insult him.
fin.
[once more into the fray]