...

He was there, yet he was not there.

He was rage.

He was a child.

...

A solitary figure concealed his presence from the others as everyone was smiling, laughing and talking. He watched almost obsessively as his father presented his little brother to the crowd with a prestigious grin, his mother stood by his father's side, radiant, emitting the same inordinate happiness. The party-goers seemed to mock him as they clapped their hands over and over, the sound was maddening.

The room was large and slightly pretentious, a chandelier hung over the dining table that sat at least twenty five. The room was decorated in a birthday style, pastel colours hung in the form of bunting and transparent crystal balloons, yet somehow the place remained classy and redolent of the family's wealth. From where he sat on cold stone clinging to the wrought-iron staircase, the room felt like another world. Their laughter was nauseating and their smiles were taunting. They were cheering at the sight of the Boy-Who-Lived. At least, that was what they were so fond of calling him. Silent tears glistened on the older brother's cheeks, whose face contrasted that of his younger brother. It could have been said their paths were set out from the beginning.

Perhaps their ending would have always been the same. How ironic that he had once thought sharing the same birthday would be a good thing. But as of this day, he began to see it as an unfortunate twist of fate. It seemed not a single person at the party recalled his birthday was the same day as their precious saviour's, only 4 years previous. Not even their eldest brother often wished that his parents were different from these strangers. He had been looking forward to his 11th birthday, and his excitement was practically palpable when he had woken up that morning. But that hope had soon collapsed to the ground. How naive he had been.

All he had wanted was for his parents to remember him, especially his mother. He craved her warmth, like every child does, wanting desperately for her to show some small acknowledgement of his existence. His thoughts came crashing back to reality as the party-goers sang his brother the birthday song, it's echo held no melody but that of a cold reminder.

You are not loved.

He stood from where he had sat and walked along the cool hard Italian Terrazzo marble that lay on the second floor hallway. The walls seemed to creep in on him, getting closer, suffocating him. Despite this, Hadrian remained unaffected. He was still and emotionless as he walked into his room which was situated on the other side of the mansion.

He conceded that having an entire wing to himself was more to do with his parents priorities than any else. Entering it, he shut the door silently. The voices outside still echoed in his eardrums, they were relentless. He climbed to his bed, unafraid of the darkness because of the moonlight shining through his window. It appeared to him, the stars were shining just a little darker tonight, no longer winking with hope but smirking with brutal revelation.

He thought about wishing himself a Happy Birthday, but thought against it. Instead, his jaw hardened and his lip pulled into a fractured sneer. It wasn't long before sleep captured him, but the young innocent boy who had awoken that day for his 11th birthday was no longer and was never the same again.

Hadrian woke suddenly, his mind running fast and alert. Sitting up, he considered where he was. 'Somnolence gets you dead, fast. Only the paranoid survive,' he thought seriously, the conviction was not his own, but one of a learnt lesson. Knowing he was safe he tried to relax, yet his heart did not slow its ominous beat. It was like a menacing drum tempo rising as if preparing for a finale. It was unnaturally foreboding, promising a frenzy of soundless screams in a burning world.

Shoving dark curls out of his eyes, he stretched his hands in the air and yawned inadvertently. It resembled a guttural groan; deep and rough. He was sat alone in the empty compartment, of the Slytherin end of the train. The seats on which he sat were of a grey leather, the Slytherin emblem stitched flawlessly on the headrest. The blinds that lay either side of the window were of a thick velvet and the colour of deep emerald green. He was attempting to sleep, yet his mind was his weakness as his childhood plagued his dreams.

He felt a headache coming on, the top of his skull ached with a splintering kind of pain, one that you would associate with heartache. It swirled like an insatiable fire, burning the oxygen out of his body leaving him listless and feeling empty. The feeling came in waves, making him clench his jaw in an attempt to reduce its pain and cease its intolerable sorrow. The headaches were becoming worse. The exhaustion that accompanied them had formed a veil over his skin, grey and cold.

The train was returning to King's Cross station for the beginning of summer. Hadrian's fourth year at Hogwarts had been unusual. Since the start of the his fourth year, intense scrutiny was thrown his way. These stare's fell into three different categories, curiosity, suspicion or obsessive glances of childlike adoration. He saw the tremors of fear and trepidation on the students faces, they were uncertain.

Dumbledore was the catalyst, his light blue eyes had finally found Hadrian's and he did not like what he saw. Distrust and suspicion seeped throughout the very halls of the Castle. It was a vapour that swirled into the large stone classrooms, up staircases and through the corridors. Dumbledore had never given Hadrian the light of day, even when he was placed into Slytherin. There was nothing, not even a slither of recognition to his family name. This didn't bother Hadrian, he didn't want Dumbledore's affection. He wanted no part in his false righteousness.

The devil was real and he was not a red man with horns and a tail. He was beautiful. He's a fallen angel, broken and no longer shrouded in goodness. He was someone who did not die, when he should have.

Hadrian's eyes fixed on the window, gazing with indifference at the passing trees, stones, and grass, as they all blurred together to produce a muffled conception of the Scottish countryside. His thoughts floated off to space. Hadrian could hardly believe he still remembered his eleventh birthday, the memory should have perished a long time ago. It should have shrivelled and wilted away, like a dying flower whose petals were like grotesque confetti. Yet, he knew why it hadn't. That day he understood exactly what had happened. He had lost himself, almost entirely. There was no coming back, and so the world became as if it were made of shadows and his every breath felt hollow in his chest.

...

"Forget? He never forgets.

He doesn't forget the ghost in his lungs or the skeleton in his closet. He doesn't forget when he wakes up screaming, and he never forgets when he falls to his knees, finished to the bone.

Don't ask him if he forgets because he will never forget.

He'll never forget this.

...