Mudbloods and Misery PV Boram Borisova

What was existence, if not the highest form of cruelty?
Whoever the author, be it some omniscient god, the disembodied presence of the universe, or simply the whims of fate, he oft wondered if they snickered as they imposed his own tale upon him. Did they form him in mockery, a caricature of torment for their other creations to observe, and form more attractive outcomes based off of that view? Perhaps, in the end, he was naught but the cautionary moral of this universal story. He was ink on an earthly page, a written tool in his author’s pitiless musings. Pitiless, yes, for surely they knew that even ink can bleed.

Like a drop of black trickling down its alabaster page, he streaked across the school’s expansive grounds, staining the snow with his trail of footsteps. It fell from the dimly lit sky, puffs of white that signified the frozen air of early morn. The sun had only just begun to reach its tendrils of light through a cover of muted clouds, yet the half-blood walked with the down-turned posture of one who wished it would keep them to itself.
The sun was not his friend. It was another pawn in the author’s hands to characterize his misery. How fitting it was, he thought, that something adored by so many caused him only pain. Another drop in the bucket of proof that he would never belong.
But then, did he want to? Not on the surface level of thought, no. Regardless, it was growing apparent that he didn’t fit the mold of Durmstrang any better than that of his grandparents’ estate, their way of life, their routines. Much like the Blackwells, Durmstrang had certain expectations, and those expectations rarely aligned with his ideal lifestyle.

Having been reared with a natural aversion to sunlight, the dhampir had developed nocturnal habits. Societal norms had little bearing on one who had been held from public view, and even less on a being whose makeup differed so far from regularity. Alas, society’s grip was ever firm on the rules it had constructed, and that left children of oddity — such as he — to struggle and adapt.
Morning exercise and daytime classes had proven the most difficult challenge of his early stint at school. As it turned out, both physical activity and mental acuity were especially trying on lack of sleep. He was falling behind — an impressive feat when contestants had only just left the starting line.

He shouldn’t have cared. It wasn’t as though he’d a reason to excel. His family had never wanted him, would never want him regardless of academic excellence. Generations of Blackwells had achieved as much on these very grounds, and he would have been expected to do the same, had he been viewed as their blood. As it stood, he shouldered no weight of anticipation from those of his name; only disappointment that he’d ever existed. And yet, some distant part of him writhed at the thought of mediocrity. Failure, after all, would be a fulfillment of their insidious prophecy. If he harbored aspiration, it was to forsake the way they saw him.

But as of now, his mother’s vampiric shadow loomed over his life, as the clouds did to the world. He had endured another sleepless night, and dawn would soon wreak its havoc on his mind. His weary muscles would be forced through another set of rigorous training, and he would waste through another day of classes. One more stroke of the author’s cruel pen.

Until that happened, at least he had his peace.

Downcast eyes would shift toward sudden, violent movement. Pupils dilated to afford enhanced vision in the dim light, the usual lifeless gray of his gaze was eclipsed by obsidian. Had he been human, he may not have seen the approaching mass in time, but as it happened, he was not. Ducking his hooded head, the half-blood threw his body to the ground, crashing into the snow as the attacking force whistled by. Sprawled as he was, his dark clothing a stain on the stretch of white, he watched the spherical beast retreat into the obscurity of the morning; a bludger, he registered.
Swearing in his Serbian tongue, Declan craned his neck to see that he’d wandered near the quidditch pitch. What psychopath, he wondered, was beating bludgers toward pedestrians at this insignificant hour? One more antagonist in a story that wasn't even his own.