Blood on the Tomb Stone

Harry thinks he's had it hard in his life, and other people think that the defeat of Voldemort brought an end to the suffering of the European Wizards. He's forgotten that even Muggles can suffer, and in these past few years everyone has forgotten what suffering and hardship and terror are like on a daily basis, except me.

I was brought up a good Catholic, me Dad insisted on it. After all he wasn't to sure about the whole witch thing that Mam had going on. He knew my being Catholic would have repercussions but he never imagined it would be as bad as it was. I can still remember the hatred in those kids eyes as I lay on the ground.

"Catholic Bastard!"

"I'll get my Dad to come and shoot your Dad!"

You can imagine how it got to me. My magic didn't show until I was ten and a half, I saw a man with a gun sneak into my classroom. I was so scared that I somehow made the door slam in his face, it knocked him out and most likely saved my life. I didn't realise what I'd done. I can only remember the screaming and crying as the gun went off . It missed us of course. The bullet planted itself in the wall opposite and in the chaos no one saw the crucifix fall.

My friends at school have only had to put up with the terror stories about Voldemort, I don't know what my Dad went through. He was sixteen at the start of the troubles, he never says much but he says we should always turn the other cheek. One of my first memories is running in from the street with a bloody nose and asking why Mam couldn't just turn them all into frogs so that they would stop hitting me.

It was worst when I had to go to Hogwarts again and leave my family. I felt that should the worst happen and I was away that I would never forgive myself. But then it's easy to forget about the dreary inner city violence when you are cuddled into a large four poster eating midnight feasts with your friends.

I arrived back home for summer once and rushed out to the park to meet Aidan, we'd been friends since we were three at playgroup and we still met every single time on the first day of the holidays. He'd gone to the local Catholic Comprehensive but we'd managed to stay in touch. He'd scribble notes and I would get almost unreadable scrawl about how his mum was worried about them having a nest of owls in the roof.

I meant to tease him about that, play wrestle in the sand, ride our bikes out to the forest and camp. I would help earth out the gnomes and pixies and then we'd see who could trap the most with our Gnoming hooks. All these plans and memories rushing through my head as I headed across the tarmac, expecting to see his dark shock of hair and cheery grin as he sat waiting on the swings.

He wasn't there. I waited, looked around. He hadn't turned up, why? He must of forgotten. I made up my mind to go round later. Suddenly I could sense the hostile stares around me. The whole playground had stopped. The little children in the sand pit continued to play but the eyes of the older children were fixed upon me.

"Hey You!"

A tall kid with flaming red hair that very much reminded me of Ron's was now advancing towards me.

"What?"

"Get out of here, you're not wanted."

"Why?" I could feel myself begin to boil, my fists begin to bunch into tight balls.

"Catholics aren't welcome here."

"What right have you got to tell me where I can and can't go you Protty git?"

The words came out in an angry rush. I had a feeling I was going to regret them.

"Say that again, I dare you....."

"I said you were a Protty git, and your Dad's an Orange bastard."

The fist came so fast I didn't see it. It staggered me and it was a few seconds before I brought up a blow to his ribs. I kidney punched him and he fell. I stared for a few seconds victorious. Then all around me a yell rose up. They all rushed at me as one. I was shoved to the ground, kicked and punched by the gang of boys. Eventually they stopped. I got shakily to my feet, wincing at the sharp pains in my back.

"I only came to meet a friend, why can't you just fucking leave me alone? Huh?"

It echoed miserably against the concrete and steel. I could feel tears begin to prick in my eyes. I shook them back angrily, still staring at the crowd of boys.

"You mean that Aidan?"

I didn't answer, but I am sure the shock on my face gave it away.

"Well you're out of luck, try the Church, he hangs out there a lot now."

There was raucous laughter at this statement. Cold fear rose in my stomach and I turned and half walked, half ran to the doors of the little church where I'd spent so many Sundays. I burst in startling the Priest, Father O'Donnel, nearly out of his skin.

"Seamus dear boy, what happened?"

"Father, have you seen Aidan?"

"Aidan Malloy, so you haven't heard then?" His voice now seemed sad and distant. The fear that had been welling up now became full blown. The priest took my arm and led me gently to a small alcove in which there was a sandstone tomb.

"Aidan Malloy 1986-2001" I read the words dully, their impact didn't really sink in.

"Your Mam didn't want to trouble you at school Son." he said gently. "It was a quick death...one bullet." seeing my face Father O'Donnel fell silent.
He was dead, the troubles had claimed another innocent life. I stared at the words carved so straight and regularly into the tombstone. I couldn't absorb the meaning in those plain passionless marks in stone. I read over and over, trying to make sense of why and....

"How?" My voice ached with suppressed grief.

"A gang of men attacked his house, they didn't care about how young he was..didn't care about who was innocent" That was the only time in fifteen years I can ever recall the gentle and soft spoken priest getting even close to angry. I was to far gone at that point to pay any real attention to him anyway.

My only friend was dead and the Protestants were the ones who'd done it. I finally gave into the pain both physical and emotional. Blood and tears ran down my face. What a wonderful metaphor commented a snide voice inside my head. I Wanted only to see him again, to tell him about my year and the pranks I'd pulled I knelt by the tomb and placed my head on its smooth surface. For those few moments I was once more with my best friend. The perfect golden tint of the new tomb was disfigured by an ugly stain of blood that remained once I rose up.

Brushing the last few tears away I stared sombrely at the grave.

"You're lucky Aid," I whispered softly "you don't know what you're missing."