Shooting Down the Flies

Shooting Down the Flies

It was a still, silent night. There were no sounds from the house below and no owl calls to cut the ever-thickening silence. It seemed to be that strange hour of the night where there is not a single soul awake and the entire world lies still. But one person had not noticed that it was that special hour. A greasy-haired teenager sat alone in a dark bedroom, pointing his wand at the ceiling, shooting down flies. He counted those falling insects silently to himself, not as numbers but as people.

"Potter."

"Black."

"Lupin."

"Pettigrew."

He seemed to dislike most people he met but he hated those four; there was no doubt about it. And they hated him in return. More flies dropped away from the ceiling. To the teenager this night did not seem like any other; the shouting downstairs had long since ceased. That seemed to add a slightly eerie feel to his nightly ritual, as if it were some kind if illegal activity. Still he continued. Things like that had never stopped him before. It was so calming to imagine that he was shooting them down. Just like he had wished before.

"Potter."

"Black."

"Lupin."

"Pettigrew."

He hated the way that Potter and Black flaunted themselves. Arrogance just seemed to flow out of them in rivers. What right did they have to believe that they were better than he was? For a moment his aim shook and he left a small scorch mark on the ceiling rather than the fly. He cursed. Now he would have to find a way to remove it. Deciding to leave it until morning he took aim at the flies and his thoughts wandered back to Potter and Black. Calling them miserable show-offs would probably embody the cleanest of what he thought of them. Potter with his unruly hair and stolen Snitch. Black with his smart mouth and airs of royalty.

"Potter."

"Black."

"Lupin."

"Pettigrew."

Perhaps he did not loathe the other two quite as much. But he still found them intolerable. He hated the way that Lupin was smarter than him all the time. Then there was Pettigrew. Potter and Black's snivelling little fan. In the boy's opinion the only way to be worse than those two gits was to suck up to them. He began attacking the flies with more ferocity. He never understood why more insects kept coming back to his room.

"Potter."

"Black."

"Lupin."

"Pettigrew."

He still had his dreams. He would achieve them too. One day they would respect him. Not just those select four, but everyone who pushed him around. The speed of the dropping flies increased again. At times like these he didn't care if he left scorches on the ceiling that would get him into trouble tomorrow. Because he knew that one-day he would show them all. He would make them see that he was not dirt and did not appreciate being treated like it. Sometime in the future Severus Snape's ritual of shooting down the flies would no longer be confined to his dark bedroom.