Thunderstorms terrify some and annoy others, but they fascinate me.
Thunderstorms never lie, you see. They appear as they are: angry and wild. They do not pretend to be anything they are not - they do not hide their true nature behind cool breezes or sprinkles of tempting rain. No, thunderstorms are real; they're one of the only real things left in this world.
I've never met anyone like a thunderstorm. My father and mother always hid behind masks. My father's was one you could see right through, but he got away with everything. I was taught to manipulate to get what I want. I was taught that money can buy one's way through life. I live the life my father taught me to live, but I desire to be a thunderstorm sometimes. I want to burst forth in a tempestuous shout. I want to let everyone know what I am thinking and who I really am.
That's one of the most frustrating things I go through. Everyone thinks they have me figured out, but not one of them could ever begin to try. It would take decades of therapy for me to even break the dam that holds me together. I would never do it though. I'm afraid of what's inside of me. I'm afraid of what I'll find.
It's not the anger or the evil that I'm afraid of. Those I embrace every day. I'm afraid to see what I really am because I've never really known. My family silenced me when I was young, and since then I am only a rebirth of them. I'm afraid that maybe, deep down inside of me, I'm a disappointment. Maybe I'm all of those things people have me pegged out to be. I could be anyone.
I have some feelings that are my own. I have hate. It comforts and holds me. I thrive in hate's cold yet alluring embrace. Hate helps me to define myself when I'm not sure. I hate Potter. I hate that Muggle, Granger. I hate the Weasleys. I hate that they can be so poor and have so much love, while I'm rich and have none; I was taught the opposite was true I hate Pansy Parkinson; I hate that she flaunts herself at me and is as dumb as a cow. At least Potter and his gang can recognize when I insult them. I hate Albus Dumbledore. I hate school. I hate life.
But the number one person I hate . . . is my father. I hate that he's proud of me. I am nothing, and he doesn't see that. I hate that he has poisoned me to the point where I'm not sure of anything anymore. I hate that I'm an empty shell that he has too much control over. I hate that I'll never leave. I hate that I still hope sometimes that he loves me. I hate that I have just as much hate as my father has.
I think I'm filled with so much hate that there is no room for anything else. And I do not say I hate everything with the contempt of a spoilt child. I say that I hate everything because I do. If anyone is entitled to say those words, it is me. I have lived in hate for so long that it's logical I'm saturated with it.
I hate that I desire love.
Yes, I do have feelings other than contempt. Even I find that surprising. But I want to feel loved. I've watched others interact with this emotion; I've always been strangely fascinated by it. But I watch from afar. I do not experience. I do not even attempt to experience. I fill myself with jealousy. And jealousy always leads to more hate.
My father is pressuring me to join the Death Eaters. He thinks that I'm excited about it; he thinks he knows me inside and out. I won't join. Voldemort is one of those who thinks he is a thunderstorm. He is something entirely different. I understand thunderstorms. Thunderstorms are fueled by anger. Voldemort is fueled by hunger, need, power. When he has taken over the Wizard world, it won't be enough. He's always going to be greedy for more. I won't take part in something I don't believe in.
If I wanted anyone to take over the world, if I was to stand behind anyone, it would be Severus Snape. Snape is me. I am Snape. I know that Potter thinks I get special treatment because I'm in Snape's House, but that's not the real reason. Snape is filled with more hatred than I am. He hates everyone, probably even me. But we are kindred souls, and I think we're the closest either will ever come to having a friend.
My story is endless. I can't explain myself in something as small as this. I couldn't do it if I was writing the next Moby Dick. But I've given you a taste of what I am, haven't I? You asked, and I answered.
Do I terrify you? You're filled with so much hope and joy and life. Did you know that people like me existed? Now you will be reminded every time you hear a thunderstorms. Humans are double-edged swords, you claim. You still believe that somewhere I have love and hope and everything you do.
Keep searching. You'll never find what you're looking for.