Disclaimer: After reading whatI'vewrittenso far in the Baldy Potter legacy, Rowling decided I was a better author and sold me the copyright to all her books... Not.

Not a soul can survive the murder of a near friend, whether intentional or other. The same is true with This One. It tears through his heart like a knife. An icy cold consumes him as the dreamlike reality washes over him like the current over the stones that lie in the riverbed, surrounded by kin, but utterly alone. Hatred so powerful emerges within him for the man who let himself be killed; a hatred which was so previously unheard of, un-devised, unimagined. He becomes as dead to the world as if it had been he who was killed, not his friend. Like a willow by the river, he spends hours, days, weeks, eternities, weeping into a pool of innocent blood, the blood he shed. More than his friend, he hates himself. He is a murderer. He is no better than the madman on the streets, the serial killer so often heard of. He retreats from society, like a wounded animal, knowing he will be the sole target of everyone else's aggressions. There he goes mad, knowing there is nothing he can do to remedy this loss this disease that eats a bit more of him as the days go on, until finally, there is naught left and he is gone.