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Number 237 by Flutterbydream
Chapter 1 : Of antiseptic spray and mudblood's (Preface)
 
Rating: MatureChapter Reviews: 12


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A/N:
A few pointers before we start:

No.1 This is a preface and it's very short, but I promise that the rest of the chapters will be longer.

No.2 This story does take an emotional path and does contain sensetive issues. If there is anything that really upsets or makes you angry with me in this story, please tell me and I will change it. 

No.3 This is set 27 years after Voldemort's defeat, 8 years after the epilogue in DH.


Discalimer: I do not own Harry potter, yet the plot and any original characters are mine. 












The song Pale by Within Temptation.


The world seems not the same,
Though I know nothing has changed.
It's all my state of mind,
I can't leave it all behind.
Have to stand up to be stronger.

Have to try to break free
From the thoughts in my mind.
Use the time that I have,
I can't say goodbye,
Have to make it right.
Have to fight, cause I know
In the end it's worthwhile,
That the pain that I feel slowly fades away.
It will be alright.













                                                        Jen


          Amazing chapter image by PieIsMyFriend @ TDA















Hi, I’m number 237, what register code are you? 

I’ve been here for as long as I can remember, I guess that’s what this place does to you; strips you of all the happy memories. I’m in the training camp block, the one on the left to be precise. I guess I better explain. The training camp is simply a clever façade for what’s in store; it’s full to the brim with kids, kids to become the new legion of death eaters. 

And you know what?

No-one questions it. 

No-one. 

Not even when my sister Carly and I were dragged off the street and from our parents in the summer, people just kept walking past us, not even turning their heads. As if it was expected. We were walking slowly through the crowds in Diagon Alley the sun beating down on my bare shoulders. Carly was licking a vanilla ice cream,  it dribbled slowly down her chin and on to her new summer dress. I opened my mouth to tell her that Mum wouldn't be happy that she had already spoiled her dress, when a hand clamped over my mouth.

I had read the newspapers and knew that sooner or later it was going to happen to me. I just never thought Carly would be taken too. I remember the desperatrion, the fear in her eyes as she was dragged in the opposite direction. I remember biting on the hand that silenced me, clawing at the arms that held me so easily still. I remember screaming Carly's name, screaming for help from the shoppers around us. But they kept on walking, not even batting a eye in our direction.

I can never forgive them for doing that, just walking by, letting little Carly be taken by those men. Not even when her eyes turned glassy with tears or her screams pierced the summer air did they look our way.

Why, if they couldn't help me, couldn't they at least help her?

You see, my mother is a mudblood, and in this day and age, that may be the death of you. It started just before summer, after school had finished and the holiday just started. Kids started to be dragged off the streets, out of their homes, all because of their parents blood. Panic engulfed the entire wizarding population and, with Harry Potter no longer alive, what could be done? 

There was no way.

Voldemort was defeated.
 
He could'nt he be alive again.

Or could he?

Carly was 5 when I last saw her; she would be 13 now. But I don’t even know if she’s alive. Kids don’t last long here, they just get taken away and you never see them again. Some crappy story saying that they've gone home.

As if. 

Every day older kids are taken away and a screaming child takes their place. 
And they never come back. Never. 

So really it’s only a matter of time for me. 

When you first come you are hosed down with antiseptic spray, it gets in your eyes and stings like hell. Then they swap whatever clothes you’re wearing and give you a long overall with your registry code stamped in red ink. They lead you to your room and then you just wait. You haven’t talked since you got to the camp, and you probably never will again. 

The rooms you are led in to are dismal, nothing short of a bed and a loo. And whitewashed . Everything’s whitewashed. It’s kind of ironic because you’d think it would be black or grey, to emphasize darkness or something. But, while you sit there waiting for someone to rescue you, you can’t help but wonder how many kids have been in your room, have slept in your bed and aren’t alive anymore. 

And then you suddenly realise. No-one in this messed-up world will rescue you.

Ever. 







- - - - -


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