Harry Potter and the Lost Half-Bloods. *1*

Will

I sing some Billy Joel and have a moment of contemplation
WILL: Eleven-year-olds are quite tiring. Sure, they're cute after the first thirty seconds. After that, it's all: "What's this?" "Why's that there?" "Who's that?"

The curiosity of children is an annoying thing. The most annoying thing about it is that you can't get angry with them, you have to answer their questions with patience because you have the sad realization that you were the same way as a child. I despise looking back at my childhood self almost as much as I despise current children.

Okay, that was a bit rude of me. I did love children. I just didn't love the fact that they don't know when to leave you alone.

Moving on, right now I was doing what I usually do when I'm bored and don't have any schoolwork to attend to: writing. Now, I'm no Shakespeare. I don't plan on becoming some best-selling author of a seven-part series, or of two five-part series. It was only a hobby I rarely turned to. I'd always had a slight enthrallment towards poetry. It was just something that made me sit and think for a moment. Everybody needs a reflective hobby, in my opinion.

Haikus were my favorite. They were easy and had no pressure with rhymes. Three lines, and a total of 17 syllables. Simple, to the point phrases with no deeper meaning.

"Will Solace, what're you humming this time?" Frank walked into the common room and took a seat beside me.

"Billy Joel, again," I answered. I hadn't even realized I was humming until Frank pointed it out.

"You said the last one was called, what, The Ranger? What's this song?"

I laughed. "No, it's called The Stranger. And this time I'm humming Big Shot. It's a good one."

"Oh. Um, sounds cool!" Frank shrugged, sheepishly. "I need to get caught up on my Muggle music. Give me some albums to check out!"

I smiled, Frank was kind. He always found an interest in other's lives. Even if he was a pureblood, he loved muggle culture like it was his own. Being a muggle-born, I was just raised around it. Both of these cultures, magical and muggle, were my own to cherish.

"The Stranger, and Glass Houses." Frank looked confused.

"But, you said The Stranger was-"

"It's the name of an album and a song. A lot of artists do it." He nodded, interested.

"Man. Muggles are wild!"

I chuckled at his enthusiasm.

"What are you writing, anyway? Horror story, Fantasy, Sci-fi? Uh, I can't think of any other genres at the moment."

"Poetry, actually. Not a huge writer but it's a small hobby."

Frank leaned over my shoulder.
He mumbled the words of the poem to himself.

"Man, that's deep. Think a lot about death, boy?"

I hesitated for a moment. I don't know why, he hadn't said anything that offended me. It was just those last two words...

"I think you've just given me the perfect title, Frank. Thank you." I wrote the two words above the Haiku.

Frank smiled, "I'm honored. But really, does this poem have some significant meaning? Am I missing the big picture?"

Haikus are pretty straightforward for the most part. I didn't think I was making a greater meaning if this. I simply felt like writing it.

"No, not that I know of."

Frank yawned. "Bummer. Well, I'm going off to bed. I'll see you tomorrow then. Have a good fifth year, Will! Not a day goes by that I don't wish you're in my year." He called as he headed up the stairs to the boys' dormitories.

"Hah, same here Frank. Goodnight!"

I looked over my poem one last time. My mother writes a bit, but her writing mostly includes songs. Something she's always told me is, "not a word comes out of that pencil that isn't from me. And if I don't know what it means, I find out."

What she means by that is no matter what she writes it comes from her heart. When she doesn't quite know what she's saying, she searches back for what gave her the inspiration. "There's always a reason, Will."

Always a reason, hm...

Perhaps I was overthinking. It was only three lines and seventeen syllables. How much significance could they possibly have to me?

'Death Boy.'
Swift, smoothly he moves.
A smile, illusory.
He is like a ghost.

I wanted to think it didn't mean anything. Most of my writing was garbage anyway. Like I said, I only did it out of boredom. I still couldn't shake the feeling that these words had more meaning to them than I could see now.

Death boy...

It was silly. But still, maybe my mum was right. There is meaning to every word. Maybe I could go out there and search for my death boy...whatever it was, I was intrigued.