The welcoming feast is over and I retreat to the cool summer air in relief. Albus is always so insistent that the feast should go on for hours until every person is unbearably happy, fattened, and ready for long night's sleep by the end. I personally can't wait for it to be over. The sorting is always the same: the same students sorted into the same houses who then for the next year wreck havoc upon my quiet summer months. Then they, like a cloud of smoke materialising in the cold air in place of whispers, slowly fade away and my silence is once again in place. For a little while at least I am left to nurture my own feelings and hurts. I can sit awake at my desk and sip my tea, not aware of the play of emotions as they dance across my face. For a little while I can rest in the solace that, here, nothing can disturb the heavenly silence that engulfs me.

But like so many years before the silence itself fades, like time and memories that are later cherished when most coveted, and is replaced by another feast and ensuing year of noise and the terrors that disguise themselves as children.

Then, as if it acted of its own accord, my foot hesitated from hitting the first small step. Instead of following through with the act it hung precariously low, the toe of my boot brushing against the stone. Looking around, vaguely aware of being just under the clock tower, my eyes rested on a still form, sitting under the pale moonlight and facing the expanse of earth that stretched for miles upon miles. He was silhouetted against the night sky, perched on the knee high stone wall and watching for something just beyond his vision.

Immediately I recognised the absurdly messy hair and the round rimmed glasses that always threatened to fall off his nose while working feverishly on an essay due at the end of class. His eyes, slightly hidden behind those obscenely ugly spectacles were lost in thought the slight tightening around his mouth betraying his emotions. His posture, while seemingly relaxed, was stiff and obviously uncomfortable. Though, I reflect to myself, the boy was obviously elsewhere in his own dark thoughts to care much, if indeed at all.

Infuriating brat.

With a hint of fury mixed with a good dose of annoyance I recognise that he has taken up my spot at the wall, or rather- on, as the case may be. I consider the childish thought of sneaking up behind him and saying something snide. Perhaps I could even take house points! But then the frustrating boy sighed. It wasn't just a random sigh, expelled because of taking a too deep of breath. It was sigh laden with sorrows and pain. Laced with hopelessness and despair intermingled with something like desolation and grim anguish.

I really have been reading to many potion texts. Albus is always taking note of it and telling me that I sound like a book hidden away in the library. I suppose he's right, as usual, but that does not mean I am about to admit to it, verbally anyway.

Right now, standing in the shadows of the clock tower, foot still held mindlessly above the first step, I bit back the sudden urge to run over and push the boy over the ledge. Resisting the preference to tell him to take his troubles elsewhere and leave me to my own I watch him critically for a few moments longer. Mindlessly the boy raised a hand as if to rub the area where the infamous scar was engraved into his skin, but then, as if coming to his senses he stopped. The hand was replaced on the cold ledge after a moment and I remembered my own foot held mid air, not quite brushing that first step.

He doesn't smile much anymore, since that fateful night. He had been quiet after it was over. A sort of lost expression as if he knew the truth and wasn't sure of what to make of it. His face has always been so easy to read, though I know he thinks it isn't. He had been torn by the loss of the closest thing to a parent he had ever known. Even then I couldn't feel sorry for him, I doubted he would have appreciated it anyway. He's funny like that. He doesn't like pity, though he of all people deserves it, and he defies anyone or anything that allows themselves to react to him in such an emotion.

When he had emerged from the comfortable office he had been subdued though later, as I saw by the work of his own hands, he had been angry. He had been hurt, and confused, as much as anyone could be in his situation. Nothing ever goes right for him. More so than any other individual I have been cursed to come across.

Perhaps I hate him because I envy, in some small strange way. I would never say as much to anyone let alone to he himself. But I think that is one of the things- many as I'm sure they are- that causes me to hold such strong opinions against him. He will leave a mark on his world and won't soon be forgotten. He, a child who will not live past twenty, holds the entire world in his thin, clumsy hands. Youthful hands that should be getting writers' cramp from to many hours doing homework, hands that should not be tainted by the blood of so many. Hands that should worry and fret over childish things and not the insurmountable pain of the world.

With spite I think of the hands that accept the accolades and awards, though even I realise he doesn't need or want them. That is another of his strange quirks. Despite the vigour with which his loud friends encourage him to accept them and be happy, he still hates it. All of the attention and the countless awards (Fifteen, including the two Orders of Merlin second class). He hates being asked for his signature or to have his picture taken on the street by countless unnamed faces. He hates the glory that he gets for his treacherous past that now has come back to haunt him.

Cloaked in my shadow, standing under the archway beneath the great clock I can watch in silent wonder as he dangles his legs over the edge. There is no danger of him falling so why I watch in such fascination, I myself am bereft of answers. The foolish boy forgot his cloak inside and I resist the urge to march out and take points, stealing from him this quiet moment or self-exploration. Or pity, I'm not privy to make a choice between the two. His gaze isn't on the fading horizon, but glazed, looking inward at all his own insecurities and fears. And fears he has, I see them play themselves out across his face and shining like lanterns in his eyes.

Lily's eyes. Studying him now, I can see plainly that James' arrogance does not dominate him as much as I have accused. His high, almost deferential brow and rounded bone structure are highlighted in the moonlight. The thought is explored and petulantly I am forced to admit that, except for a few obvious things (offendingly messy black hair for example), he looks nothing like his father. The idea is a new one for me and I inspect it at every angle, the concept glaringly obvious yet my own pride refusing to accept it.

A stray cloud creeps slowly across the sky, lengthening and contorting with the wind. Veiling the stars as it moves, I watch it with little interest as it makes its way toward the moon. Tearing my eyes from it I returned my observations to the strange green-eyed specimen before me. He too was following the path of the grey blue cloud and seemed to find some sort of parallel within his own mind. I wonder what he is thinking of; daring to put away my own selfishness to think and ponder on the enigma that is Potter. Could he match that cloud to his own shadows? Covering, veiling, and smothering his hope, faith, and Gryffindor optimism? I hardly understand why I would care but an insistent tug in my chest makes me pause and watch with disturbingly sympathetic disgust.

The sympathy, I suppose, was bread from long years of slowly noticing that the insufferable boy had more on his shoulders than I had first realised. The disgust for having felt the first emotion in the first place. He was (and is!) a Potter after all, and as such was promised to be an arrogant, nosy, loud, and all in all unbearable brat. But he wasn't. And that was disturbing. The idea that I had been wrong, and that brat (boy!) who now sat by himself in the quiet of the evening was just another innocent child trying to make due with cards that life dealt him. Cards, which treacherously explode, burning fingers that weren't wary enough or quick enough to pull back. Life is often described and compared to as a game, Chess as a matter of fact, and I- and so many others- are and forever will be the pawns. Perfectly expendable. But now, as I think on it more and more I realise that it is more like a horrible game of Exploding Snap.

Whether he finally got tired of watching and waiting for the moon to be once again unveiled, or the coldness had finally soaked into his inner most soul, the boy turned and swung his legs over the wall and took a moment to steady himself. I watched with amusement as he finally became aware of a second presence and looked up slowly to my place in the shadows. My foot had long ago taken its place next to the other, the first step still lying there untouched except for a shadow of movement. With startled fright he straightened himself and came forward cautiously.

"Sir?"

I could hear the tremor in his voice that countered the defiance in his eyes. I knew what he was expecting and what I was obligated to go through with.

"Potter," I spat contemptuously. "What are you doing out here?" The question was more of demand for an answer though a flash of puzzlement crossed his youthful face. He was expecting me to take points from Gryffindor, threaten him with detention and send him scrambling for the cover of his Gryffindor Common Room. But I had not; I had taken a step in anther direction. I had asked (demanded, I remind myself ruthlessly) an answer. He looked uncertain for a moment before shrugging and I held back the venom-laced retort before it passed my lips. Startled, I realise that I am genuinely curious as to what first pulled him out into the cold air. Without a cloak I think to myself snidely.

"I…needed some time to think." He looked caged. Like a lion at the zoo, angry and scared with a hint of rebelliousness sparkling in his eyes. I smirked.

"The summer not long enough? Do you now need to spread your slothful nature here, to the school as well, Potter?" They were cruel words, but I couldn't bite them back. I was angry, the night air had shaken my defences as had the inspection of the…child before me. But even as I looked at the shadows deep within the pools of green that pretended to be eyes, I knew. I knew that he was no child privy to the everyday toils of life. He was a pawn, perhaps as much, if not more so than I am. There was a certain undeniable amount of pain in those eyes, but as I had done before, and will likely do many times again. I ignored it.

Perhaps there was a certain underlying disorder to the picture I had painted around myself. Perhaps the insufferable brat was in pain and had been locked away for the summer months to slip by quietly, at an agonisingly slow pace. But where the meddling old fool was there to offer sage advice, confections, and gallons of peppermint tea, I was there to offer a place to vent anger, frustrations, and hate. Yes, he hated me. I could see it in his eyes; perhaps this was the same hate that burned out at the Dark Lord on those occasions they had been face to face. Whatever thoughts, accusations, or anything else that might be attached to that hateful gaze were carelessly tossed out the proverbial window.

"Five points from Gryffindor, Potter, for being out after curfew." He ground his teeth for moment before relenting. Typical.

"Yes, sir." He started up the stairs and paused just to my right. While standing several feet away from me, the muted moonlight clearly highlighting his form, I could still feel the annoyance and anger radiating off of him in the cool night air.

"Get out of my sight." My tone was enough of a warning to let slide the threat of more points.

The boy moved cautiously as if I might suddenly reveal my wand and hex him to some far, unknown country. The idea was vaguely appealing, though Albus would be undoubtedly put out with me. I glared venomously and he glared back, the intensity of his gaze spurring me on.

"Will that be another ten points?" My voice dropped considerably, taking on its customary deadly tones. The boy gave a curt shake of his head but was halfway through the door behind me when his own silky voice replied lightly.

"Good to see you again, professor. Pleasant dreams."

The impertinent whelp.

As the door closed with a soft click and I watched the moon come out from behind the thin clouds I cursed him and prayed for him at the same time. I'm not a religious man, yet when faced with the reality that he may very well not live to the end of his seventh year, if even his sixth, I'm am forced to feel something for him. Not pity. No, after carefully mulling over the idea. Never pity. But whatever emotion drives me to utter a short prayer for him I know it cannot be unjustifiable. I do not know the secrets that were exchanged in that small office at the end of last year but I know that there is something brewing. Something that will inevitably lead to the destruction of either the Dark Lord or the impertinent whelp that can still speak with confidence to his rivals and hide what he admits are his fears when he thinks no one is watching.

Whatever cards were being played the world still turns and I am still the same evil, snarky, old, git that I always was. The summer air, while previously refreshing, had somehow managed to swallow me in all my musings and turned stale. I retreat to the warm entrance hall, seeking shelter from the merciless stares of the ice-cold stars. Noting that Gryffindor had been deducted points I smile grimly to myself remembering his last words to me.

"Ten points to Gryffindor for pure audacity." Satisfied I recoil into my dungeons to await another year of loud first years, and obnoxious, arrogant sixth years. Thankful that the Slytherins were all safely tucked into bed asleep, or feigning it good enough for me not to be bothered by it, I collapse onto the couch upon entering my quarters. Before fading to the land of Dreams and Shades I am vaguely aware of a persistent throbbing coming from my cursed forearm.

Pleasant dreams indeed.

Summers have never been my favourite time of year. Though when I was younger I suppose there wasn't much difference between the school year and the summer off time. Dudley and his…friends, I suppose you could call them that- would always be around for a rousing game of 'Harry Hunting'. Though, on further reflection, I did get much faster and better at hiding from them.

The morning of September first is much like the same of all my other summers previous. I blink my eyes open at a quarter to five, dress, make breakfast, and make sure my trunk is all packed. Not that I need to worry, I've checked and rechecked my trunk for the past week, waiting for this day. The loose floorboard is gently tugged away and I scan it, making sure I've remembered my wand, and more personal things. The picture of my parent's wedding day is there, and for a moment I hesitate. The smiling image of my father watches me and waves though I can't bring myself to smile back. The man on his right likewise smiles and waves every once and a while whispering into the ears of my father or mother.

I can feel my throat constrict painfully and I carefully replace the floorboard. In several minutes the Advanced Guard will be here to pick me up and escort me to the train station. Things have changed so much since last year, and I'm still whirling from them. Hedgwig hoots from her cage on the desk and reach my finger in to scratch her on the head.

Soon enough Remus Lupin, or 'Moony' as I've taken to calling him, is knocking on the front door and after dragging my trunk down the stairs I greet him and Tonks with smiles and hugs. Kingsley Shacklebolt is also there, offering his huge, callused hand by ways of greeting. And then we are off! The trip is much to long and yet not quick enough until we finally arrive at that wretched place. Grimmauld Place, number twelve to be exact, with its empty, hollow windows and its creaky stair cases. And horrid things, paintings and heads of previous servants. I remember being offered a place to stay there for a part of the summer though I had refused.

Even now, watching Mad Eye limp towards the door to alert the occupants of our departure, I refuse adamantly to enter. All at once it is much too sacred and terrifying. He had lived there. For years when he was younger, and several of the past months that I remember both in anguish and tempered joy. For a few moments, waiting in the car next to the unlocked door, I press my nose against the cold window and imagine that I can see his haggard face peering out at me from a window smudged with layers of dirt, grime, and age.

I find this ridiculous a moment later when I finally admit to myself that I cannot even see the house itself let alone the windows or apparitions that I fear and worship. Mad Eye is no longer in my line of vision, the magical wards swallowing him up into an invisible cloak. We wait for a while then I see them, one by one, emerge from nothingness. First is Mad Eye, stopping and looking around himself at each bird and empty window suspiciously. Then, slowly, comes Ginny, her long red hair adding life to the desolate street. Then another shock of red hair, that would be Ron, the girl on his arm with bushy hair grinning, a book tucked under her other arm, Hermione. Then comes Mrs. Weasley, she is reminding Ron of something and I silently laugh to myself as he runs back into the house in a scramble, only to re-emerge with a caged Pig in his grasp.

They pile into the car and I almost expect a big, foolish, black dog to come bounding out and try to crowd in as well. But it doesn't and we drive away, off to another year of learning and living.

The train ride passes by and I laugh and entertain myself with conversations and trivial bickerings between my friends. I know the consequence well enough if I stop long enough to lapse into a sombre memory of what once was, and…other painful things.

My friends cast me nervous looks when they think they've gone to far but I only smile, a quiet reassurance that I'm fine. It's a small thing but as long as I can keep them believing that my distorted world is soon going to right itself, and my heart is well enough healed, then they can continue with their own happiness. They are truly wonderful friends, the best that someone like me-or any other person- could ever hope to have. They deserve that false reassurance.

The Start of Term Feast is initiated with the sorting and I flinch when yet another Creevey child is sorted into Gryffindor. Other students are also sorted, the Slytherins looking just as unpleasant as the year before, the Hufflepuffs just as innocent and cheerful, the Ravenclaws are all carbon copies of Hermione, and the Gryffindors just as boisterous and…well, quite frankly, Gryffindor as every other year previous.

The Headmaster stands up and gives the start of term notices, his blue eyes twinkling with that certain omnipotence that sickens and amuses me. With a sharp, searing pain I am reminded of the previous year's enlightened secrets. I quickly squash those thoughts and try desperately to occlude my mind of the intruding throbbing. Hermione catches my eye and I give her a reassuring smile that placates her inquisitiveness for now.

I'm not an idiot, well not as much as Snape makes me out to be anyway, and I know that the approaching conversation cannot be evaded for long. My friends are likewise not dumb, and will soon latch onto the notion that there are secrets I am keeping from them. Secrets that will be my downfall, and if I'm not careful, theirs as well.

I quickly plunge into the feast that literally blooms before me, taking part in several of the conversations exploding around me. Soon I am lost in a whirl of voices my laughter mixing easily with that of my friends and comrades.

The feast stretches over several hours and soon we are all sent off to bed but I cannot resist the urge to seek some time alone, once more, to think over everything. Discreetly I pull away from the swarms of students and slip out the main doors and out past the clock tower. A part of me knows I shall probably be caught by someone and given a firm- if well deserved- tongue-lashing and sent off to bed. If Snape is anywhere involved I know the deduction of points is probably going to be thrown in their somewhere as well, tacked on as an absolute necessity when dealings between us two are ever sparked.

The night air is cool against my fevered skin, and I welcome the temporary reprieve from the constant fever that is spurred by my nemesis' mind. The moon is already out, her face shining brightly against the backdrop of the deep blue sky. Far away, the stars glare down at me, their cruel smiles relishing in my loneliness.

The earth is wet with mist that has already passed out over the lake and I grimace as it soaks through the canvas of my worn sneakers and the material of my school uniform. My school robes are thin and offer no resistance to the sharp breeze that cuts through the air at brief moments when I'm least suspecting it.

Taking a seat on the knee-high stone wall- a diminutive thing really- I let my legs dangle and my hands rest on the cool stone. Far away in the darkness the land stretches out endlessly until even my glasses can offer no vision of green Scottish grass or shrubbery. If I squint I can see the whomping willow, its limbs swaying in the breeze like great muscled appendages.

If I imagine hard enough I can see figures moving, dodging the branches and prodding the small knob at the base, near the roots. I can see them disappear into the depths of the roots, reappearing later under different alliances. The memory of my godfather saying in a jumble of nervous words that he would like to take up his role once more makes me choke on a smile. A strange, almost unfamiliar wetness makes itself evident as it streams down my face and I wipe at it wildly, torn between wishing I wasn't so weak and wishing I could curl up into a ball and sob my little heart out.

But I settle for the tears as they come and go with just as much randomness as the wind. With each tear I can attach a memory, either wonderful or horrible, it's getting harder to tell the difference between them now. Despite the conflict of opinion of almost everyone around me I can't help but reserve a certain amount of guilt for myself. If I had only thought of the mirror or taken an extra moment to think through my actions…

But no, I didn't think. I rushed blindly into a trap that should have been obvious. I neglected my occlumency lessons to spite someone it didn't affect, except my self, and Sirius. I based my actions on my emotions. I kept my heart on my sleeve. Snape was right, I suppose. I was a fool for wearing my heart out on my sleeve. A fool who was easily manipulated because of that weakness. I can feel my stomach clench painfully with the anger and with a bit of surprise I quickly squash it.

It wouldn't do to give Voldemort an open entryway would it? I'm still slightly miffed at Dumbledore for not telling me anything about…well, just about everything. The logical more practical side of me insists that the old man was right. I was and probably still am too young to have to think about killing the most powerful Dark Lord since Grindelow or whatever the bat's name was. But that voice is very small and the bad-tempered and more unreasonable side easily quashes whatever reasoning there is to be had.

What was the meddling old fool playing at? This is not some great chess game where he can just manipulate the people as he wills! At least that's the argument I'm sticking by. Then there is also that little fact about keeping secrets from the one who is supposed to knock the great toad off anyway! Was he just expecting to come up one day and say, "Sorry old boy, but there is a rather renowned Dark Lord downstairs who wants to kill you. Basically this madman is a halfblood and wants to destroy the world of such discrepancies, taking it as a personal insult that they exist. Never mind that he himself is a half blood and is contradictory in almost every aspect of his ideologies. Problem is, there's this prophecy made just before you were born and it clearly states that either he kills you, or you kill him. Now if you'll just follow me I'm sure we can clear all this up in a matter of minutes."

Then he would predictably smile cheerfully with that cursed twinkle blinding just about everyone within range and offer everyone in attendance a sherbet lemon. No doubt laced with a heavy drug of some sort concocted by the resident jovial Potion Master who is standing off to the side grinning like the mad hatter.

All laughs aside though, it still leaves me here. Barely turned seventeen and being trained to kill a madman. Any minute he could find away around the wards of Hogwarts or my home or even the homes of my best friends. It terrifies me that I might have to open a letter explaining that my friends have all been killed off and I'm to be taken somewhere else. What if I make another mistake like I did last year? What if more people die on account of me?

This summer I spent a lot of time thinking about this and I realised that the only thing I have over Voldemorte is that he doesn't know I will ultimately be his downfall or his victory. Some comfort. How many more families are going to be torn apart by grief? What if Hermione's family is killed while at the office where no wards are in place? What then?

The familiar pain in my chest burns fiercely but the cool night air offers some relief. Instead I take a deep calming breath, letting everything out in a lingering sigh. The warm air is like a puff of smoke and only then does it dawn on me how cold it really is out here. Still, I soak up the solidarity like a sponge, there won't be many more times like this in the future. I'm lucky to have made this long without someone coming to look for me.

The air is open out here, with no students, no teachers, no Voldemort…Sometimes I wonder, if I looked at a Boggart now, what would I see? For that matter, if I looked into the Mirror of Erised, what would I see? I can still feel the pangs of longing for a family though I practically belong to the Weasley clan. Red hair aside of course.

What if they are slowly picked off? What if Ron and Ginny get a letter saying that the twins' new shop has been destroyed, their bodies barely recognisable? What if Bill never comes home from work? What if Charlie is found dead some day or his corpse delivered in some gruesome way? What of Percy? Ruthlessly I push the thought of Percy out of my mind. The family would be torn if he died, but it doesn't change the fact that as of right now, he is still a very much alive git. Then there is the family patriarch and matriarch themselves. I shudder to think of either of them hurt in any way and quickly toss that idea out of the proverbial window.

It's best not to think on such things anyway. Too depressing.

A sharp prickle from my scar startles me, and without thinking I raise my hand to rub away the offending feeling. Catching myself I firmly put my hand back down, surprised at how cold the stone wall has become. The moon is a few weeks away from being full and I mentally cringe at the thought of Moony going through his transformation. At least he'll have the potion I suppose. There is always that bit of hope. Watching the moon I think of how my faith, hopes, and dreams are so easily being quartered down into smaller and smaller slivers. It shines all the brighter I suppose, though my thoughts darken when a wisp of clouds drifts into my line of vision, muting the light.

I suppose that is also how I feel, what little of it I have salvaged, my hope is still overshadowed by the impending war with Tom. It isn't fair that he can inflict even this pain without even knowing it. Spitefully I glare at the wisp of cloud as it expands with the wind, covering stars and melding with other clouds.

For some reason I sit steadfastly on the stone wall and watch the wisp of cloud, waiting for it to drift away. I know it's foolish, but I feel like, if the cloud would only move on, then by some miracle Tom would drift away and leave me in peace too. But as if sensing my wishes and turmoil, the cloud sees fit to stay there, neither expanding, diminishing, or leaving all together.

Picturing this as a last word by a higher being I mutter something under my breath that would have caused Hermione and Mrs. Weasley to have kittens. Ron might've have gaped.

These thoughts were vaguely comforting and I thought heavily on them while swinging my legs over the edge of the small barrier and realise for the first time how stiff I've become. The cold air has seeped into my muscles and bones and I realise how idiotic it was of me to leave my cloak inside. I can just picture Snape saying to the pleasure of every Slytherin that ever lived, how "abysmally idiotic" I am and forever will be. He will then make a show of praying to every god there ever was for protection when it comes to letting me loose upon the wizarding world at large.

As an afterthought I suppose this isn't true. Perhaps if Neville was his only hope in a life or death situation, but I think only the more prominent gods would be called upon for my sake. Satisfied with my deduction I become acutely aware that I am being watched. Puzzled, I look around, finally seeing someone in the shadows of the clock tower. This curiosity then turns to something I consider the equivalent of abject terror.

Snape.

He sneers at me and I can feel a few tendrils of fear and hate welling up inside of me. I still haven't quite overcome the idea that he is somehow at fault for Sirius' death. I swore to myself last term to hate him. And I do, but there is that feeling of hate that is directed inward, at myself. For my weakness that he can so readily recognise and mock.

What right has he to judge me? What right does he have to say that I'm my father's son? What right does he have to recognise my weakness and parade it? Every right in the world I suppose. And that only makes me hate him all the more.

"Sir?" He smirks and acknowledges me. Briefly I wonder how long he's been out here, but stubbornly push it aside.

"Potter." He spits it like poison, hating me and hating what I stand for. "What are you doing out here?"

Puzzled at the clear lack of lost points and biting lecture I stumbled about for an answer. "I…needed some time to think." I suppose it's the truth but his glare makes me wonder…

"The summer not long enough? Do you now need to spread your slothful nature here, to the school as well, Potter?"

Stunned at the change of tactics once again I can hear the part of my brain that really should shut up mutter, 'Nope, changed again! Snape isn't human!' Slightly amused at this trail of thought I feed it with thoughts about supposed relations. Dracula, for example. That rumour is still wandering about the Snape is part if not all vampire. I wonder now, if it's true.

"Five points from Gryffindor, Potter, for being out after curfew." I briefly wonder if it's worth it to fight back. I realise that I've been grinding my teeth and stop. Slowly I let my fists unclench and I relent, hating my self and him even more than I had before I came out here.

"Yes, sir." Starting up the stairs I pause just to his right finding it ironic that he is cloaked in shadows and, while not in shadows myself, the moon and star light has rejected me as well. But he is in shadows purposely, hiding, or seeking shelter from…something, though I'm not privy to wonder what. But where he had a choice, I do not. I hate him for that.

Glaring at him now I've decided that I am considerably more melancholy than before and decide to blame that on him as well. Funny how something as simple as shadows can do that to you.

"Get out of my sight." Inside I cringe away from the malice in that tone. Vernon has that same malice, as does Lucius. Though if or when he ever gets out of Azkaban he probably won't have it anymore. Stupid Malfoys. My mood is getting notably darker. I hate Snape. I really do.

"Will that be another ten points?" His dark, velvet voice interrupts my thoughts and I glare at him again for good measure, giving a curt shake of the head and continuing by.

But while I open the door I have the insane urge to do something…irrational. So, throwing whatever caution I have to the wind, I drop my voice and say in my deadliest tones, "Good to see you again, professor. Pleasant dreams."

Closing the door as softly as I can I lean against it for a half a moment before coming to my senses and sprinting up the stairs with all the grace of mountain troll. Managing to make to the fourth staircase before having to sit down and take a breather, I resist the urge to laugh like the maniac I just made myself out to be. Catching my breath and ignoring the stitch I've acquired I make my way back to the portrait and realise I'm without one Gryffindor Entrance Way Password.

But the fat lady is gracious and pardons it, knowing full well who I am. I have the oddest suspicion that the paintings know of one great portrait they all like to visit and discuss everything in. This thought is accompanied by the realisation that probably every portrait is aware of what transpired in Dumbledore's office at the end of last term.

Entering the Common room I can see Ron and Hermione passed out on the closest couch, and I grin at the sight of Hermione's arm intertwined with Ron's. Halfway up the stairs to our dormitory I catch sight of Ginny, curled up like a cat on the stairs leading up to the girl's tower her breathing slow and even.

Shaking my head in silent laughter at the antics of my friends I continue my assent and plop down gratefully on my bed. Kicking off my shoes and pushing them somewhere I'm not exactly conscious of, I lean over and close the curtains, blocking out what moon and star light that has pooled into our room. Taking off my glasses and pushing away a curtain to set them on the dresser my right hand brushed across the indentation that is my cursed scar. I think back to the words I spoke to Snape and smile grimly as I put up a silencing charm around my bed.

Pleasant dreams indeed.