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How does one know the difference between lies and truth? Is it merely truth because it’s been repeated so many times that one has learned to take it as fact, and a lie simply because it deviates from the norm? Or, is truth something that stands even if it’s the minority of one, and the lie a lie no matter how many are blinded by its charm? Silence didn’t know, wasn’t sure, couldn’t tell. Her young mind stressed under the questions, the philosophy of which was far beyond her ability answer. Her head ached, her temples pulsed, her concentration slipped. She came to the conclusion as only a broken child could, the fallacy of it unknown to her, for it was the only thing she knew.

She was living in the lie.

After all, how could this be truth? She was a freak that is what she was, for that was all she ever could be. She had always been a freak, always and how could that fact change now? She didn’t know how to be anything other than a freak, after all. She didn’t know how, and that must be because she was a freak, and a freak she’d always remain.

Why did these people treat her differently? Didn’t they know about the monster she was, the filth that filled her being? She was worthless, useless, a burden, a curse. After all, how could she not be a curse? She’d killed her parents. It didn’t matter how, whether the lie was the car crash or the murder in the night, she’d come into their life and they’d died. They pretended it was all right, pretended she was the same as everyone else. They were the lie. They lied. They knew she was a freak, they pretended differently. It was all a façade, too good to be true, a figment of her imagination. The walls of her world would crash; she would wake up back in her cupboard.

This couldn’t be real.

She’d finally snapped, gone round the bend, went mad. After all, how can one not go mad? A freak was one step away from madness. Insanity was the minority of one; a freak was the one who didn’t fit in. A freak was insane by default, they weren’t the same, didn’t think like they should and so they were mad. She was mad, oh God, she was loosing her mind. This wasn’t real, she wasn’t in reality, she was a freak and so this was the lie. The lie was the happiness, the friends, the fun. Freaks didn’t get friends; they didn’t get to have fun because they were freaks. She needed to stop being mad, she needed to wake up, swim her way to the surface of her consciousness.

Her Aunt and Uncle would be so angry with her. She wasn’t supposed to go mad, she wasn’t supposed to become more of a freak. Wasn’t that why she was locked away? Wasn’t that supposed to stop her freakish nature from getting worse? Why wasn’t it working?! Was a freak always a freak, and therefore destined to become more of a freak? But she didn’t want to be a freak, she was sorry. She was always so sorry, sorry for everything, so sorry, so sorry… She needed to get out of here, wake up, return. She couldn’t live in the lie, it wasn’t true, it was fake. It hurt her more, made her shrivel up, made her want to die. But how to break out of it? How to force the reality to become the truth, not the lie?

But, was the lie the place or the treatment? It couldn’t be the place, she wasn’t that mad, she couldn’t be that mad. She’d been the magical freak in reality, so that couldn’t be the lie. A breath of relief, a gasp of needed air. She was here, it was real, but it was also the lie. Why wasn’t it the truth!? It was mix of lies and truth, it made her brain hurt worse, made her vision go fuzzy. The place was real, but why was it still a lie? She was waiting for it to become truth, waiting with such anticipation she wanted to puke, puke all her insides into her hands. She wanted to scream, scratch her brain out of her temples with bloody fingernails. She wanted to see her blood drench her arms, her clothes, her bed. Why were they lying to her?! Couldn’t they see how it hurt? How the lies hurt? It hurt so much, why couldn’t they treat her for the freak she was? She needed to be; it was the only thing she knew; only thing she understood. She was a freak!

A FREAK! A FREAK! A FREAK!

“Si?”

Silence Potter jumped, bottle-green eyes widening in panic as they swept the room incessantly, searching for the speaker, the cloudiness not yet gone from her wild gaze. When at last she had focused on Hermione, the girl was observing her with a great amount of worry, her brows creased, her quill hovering absently over the History of Magic essay they had been working on. Silence swallowed, allowing her face to slide into it’s guarded mask.

“What?”

“Are you all right?”

No. I’m not all right. How can I be all right when this is all a lie, when I am the freak waiting for the truth? The truth of the fist flying, the explosion of pain, the irate command. I’m a freak, that’s all I know how to be ‘Mione. How can I be anything else when everything I have ever learned has been through the eyes of the freak who loves her cupboard under the stairs?

“Fine.”

“You’re staring at the wall again.”

“Just… spaced out.”

Hermione frowned, deep brown eyes disbelieving. Silence tried to ignore her – as much as she could, considering they were at the same table – and glanced down at her essay. The parchment was slightly crinkled and worn – had she been gripping at it she was drowned in her thoughts? – with a trail of black ink running along the end of her half-finished sentence like pearly black tears. She shook herself, and returned to the parchment, finishing the paragraph in a messy flourish.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Hermione was still watching her, unmoving. As she rolled up her essay, Silence gave a noncommittal shrug, an attempt to brush off her concerns. But it didn’t work, of course it wouldn’t. Silence knew Hermione noticed the odd way she reacted to even the most innocent of gestures. But Hermione didn’t know, she couldn’t know, never find out how truly freakish she was.

“I’m fine, ‘Mione.”

Hermione didn’t drop it. If anything, she grew more anxious. “That’s the second time in an hour you’ve spaced out, Si.” She said in an undertone – her voice reflecting the urgency, not the need for silence as the common room was fairly empty. “Maybe you should talk about it, get it out of your system.”

I can’t ‘Mione. You don’t understand. How can you understand the mind of a freak? We don’t think the same way, we’re not the same, we understand but we don’t comprehend. You can never look at me like I’m the freak. It’s the lie, I’ll live the lie, but you can’t know the truth. If you know the truth, I’ll die.

And suddenly, she needed to get out. She couldn’t allow herself to stay a minute more underneath her penetrating gaze. She’d see too much, guess her secrets, leave her for dead. Her tongue wanted to betray her, her body pleaded for the relief. But she couldn’t do it, she couldn’t let her best friend know what a truly horrible thing she was, couldn’t let her know that she was a bad girl. Mumbling something about needing to use the washroom, Silence fled the room, ignoring the indignant cry behind her.

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Wash this filth from her body; wash the pain from her mind. Silence Potter stood over the sink of the lavatory for nearly half an hour, feverishly scrubbing at her hands and arms with soaked paper-towels. The filth wouldn’t wash, it’d never wash, she was cursed to have the damned spot forever. She stopped abruptly, breathing deeply as her arms bruised from her harsh treatment, as her limbs shook from the combined effort of cleansing her mind and body. Ice-cold water ran from the tap, the sound comforting to her ringing ears, her convoluted mind.

How long would she last? How could she last? She’d disintegrate at this rate. Her nights were sleepless, the world confusing. Why didn’t they just treat her for the freak she was? Everything would be so much easier then. So much easier.

Easier…

She jerked her head under the water, the shock of cold good for her senses. Wake up, she told herself. You are not a freak, you are a person, you are a witch, you are the daughter of Lily and James Potter. You have good friends now, you have friendly peers, you have smart teachers, you have a safe home. So why wasn’t she comforted? Why was this still the lie to her? Why wasn’t this the truth for her? She wanted to cry, but she couldn’t. Bad girls didn’t cry, they had no tears; they were ungrateful and impudent and could withstand the worst. But she wasn’t bad… she didn’t mean to be bad… she never wanted to be bad…

She shut off the tap and looked up into the mirror, at her haunted visage. Deep purplish bags hung under her eyes, accented by the pallid color of her face. Her bottle-green eyes were dull and tired, her lids half closed. Her hair – after its run-in with the water – was matted and dripping, the mop even more unmanageable than before.

No wonder Hermione wondered if she was all right.

With hesitation in every movement, without bothering to even dry her face, she left the bathroom and headed back up the corridor to Gryffindor Tower. She walked slowly, her eyes trained on her feet squeaking on the wooden floor.

“Potter!”

Silence stopped dead, her eyes shooting wide open as a cold voice cracked through air like a whip. No, that couldn’t be— It was after class, why wasn’t he in his room grading his papers or making lesson plans? She’d done all she could to avoid the spectral bat and yet he still seemed to appear wherever she went, drowning her mind in agonizing fear.

“Potter!” The voice repeated. “What are you doing roaming the corridors? And leaving behind a path of water? My, Flitch will be positively furious. Ten points from Gryffindor.”

Silence turned quickly, in time to see the potions master bear down on her like an overgrown bat, his black, pitiless eyes staring down at her with an expression of utter loathing. She blinked; she saw something else in those eyes, watched as an emotion flickered across them as he took in her frail profile. It was something she saw in Uncle Vernon’s cruel gaze all the time, particularly on those beautiful summer days.

Glee.

It was the relish of the abuse, the amusement at her misfortune, the confirmation that she was getting what she deserved. He knew she was a freak, she realized suddenly. He knew the truth, no, he was the truth. He knew this was all a lie, knew she deserved the truth. He knew she could handle the truth, but only part of it. He hadn’t hit her yet, hadn’t harmed her yet. Why only give her a taste of the truth?

“What are you doing?” He asked, his eyes narrowing.

Would he hit her? She looked up at him fearfully, her heart hammering, her breath light but, suddenly, the fear was leaving her. She wanted him to hit her. That would be the truth after all. He knew it and she knew it. Why couldn’t he just do it then? She felt anger seep into her soul, felt red cloud her vision.

Just hit her! She was the freak after all! She was the freak, the freak, the freak, the bloody freak. Wash away her lies, wash away this façade. Bring back the truth. She wanted the truth so badly she wanted to sick up, but she hadn’t eaten anything in nearly two days. Freaks didn’t deserve to eat after all, she had known it subconsciously and so she hadn’t eaten. She’d skipped breakfast, she’d avoided lunch, forgotten dinner. He should just let her bask in the truth, he wanted to – she could see it in those black eyes, in his cruel smirk – so why didn’t he do it? She wanted to scream, wanted to cry, wanted to crawl along the floor. She couldn’t stand this, couldn’t he see the lies were killing her? She only knew the truth, she could only understand the truth.

“What are you doing?” He repeated, his face getting uglier, getting more beautiful. She knew that face well. It was a true face. She liked the way that it was the truth. But he wanted an answer, and nothing wasn’t an option. This man wasn’t Uncle Vernon, he hated nothing, but then… she was doing something, wasn’t she?

“Looking for the truth,” she replied blankly. She wasn’t scared anymore. Not in the same way. She needed the truth, “And, I found it.”

“What are you talking about you insolent girl?” He said. He made to speak again, but something caught his eye behind her and he tutted furiously before sweeping away in a billow of black cloth. Silence blinked, confused.

What?

Silence turned around, her eyes narrowing as they landed on the two boys that stood behind her. The Weasley twins. Lately, they had been showing up every time she ran into Snape in the hallway – something that was very odd, but she’d been grateful. Now, however, she wasn’t thankful, she wasn’t relieved, and she certainly wasn’t happy. Why were they here? Why had they come to take away what little truth she had managed to find amidst the lies? They were lying to her!

Weren’t they?

“Hey, Silence!” That was George. She didn’t know how she knew, but she knew. Maybe it was the crinkle of his eyes, she wasn’t sure. But she always knew. “Where you been? Hermione is getting worried.”

She couldn’t stop herself. At his words she flinched even though they had been relatively gentle and good-natured. She bit her lip, but nodded, not trusting herself to say anything. After all, whatever she said wouldn’t make sense, he wouldn’t understand. He wouldn’t understand how, this one time, she wasn’t glad they had saved her. Emotion slid off her face, melted into blank nothingness, the mask from which behind were screams and taunts.

She couldn’t go back. But she nodded and walked quickly away. After she had gained some distance she looked around, desperation in her eyes. An unused classroom caught her eye and she darted inside, locking the door behind her. In the blackness she slid down the door, her knees buckling beneath her, tears dribbling down her face. She couldn’t hold them back any longer, but no one would see.

She only knew the truth; she could only understand the truth, but she couldn’t comprehend it.