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Silence Ana Potter stood behind the door, watching with wide green eyes, their clear depths flashing with an inappropriate amount of alertness as she surveyed, no, calculated the scene before her, as though she were determining the risks. It was an odd expression on a face so young, as though she were the survivor of some warring country and had not yet adjusted to a life were bombs did not explode on a daily basis.

Behind her, Hermione gave her an impatient push and she flinched, moving quickly forward until she was right up against the wood. Hermione would never know – she told herself firmly – never know that she was bruised and worthless. Never know anything other than she hated to be touched, in any way, shape or form. Never know until she was sure, sure that she was her friend. Her small thin hands clasped around the door-handle, the ancient wood worn by decades of hands, polished by the oil of thousands of palms. She took a deep shuddering breath, drawing in the pieces of courage that she still had, and opened the door. 

There were no windows in the Potions Classroom, not that windows were a possibility in the dungeons. The only lighting came from candles and a shuttered lamp, and while many classrooms were illuminated this way, it seemed that these candles were dimmer than the others, casting only half as much light. The gloom was further deepened by the color of the walls – a nasty, dark monochrome grey, broken only by the indent of a heavy wooden door on ill-fitting hinges, which creaked and rattled with every slight gust of air. The only color in the room was even worse. Above the Potion Master’s paper-strewn desk sat shelves lined with misshapen things – best not to ask – suspending in liquids of various sickly colors. It was best not to look at those for too long, she wasn’t sure whether she would become sick or take an unhealthy interest in what resided there.

It was much colder than in the outside corridor, as though they had gone down another flight of stairs rather than walk a few feet. The air had a certain moistness to it that she had neither expected or anticipated, a humidity caused no doubt by the constant simmering and boiling of various concoctions.  Her eyes traveled across the desks, organized into groups of four and two, placed meticulously so that every head would be angled toward the front of the room and the chalkboard hanging on the wall.

As the other students filed in, Hermione glanced at her – thankfully getting her attention without touching her – and nodded toward a desk in the front row.

“Let’s sit there, Si. Best way to ensure we get everything right.”

Si shook her head, turning pale at the mere thought of sitting within breathing distance of a male teacher. She glanced behind her and said, very firmly, “You can sit there, I’m going to the back.”

“Why?” Hermione shot, perplexed. “I thought you liked your potions book.”

“I do,” Si said quickly, growing increasingly worried that someone would take the seat before she could. “I just like to be able to see everyone.”

Hermione looked confused, but she nodded and followed Si to a group in the back corner of the room. She didn’t look happy that she had to sit so far away, but after Si mentioned that she was probably already months ahead and that sitting in the back would be a test of wits, she brightened considerably.

As the class slowly filled up, she hid behind locks of messy black hair, long and bouncing with the barest hint of a natural curl, her bottle-green irises trained on everyone like a dog backed into a corner. A flicker of candlelight washed over her hair and a glimmer of dark red shone out, a color only revealed by rich yellow light.

Two other girls joined their table, both of whom Si had seen before in her other classes. Lavender Brown, a pretty girl with mousy brown hair and Pavarti Patil, a girl of Indian descent with thick black hair. They were both chatting animatedly about the coming class and, without much persuasion, Hermione joined them.

“Still have a few minutes before it starts,” Lavender was saying breathlessly, though her eyes had a glimmer of worry in them. “I’ve heard the most awful things about him, I hope they’re not all true.”

“They can’t be,” Hermione said in an undertone. “Teacher reputation is always clouded with rumor and superstition. Like Quirrel’s turban, they’re saying it’s to ward off vampires now.”

“Still,” Pavarti put in nervously, “It’s a fact that Professor Snape doesn’t like Gryffindor’s. He’s head of Slytherin house after all, and they don’t like us at all from what I’ve been able to tell.”

Si nodded in agreement, her eyes flickering with even greater urgency to all corners of the room. The professor in question hadn’t made an appearance yet, and while she dreaded the moment when he would come, surely it was better than waiting for him to show up. From her vantage point, she could see another door now, pressed against the far side, to the left of the desk. She blinked, surveying it for a moment before returning to her sweeping. No doubt that was his office, and no doubt he was in there. She kept a watch on it from the corner of her eye.

“I’ve never been good at cooking, you don’t think that means I’m doomed from the start, do you?” Pavarti asked them, now twisting her hands. Si looked at her.

“Only if you burned toast into charcoal.”

The other three girls stopped and looked at her. It had become something of a reputation that Silence Potter was Silent. Of course, Hermione knew that wasn’t true – she could be quite loquacious when she wanted to – but in the company of others she had taken to listening, rather than talking. Hermione laughed, and Pavarti looked slightly happier.

Before her, Neville was mumbling something that sounded oddly like potions notes under his breath. He seemed more nervous in this class than the others, as though he too had heard every rumor – and thought it was fact. Ron was at a table with two other boys, Dean and Seamus. The classroom door banged open again and she jumped at the sound, her heart doing funny little back flips. In strode Draco Malfoy, flanked by his cronies, Crabbe and Goyle. Beside him was a pretty girl, with dark hair and eyes that glimmered with a sardonic leer. Malfoy’s grey gaze swept across the room, and then met hers. She tried not to flinch, but it was hard work. She bit her lip, and stared determinedly back, desperate not to show any more weakness than she already had. He smirked and sat down at a group near the center, his seat perfect for looking over at her, she noticed with great distaste.

Hermione scowled. She opened her mouth to say something – no doubt about Malfoy and his posse – when there was a creak and the class fell instantly silent as Professor Snape strode out of his office.

It was the first time she’d seen him since the opening feast, and there were several details she had been unable to make out from her seat at the Gryffindor Table.  He was a tall man, and thin, though not abnormally so. Somehow, she had imagined him as hunched, but that was not the case. He was straight-backed, which only increased in making her feel dwarfed and child-like. His skin was pallid, a stark contrast to the black of his robes and gloom of the room – though, oddly it suited him. His nose was hooked, and she noticed with a glimmer of disgust that his hair appeared oily.

He swept across the room amazing speed, long billowing robes leaving a trail behind him like ink across parchment. It was with a strange, almost graceful speed that he moved, making her fascinated and terrified at the same time. His movements shouted predator to her, like a prowling feline, vicious and swift. She swallowed, and exchanged glanced with Hermione as he began to read the register.

Professor Flitwick had done this too. She’d been fairly anxious, until he’d finally reached her name. He’d paused, looked up and then toppled off his stack of books with an excited squeak. It’d actually made her smile, and marked him off her watch list. The man was hardly three-feet, after all.

Professor Snape did not squeak, nor did he make any sort of obvious sign of amazement. His thin lips curled into a sneer, muttered some nonsense about her being a celebrity and allowed his Slytherins to snigger at the comment. Her palms felt sweaty. This was not a good start. She’d gotten the impression that he disliked her, that opening feast, and it was beginning to look like her instincts had been right. Suddenly, she wished she was still waiting for him to enter the classroom.

“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion making,” he began in a cold whisper. It made her blood freeze, and she dared not miss a single word.

“As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don’t expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death – if you aren’t as big a bunch of dunderhead as I usually have to teach.”

It was so quiet that Si wouldn’t have been surprised if everyone could hear her heartbeat. It was pulsing painfully in her chest, as though already running as far from this place as was physically possible. And then, those black eyes were all she could see. They were cold, and cavernous as though soul behind them had found a way to hide. And, they were narrowed in pure loathing, an expression she was not likely to ever forget.

Her breathing became unbearably shallow.

“Potter!” he shot suddenly and even though she had been looking right at him, she jumped. Malfoy’s smirk broadened in the corner of her eye. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

She blinked. How could she answer when her mind was full of nothing except of getting as far away as she could from him and his tunnel-like eyes? She knew the answer, it was lurking somewhere at the back of her head. She’d read her potions text-book thoroughly, but the panic was clouding her senses, making it difficult to think. He was so much like him, his hate filled gaze only further proving that fact. Beside her, Hermione’s hand had shot – as it habitually did – into the air. But he’d already asked her to answer it…

She was very aware that it’d been at least a minute now since he’d asked the question. Very aware that everyone had turned in their seats to look at her. She felt her face growing hotter, a lump of panic welling in her throat. She couldn’t think, it was… a Draught of some kind, a sleeping draft, but what was it called?

“Did you hear me, Potter?” Snape spat she and she pushed back against her seat as though hoping to merge with it via osmosis. “I asked you a question.” His lips were curling into a livid expression. The Slytherins were now chuckling more loudly. Her head was starting to hurt from the combined effort of watching Snape, the class, and trying to figure out the answer. She opened her mouth, to say something but her voice box wasn’t working.

“I said—”

“Sir?”

Professor Snape whipped around to Draco Malfoy, his eyes blazing. It was obvious he did not appreciate being interrupted, but as it was a Slytherin he seemed to let it go. “What,” he said icily, “is so important that you needed to interrupt me, Mr. Malfoy?”

Malfoy smirked and glanced back at Si. She felt her hands clench beneath the table of their own accord.

“It’s just, sir,” he began smoothly. “Potter lives up to her first name rather well.” He looked back at her, and she wanted, for one brief moment, to die right there. “Don’t you, Silence?”

How did Malfoy know that anyway? Word of mouth? This was their first class together, and he was being just as arrogant as he had been that first day she’d met him. Si would have glared at him if the Professor wasn’t glaring at her so vehemently. He was smirking nastily at her now, as though something he had been suspecting had been confirmed.

“Well, unlike every other teacher at this school, I will not pamper the great Child-Who-Lived. I want you to answer me.”

The anger that had boiled at the mention of being a child quickly diminished. How was she supposed to answer him? Why did he have to pick on her? But, she already knew the answer to that – she was a freak and deserved to be singled out. He had started walking toward their table, and the predator flashed through her mind again. He was coming like a bat, a large over sized bat, like a vampire…

“Draught of living death!” she squeaked, her voice so choked that part of the sentence was incoherent. Professor Snape stopped, a table-length away. She could see every line in his weary face and noted with faint surprise that he was younger than she had previously suspected – his early thirties perhaps. From the look in his eyes, he hadn’t heard what she’d said.

“Care,” he said in a deadly whisper that non-the-less carried across the now silent room, “to repeat that, Miss Potter?”

Si took a deep breath, trying to think in spite of the fact he was too close for comfort. “The,” she said in a small, yet clear voice, like water dripping on glass. “Draught of living death, sir.”

For one wild moment, she thought she had got it wrong. He was staring at her with a mixture of emotions that she couldn’t distinguish from the blinding amount of hate that was emanating from him. From behind him, Malfoy laughed.

“It speaks!” he said loudly to his fellow Slytherins and they chuckled.

“Thank you, Mr. Malfoy,” Snape said turning around and striding back to the front of the room. Si released a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. From beside her, Hermione put her hand down at last, looking rather dejected that she couldn’t answer the question.

“In the future,” Snape began, and her eyes snapped once more to his. “I want you to answer questions immediately. Regardless of what anyone else has told you, Potter, you are a student that deserves no… ah, special treatment.”

Si nodded without meaning to, an instinctual reaction to an order. His black eyes narrowed again, and she knew instantly what he wanted. It was the same look in her Uncle’s eyes when he wanted a verbal answer.

“Yes, sir,” she choked out. She knew she hadn’t said it near loud enough, but the Professor didn’t ask for a repeat this time. Instead, he turned and began writing the instructions for the potion they were going to be working on.

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Professor Snape did not like children.

He wasn’t particularly sure, therefore, why he had decided to pursue a career in teaching – aside from the fact that said career was merely a cover for more serious matters. Even so, working in school had not been on his Hogwarts and Beyond Plan. Life had a funny – more like a sadistic – way of turning out for the worse, especially in his case. Indeed, he had never run across someone who could firmly say, “my lot in life out ways yours,” and therefore he had become the man who took his misfortune out on the descendents of his tormentors.

As he strode among the desks, snapping insults at the Gryffindors and praising the Slytherins, he allowed his gaze to flicker toward the back corner where the child of the man he hated most of all sat, working on her potion. She was small, uncommonly so. She looked underweight as well, her young face thinner as was usual for an eleven-year old girl, but it was difficult to determine due to the looseness of her robes. But, the family resemblance was unmistakable, with her mop of messy black hair and clear green eyes.

Silence was an odd name. He had always thought it odd, but he had always known that Lily would name her daughter that. She had told him, one afternoon while lounging on sun-baked grass. She had liked the sound of the word, the way it rolled off her tongue like a caress. It wasn’t how he said it, harsh and sharp, but hushed and soft, with the tenderness of a half-spoken whisper. And, Malfoy had been very right, it seemed to suit the girl’s nature perfectly. In fact, it was discomforting how quiet she was, looking like daddy’s little girl. He had expected without an inch of doubt that she would behave just like him as well, spoiled rotten at the hands of her relatives. Haughty, arrogant, and insolent, but he struggled now to apply those words to her. He could, crafty as he was, reason that her silence was merely an act of attention, a way to get people to pity her and treat her differently. Or, it could be the result of an aloof personality that thought itself better than everyone else. Yes, that’s what he thought must be it. She was just like her father and no amount of argument was going to persuade him differently. There was just no way, no way that she could have his genes and not be the pig-headed fool that he was.

She did seem genuinely frightened of him, though. He had taught long enough to know when a student feared him – not to mention, that as a skilled legilimens he could read the emotion on a persons face as easily as reading a children’s book. Her eyes had been wide, fearful, her thin shoulders hunched as though bracing against his words, and she’d sat as far back as had been physically possible. Yes, she feared him, and he knew – regardless of how wrong it was – that he would take that fact to his advantage.

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“Are you alright?”

Si glanced up to meet Hermione’s concerned stare, her brows knitted into a worrisome expression. Hermione was one of those people that picked up on things quickly, she noticed. She might not voice it aloud, but her face said otherwise. She knew when she had crossed a boundary with Si, when Si was uncomfortable with something. It was disconcerting how much she saw, in fact. She would, no doubt, figure out all her secrets eventually, whether by deduction or broaching the topic.

“He hates me,” she replied flatly, the lack of emotion in her words strange to hear.

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, actually, I do.”

Hermione frowned but didn’t press it. She seemed to realize this was an argument she would never win – and rightly so, as such an accomplishment would be tainted by the fact that she was wrong. Si bent back over her mortar and pestle, resuming the crushing of her snake fangs. Once it had been reduced to a fine powder, she tipped it slowly into the cauldron watching fascinated as the potion frothed and bubbled, turning a light cotton-candy pink. She paused, consulting her directions again before tipping a tad more, turning the color a lighter more pleasant variation.

She smiled, the upturning of corners of her mouth barely noticeable, and yet present all the same. She looked up – a habit of performing surveillance checks on the classroom – and watched as Neville dumped porcupine quills into his potion. She blanched, emerald eyes widening in horror.

“Neville!” she squeaked, but too late. An acrid green smoke erupted from his cauldron followed instantly by a putrid smell likened somewhat to burning rubber. Neville Longbottom yelled and leapt back as his the potion drenched his desk, the viscous liquid splashing upon his person. Within seconds Snape had swooped in on the mess, a berate of poorly followed directions on his breath. He banished the mess with a flick of his wand and sent the poor boy off to the hospital wing.

“Potter!”

Si jumped, hitting her knee painfully on the underside of her desk. “Y-yes, sir?”

“Next time you see a classmate foolishly put materials into their cauldron, I’d suggest you do something more useful than squeak like a mouse. Five points from Gryffindor for your failure to prevent this catastrophe.”

She blinked; dark lashes hinting at a beauty buried somewhere deep, suppressed by meals and esteem. Five points?! She frowned, a similar expression of frustration coloring the faces of the rest of her house. Ron looked positively livid but managed to hold his tongue, his ears red as his hair. Malfoy laughed and her eyes snapped to him, the anger not yet gone from their depths.

It was a relief when the bell rang, ten minutes later. Hermione took her’s and – upon her pleading request – Si’s sample to the desk, ignoring the sniggering of the Slytherin students. She couldn’t get out of the class fast enough.

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"She's upstairs, Professor." 

Hermione Jean Granger glanced up at the Professor’s unwavering gaze, noting with interest how McGonagall’s lips appeared less thin than usual – almost as if she were on the verge of smiling. It was a strange thing to behold, especially when her roommate – and slowly becoming friend – had been caught diving straight for the ground on a worn school broom.

“Could you please get her for me?” Professor McGonagall continued, glancing up toward the girl’s dormitory. No doubt this was some attempt to allow the girls’ privacy of their quarters – or she was terrified of the disastrous mess she’d find. Whatever the reason, Hermione nodded and shut her Standard Book of Spells, Grade One with a snap and quickly darted up the staircase.

Her brown eyes dimmed as the memory of the day’s events swam before her gaze. Malfoy had been growing ever more annoying since the first potions class of the year. No matter what Si protested, her anxious attitude had not gone unnoticed by their classmates. She – according to Hermione’s personal diagnosis – suffered from social anxiety. She was shy, and awkward, and became horribly embarrassed by the smallest amount of attention. It wasn’t a bad trait to have; in fact, some might argue that it was a good behavior for a famous person to display humility. But it was a trait easily exploited and manipulated, something that Draco Malfoy had been quick to take advantage of.

Parkinson’s sneering face, glittering dark eyes
A rush of wind, Malfoy hovering twenty feet above, a shimmer of glass in his fist 
A call, a jeer, a shove in the right direction
One voice too small, “Give that back—”
“Ooh! Sticking up for Longbottom, Potter?”
A half-hearted mumble. “—shouldn’t pick on people.”
Loud, abrasive drawl. “Why don’t you come get it?”
A shake of the head, a horrified squeak
“Before I smash it on the castle wall.”
As one, Crabbe and Goyle converged, Zabini blocking the way out
Parkinson sniggered at the wide emerald eyes
A gasp, a rescue out of reach
She took to the air, in colored despair

Hermione frowned, disapproval etched within the lines of her brow. If anyone ought to have gotten in trouble, it should have been the Slytherins. That much was obvious – at least to anyone who could rub two brain cells together. Si hadn’t yet told her about her conversation with Professor McGonagall after the incident, she’d shaken her head and refused to comment. She’d seemed cheerful though, chatting animatedly about their lessons – despite the obvious avoidance of the flying incident. After a polite knock, Hermione pushed open the door and looked around. Fay Dunbar was sitting on her bed reading a book about Quidditch. She was a tall girl, with shoulder-length brown hair and bright blue eyes. She glanced up as Hermione entered, gave a small smile, and then returned to her book obviously not keen on making conversation. Hermione didn’t mind, she knew what it was like to get sucked into a good book and passed by her four-poster with a nod.

Si had the four-poster next to her, the rich red-tinted wood glowed maroon and gold in the afternoon sun pouring through the window. The bed that everyone wanted, but upon seeing Si’s clear preference of it, didn’t argue the matter. The corners of Hermione’s lip turned up as a smile graced her features. She’d honestly been jealous – moonlight was good for late-night reading – but upon actually getting introduced to Si, she didn’t have the heart to ask to switch beds. 

 She stepped over one of Lavender’s robes, thrown haphazardly on the floor, and stepped around the curtains of the four-poster to find Si sitting on her bed, the front curtain pulled back. She looked deep in thought, though her eyes were unfocused as they stared unseeingly at the roughly cut stone wall next to the window. It was rather discomforting, to tell the truth.

“Um… Si?”

As though her words had electrocuted her, Si jumped, jerking sharply toward her. She blinked, her glassy gaze still caught up in the confines of some obscure thought for another minute before recognition cleared the fog.

“Oh,” she mumbled, running a distracted hand through her hair and looking embarrassed. “Sorry… spaced out.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “I noticed.” She swallowed. It wasn’t the first time she’d intruded upon one of these spaces and she knew it was no good to ask what had been on her mind.

“So?” Si prompted and Hermione remembered why she was there in the first place.

“Professor McGonagall’s here to see you. She’s down in the common room.”

Si got quickly to her feet and straightened her robes. “Oh, right.” She looked flustered, but excited, as though she were about to open a letter of acceptance to some university. Hermione blinked.

“You’re not in trouble, are you?”

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Professor Minerva McGonagall did not condone rule breaking, even the smallest infraction, and had therefore managed to establish a strict reputation of nearly the same caliber of the one Severus maintained. That wasn’t to say that she wouldn’t seize an opportunity when one presented itself before her – all packaged in brilliant wrappings with a bow on top – even if it required the bending of some arbitrary rule. Not that barring first years from trying out for the Quidditch team was arbitrary. Most of those children had never flown a broomstick before, and the other half were handicapped by their immaturity. In her opinion, even second years fell under the latter, but it wasn’t her decision to make. In any case, Miss Potter had displayed not only an aptitude for the sport, but a maturity that deemed her responsible enough for the position.

Not to say that she was pleased when she saw the young Potter flying in the air. The girl had been breaking school rules – namely disobeying instructions – but for once Minerva wasn’t terribly irate. In fact, the plans to get the girl onto the Quidditch team had formulated in her mind as soon as she’d seen her land. Twisting Dumbledore’s arm – no easy task – had miraculously succeeded, which arose the suspicion that he was playing favorites or at the very least attempting to shower Miss Potter with exceptions, but no matter.

She had her seeker.

 “Professor McGonagall?”

Minerva turned, raising an eyebrow. The Weasley twins stood before her, and for once their identical faces appeared apprehensive. It took her a moment to realize why this was the case, and adorn what she hoped was a reassuring expression.

“Stop looking so nervous, Weasley,” she snapped, though her tone was a great deal less severe than usual. “I’ve not come to deliver bad news, nor have I come to be subjected to such baleful expressions.” Her eyes twinkled and she added, rather lightly, “You’ll make me think there’s a reason for your guilty faces.”

“Whoa, did Slytherin just lose fifty points, or something?” At the last moment, he added – with a rather smug expression – “Ma’am?”

That had to be Fred. Minerva had never been particularly good at telling the twins apart – and they only seemed to make that job more difficult – but every now and then they gave themselves away. Fred, she had noted over these last three years, was a great deal more offending. His brother George had a gentle side that only revealed itself when his foolish brother invented a prank that could – and more than likely, would – hurt someone, whether mentally or physically, and put his foot down.

Not that he cared when such a prank involved the Slytherins, mind. She resisted the urge to sigh and rub her temples. Somehow, she wondered how those infernal twins weren’t in Slytherin.

“Not that I’m aware of,” she replied in a tone that clearly suggested that she hoped such thing had happened.

“Can you tell us then why you seem in an obscenely good mood?” His brother inquired. He paused, then looking excited, “Did Snape decide to quit?”

“Professor Snape,” Minerva corrected automatically. “And no.” She paused then, lowering her voice, added, “Do make sure not to let my asset go to waste, Slytherin has beaten Gryffindor enough times on the pitch.”

George – she assumed, anyway – blinked, hazel eyes blank with surprise before they crinkled. He glanced once at his brother, then in a conspiratorial whisper, “Wood mentioned something about getting a Seeker.”

“Said he’d found one to rival Charlie,” Fred added, his grin broadening.

Minerva surveyed them for a moment before giving the smallest of nods. For a moment, it looked as though the twins were about to hug her, but a small voice interrupted them.

“Uh… Professor? You wanted to see me?”

Miss Silence Potter stood several feet away, shifting her weight from foot to foot. She looked as if she wanted to come closer, but didn’t dare to. As one, the twins turned to look at her and she recoiled slightly, her shoulders hunching. Minerva frowned, noting with grimness the behavior. Silence had displayed a similar aversion to attention in her class and while she understood the shy personality wishing to remain invisible, it wasn’t healthy. She made a note to speak to Poppy about it, see if they couldn’t work together to help Silence socialize a bit more. Fred – or George, she’d forgotten which was which – jerked back toward her, his eyes wide.

“She—”

“I have no doubt that Wood will tell you everything as soon as he gets here.” She motioned for Silence to follow her. “Or, you can just wait for Potter to return, we won’t be long.” Minerva turned for the portrait hole, pushed it open and glanced back at Silence. The girl cast the twins a frightened look before darting toward her and out the common room. Minerva followed, and then with a small nod led Silence toward her office. 

The walk was silent, much as it had been right after the flying incident. Silence made no move to speak – though she did wring her hands several times as though attempting to channel her nervous energy. And, once again, she was struck by how different she and her parents were. James, ever the troublemaker, had accompanied her many times and it was always with a frenzy of questions and charming comments. Lily on the other hand preferred to make unoffending small talk. But Silence, well… she was silent, wasn’t she? Minerva was tempted ask her about her day, but decided against it. She didn’t want to push Silence out of her comfort zone before having a good talk with Poppy.

Several minutes later, Minerva pushed open the door to her study, her sharp gaze sweeping the room as she crossed to her desk, a beautiful oak one that had been given to her by her late father when she’d gotten the position. Roughly cut stone walls had been covered in aged charts depicting the transformation of humans into animals, and posters filled with ancient texts and formulas for the proper wand movements concerning the transformation different materials. Lined around the classroom cages of all shapes and sizes held a mixture of local and exotic creatures, the occasional squawk emitting from a brightly colored bird in a silver mesh cage. Rows of empty desks lined in perfect rows angled forward, a far bit of space between each. In her educated opinion, transfiguration needed the individual’s utmost attention and any aid – or distraction – from neighbors were unhelpful.

“I assume, Miss Potter that you know why you’re here?” She prompted, pulling open one of the drawers and withdrawing a slip of paper. Silence flushed and began to wring her hands again.

“Yes, ma’am,” she mumbled, her bottle-green eyes wide as she observed her every movement.

Minerva frowned. “For goodness sakes child, stop looking so worried!” The corners of her lips turned up, a smile dancing just out of sight. “All I need you to do is sign this code of sportsmanship – pledging that you swear to stay out of severe trouble and understanding that if you do… ah… engage in inappropriate behaviors suspension and possible termination from the team will ensue.”

Silence’s mouth dropped open.

“Welcome to the Gryffindor Quidditch team, Miss Potter.”

-

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“No way…”

“It can’t be.”

“But she’s—”

“It’s—”

George Weasley didn’t even smile at the fact they had said the last bit at the same time – which when unrehearsed required some sort of congratulations on their like-mindedness. Not this time though, this time he was in a state of flabbergasted surprise, one that his twin no doubt shared. Somehow, in his thirteen-year old brain, he couldn’t fathom the small frail girl surviving on the Quidditch Pitch. Sure, she was the perfect build – light, small, and fast – but she looked as though one good gust of wind would throw her out of the air! But for McGonagall to… bend rules, well, she had to have some raw talent for the sport.

“Georgie, what do you reckon?”

George turned, a brow rising at the pet-name his brother had given him. Well, at least it was better than Geo or Gie-Gie. He resisted a shudder at the memory of the last one – a shudder that threatened uncontrollable laughter, mind.

“I dunno, Freddy.” He grinned, before returning to a more serious tone. “She’s got to be good, McGonagall was glowing!”

Fred frowned. “Yeah, but,” he lowered his voice. “She was white as a ghost when we looked at her. How is she going to survive when it’s the entire Slytherin team bearing down on her?”

 George shrugged. “Maybe we’re just that scary.”

Fred snorted, but was prevented from replying when Hermione Granger stepped before them, her brown eyes glinting. What had Ron said about her? He wracked his brain, but came up with nothing other than “really smart.”

“You two know why Professor McGonagall wanted to see Si?” she asked. She had a bossy sort of voice, one that demanded an answer. For a moment, George considered not answering, but decided he was too excited – and puzzled – to tease first years at the moment. Fred on the other hand, didn’t seem to share this sentiment.

“Maybe,” he grinned. “Do you want to know?”

Hermione frowned. “Is she in trouble?”

“No – heavens, no.” Fred glanced at George, who understood in an instant. Without a word he nodded and turned for the portrait hole while Fred said, “We just need to make sure,” behind him.

Once it had closed behind him and he had ascertained that he was alone, George withdrew a wad of yellowing parchment from his pocket. There was the possibility – however unlikely – that Silence had nothing to do with the new seeker for Gryffindor. Her appearance might have merely been a coincidence, a clever attempt for McGonagall to throw them off the scent of the real new seeker. George wasn’t buying it of course, but it didn’t hurt to double-check before they started to spread rumors. Strangely enough, he and Fred disliked rumors as a method of pranking. It was a tacky, underhanded technique. And, contrary to popular belief, they did not start the rumor about Quirrell’s turban. They did however, for a few days, enchant garlic cloves to follow him around and poke said turban.

With a smile that would make Loki proud, George Weasley tapped his wand against the parchment, a murmur of, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” on his breath. Ink erupted from the point that his wand had touched and spider webbed across the entirety of the paper, the closest thing to blueprints of the Hogwarts Castle erupting before his eyes. His hazel eyes searched the designs with an air of familiarity, zeroing in on the sixth floor. Two pairs of inky feet were hovering inside the room labeled Transfiguration, the names Silence Potter and Minerva McGonagall written on elegant ribbons above them. Knowing that Fred was keeping the Granger girl busy, George set off at a brisk walk, glancing at the map every now and then. And then he froze, another pair of black inky feet and ribbon catching his eye.

Severus Snape.

“Mischief Managed,” he whispered and he set off, nearly at a run. The news that Silence was terrified of Snape had spread throughout the school like wildfire, no doubt perpetuated by gleeful Slytherins. The memory of breakfast filled his mind and he frowned, his fists clenching instinctively as Draco Malfoy’s pale pointed face swam into vision.

A laugh, a sneer, a mocking cry
A cringe, small shoulders hunching in
Cruel grey eyes, clouds churning above
A yell, a shout
“Potter’s a Scardy Cat!”
A jump, a bang of knee on wood
“Scared of an overgrown bat!”
Shimmering gaze, thunder sounding above
They chant, they chant
Malicious black eyes, drilling holes in her head
A choked cry, as rain fell from the sky

George turned a corner and spotted his goal barely three broomsticks away. The sight before him, while something he had expected to see, stopped him in his tracks as white hot anger clouded his vision in red. Professor McGonagall had taken a protective stance in front of a cowering girl with a mess of black hair. Even from this distance he could see the thinness of her lips, the disapproval written on her brow. She was rebuking the bat with a clipped tone, defiant of her colleague’s malevolent gaze.

“Severus, we will not have this discussion out in the corridor.”

McGonagall was livid with fury, her face a pasty white. “How dare you—”

But George wasn’t listening anymore, he was watching Silence. The girl’s eyes were larger than dinner plates as they rested upon the hook-nosed man, and he realized that she was shaking. Straightening up, he charged forward and put a hand on her shoulder. She jumped horribly and whipped around to look at him, color rapidly draining from her face. George grimaced and jerked his head toward McGonagall who was looking at him with intense gratitude.

“I’ll take her back up to Gryffindor Tower, shall I?” he said, his tone far colder than usual.

McGonagall nodded and stalked away, dragging a furious – yet oddly satisfied – Snape with her back to her office. George turned as well, steering Silence back up the corridor, trying to ignore the way she was cringing at his touch. After a several paces, he dropped his hand, allowing her to walk by his side unhindered.

He knew he was impulsive, but never had he done it with such a serious mindset! Usually it was the odd prank idea – blowing up a Hogwarts toilet for instance. He frowned, realizing that he was going to have to tread carefully around the potions master for the next few days – as he would be no doubt on the warpath. But he didn’t regret his decision; the poor girl was still shaking for Merlin’s Sake!

“Are you alright?” he asked, glancing sideways at her.

She blinked, and very slowly nodded. She looked somewhat taken aback.

“Snape a filthy git. Don’t take his words seriously, he hates anyone who’s not a Slytherin.” George paused. “So, you are the new Seeker, aren’t you?”

She nodded again, some of the color returning to her cheeks.

“Sweet!” George grinned. “Fred and I are on the team too, Beaters.”

She looked confused again and slightly worried.

“We make sure no one hits you.”

Relief.

He noted that the shaking had stopped, though she still wrung too white hands together with a sort of nervous anxiety. Eyes still a tad too wide never left his face and he had the strange impulse to ask her to blink – at least once! He turned away, chewing on his tongue. There were so many jokes he could make right now, but at her obvious discomfort he didn’t want to risk sending her into a panicked streak across the hall. Luckily, he didn’t have to keep his jester nature under lock and key much longer, as the portrait of the fat lady came into view before him. He paused – feeling ever more awkward by the quiet that had fallen between them – gave the password and with a stroke of chivalry, opened the portrait and held it open for her. Silence regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, her expression still highly suspicious, and then slipped by him, a whispered “Thank you,” hovering in the air behind her.

-

-

-

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.

-

-

-

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.

It is a generally accepted fact that people avoid what they are afraid of. The frightened shopper hurries to her car in an effort to escape, the arachnophobic leaps away from the eight-legged crawlies, the child withdraws into their shell. Severus Snape had correctly deduced that Silence Potter was afraid of him. He had taken advantage of that fact for several weeks, watching with poorly concealed amusement as she paled and stuttered, running jerkily away. He knew it had been wrong, cruel even. Revenge for something that, quite honestly, had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with her father and his own mistakes. But now, Silence Potter wasn't behaving, ignoring generally accepted facts, acting strange.

She had started seeking him out.

It had been quite a shock to find Potter curled up on the floor of his private storage. Especially since Minerva had dropped by seconds earlier to ask if he'd seen the girl in question since their encounter in the hallway the previous day. Apparently, she hadn't returned to the common room and the Granger girl was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Something about being the reason she ran off in the first place. He'd actually pulled a double take, then stared. All he had done was stare.

Silence Potter had looked a mess, a haphazard heap of indecisiveness. She'd looked up at him with those bottle-green eyes, blinking owlishly in the morning light. Her hair – unmanageable on a good day – was an absolute disaster, matted and tangled. But, the bags beneath her eyes had gone. She looked rested for once, content. That in itself was strange – and not to mention worrisome. He hadn't been able to say anything for several minutes, too surprised to think clearly. In the end, he'd sent her scurrying to the Gryffindor common room with a torrent of threats that he'd never actually go through with.

Severus groaned and leaned back in his chair, bringing pale long fingered hands to the bridge of his nose. That had been nearly a week ago. Since then, he'd found her in his storage a further three times, and sitting on the bottom stairs twenty-seven times. She'd taken to reading there. Lurking in abandoned hallways, lingering in his classroom after lesson's end, and – perhaps the most peculiar of them all – following him in the hallway.

It was as though she was asking him to yell at her.

Something at the back of his mind tried to make itself heard. It'd been doing that a lot recently. It kept bringing up his childhood, as well as a list of children the school had flagged over the last sixteen years. He could never quite make sense of it though, only the instinctual inkling that something was amiss in the Potter case – something that he'd immediately disregard. There was no possible way that Potter fell under the same criteria.

He knew she was spoiled, and ungrateful, too proud to associate herself with lesser beings.

But all the same, his gut churned uncomfortably. Well, maybe it was worth looking into. Or, at least, getting the girl some quality time with Madam Pomfry. She was acting out because of separation anxiety from her home, yes, that was it. She was having a difficult time adjusting to Hogwarts.

He sighed, and stood, crossing to the fireplace in a few swift steps. With a practiced hand, he threw powder into the flames.

"Poppy, I want a word."

Silence.

Not the girl, but the phenomena wherein there was a lack of sound. Not surprisingly, the girl was actually contributing to that phenomenon, leaving Madam Pomfry to fret about what it all meant. She resisted the urge to click her tongue disapprovingly as she observed the first-year. She was far too thin, bony even. The girl was going to have some serious medical problems if she didn't fatten up, especially if she remained this way a few years down the line.

An eating disorder? Very possible, likely even. Unfortunate, but manageable. Beside her, Minerva readjusted her pointed hat. The Deputy Headmistress had informed her several days ago that she needed to take a look at the Potter girl, but it was Snape's message that finally made the meeting happen. Of course, his involvement was to be kept confidential. For understandable reasons.

They weren't making any progress though. Since Silence had entered the infirmary ten minutes ago not a word has passed her lips. Poppy didn't like it, not a bit. At the best, it meant they were dealing with some type of social anxiety disorder, at the worst an abusive household. Either scenario didn't suit well with her. After a moment, she decided to ask a different question – since "Do you like your classes," wasn't getting any response.

"Are you getting along with your classmates?"

The girl twitched slightly.

Was than an affirmative or a denial? True, he who was silent is understood to consent, but this wasn't a court case. Maybe she shouldn't ask her yes or no questions. Poppy glanced again toward Minerva, noticing how the deputy headmistress seemed to grow more severe with each passing moment. No doubt she was jumping to hasty conclusions and swearing vengeance on the muggles.

"Do you miss your home?"

"No."

The answer was so abrupt, especially when she hadn't been expecting it that Poppy actually had to backtrack for a moment. She felt the temperature in her hands drop a little, but worked to keep her face perfectly placid. The abusive household was starting to look ever more likely and she wasn't happy with that. No, she was feeling sick and disgusted, a jittery panic within her. This was Potter, the Girl Who Lived. She couldn't come from a household like that.

"Really?" She did her best to sound casual. Stop herself from jumping to conclusions – Minerva was starting to look murderous. She nudged the witch in an effort to snap her out of it – it would only cause Silence to close down again. "Any particular reason dearie?"

Silence shrugged.

She was starting to close down again; Poppy could feel it. "What's different at home?"

"It's smaller."

Even her voice seemed tiny now. But there were no danger answers just yet. Of course it was smaller, she lived in a two-story muggle house. Hogwarts was a castle with grounds. The girl was fidgeting with her fingers, tugging on the end of her nails like a nervous habit. She glanced around the room, and Poppy was struck by the idea that she might be looking for a clock.

"Well, if you ever feel like you're having trouble fitting in or need someone to talk to, come back. Okay?"

The girl nodded and leapt to her feet as though she'd been electrocuted, eagerly dashing from the room as though worried that they'd change their minds. Poppy sighed and rubbed her temples, similarly getting to her feet. First Longbottom getting locked out of the Gryffindor Common room for the night and now this. Counseling had never been her strong suit. Physical aliments, she could whip up a cure to anything, but mental afflictions she was at a horrible loss.

"Poppy?"

She looked up. Minerva had gotten to her feet and was pacing the length of two empty beds. She sighed, getting to her feet as well. "Don't be hasty, Minerva."

"She could barely look you in the eye," the transfiguration teacher exclaimed, sounding anxious. "If those muggles—"

"I'll have Dumbledore do an investigation, but with her being at school and away from them it'll be very difficult to ascertain anything." She sighed heavily, walking as if on autopilot toward her office. "Severus is really the only one who should be able to tell for sure. And if Miss Potter is hanging around him as often as he claims, he may be able to determine it."

If anything that only riled Minerva more. "He is blinded by his prejudice and hate for her father, there is no way he'll ever believe that she isn't the pampered girl he assumes her to be."

"If she hangs around him long enough, perhaps he will see that she is not."

Are dreams a place of solace or of fear? They depict the world in twisted and warped ways, suspend logic and reason, and delve into the deepest recesses of the mind. But, sometimes this skew of reality is comforting, is pleasant to experience and behold. A frolic across summer grass, a joyous occasion, a wistful fantasy. Silence wouldn't know, she'd never know. She's been betrayed by sleep. She tried to escape the labyrinth of her tumultuous thoughts, but always seemed to fail. Her dreams, her terrors haunted her at every unconscious moment, the covers pulled over her thin body with white knuckles. She didn't want to dream, didn't want to remember, didn't want to see the slam of images that attacked as soon as her lids closed.

She didn't want to wake up screaming.

"Si, I'm going to kill the light now, alright?"

"Kay."

She felt rather that saw Hermione's frown. "You should get to sleep too. You haven't been sleeping well these last nights. You won't be able to concentrate in class."

"Kay."

There's a reason why I'm not sleeping… Silence turned over on her side, her gaze naturally seeking the crook of the stone and the wooden floor, the juxtaposition of material strangely interesting to her. She could see the grains of dust missed by cleaning, the texture of the rough stone and aged wood. It drew her toward it, allowed her mind to wander unhindered.

She couldn't sleep. She wouldn't sleep. The dreams, before suppressed with a nicked bottle of dreamless sleep, had returned brutal force – drowning her mind in adrenaline, soaking her sheets with sweat. She wanted to go to the infirmary and get another, but she couldn't. It was too risky, too suspicious. And she couldn't ask, too many questions, too uncomfortable.

They had been getting worse, anxiety chilling her senseless. She felt the fear before she even passed out, tried to tell herself that she was safe without any success. She missed her cupboard. She wanted the safety that came with the small place, the walls hard and sturdy. Her curtains were flimsy, weak, easily pushed aside. She couldn't handle it, couldn't adjust. She wanted the darkness and solitude of her cupboard, wanted to feel the way it protected her. After all, it was the only place they left her alone…

"Good night, Si."

"Kay."

She took a deep steadying breath, the rock before her gaze drifting away, melting into nothingness as her thoughts ran rampant.