Germany, December, 1991

 I’ve heard it said that anger is simply misdirected passion. I pray that the saying isn’t true, for the people who truly anger me are the last people I would ever want to even imagine being passionate about.

 Bloody purebloods and their idiotic ideals… 

This is my life. I’m ashamed to admit it, ashamed that the world we live in has come to this. Separations, impenetrable walls built between families. Lives torn apart, happiness dissolved in a matter of moments.

 I am a Mudblood, living in a pureblood controlled world.  It can’t get any worse. Even death would be better than this. If anyone knew, truly knew, how many times I’ve prayed for death in the past days, weeks, years…they’d think I’ve lost my mind, and there are times I’d have to agree.

 How did things come to this? How did I end up with status lower than that of a house-elf? How did I end up, living on the street, eating any scraps I can salvage from bins along the way? Having no other choice but to live in the filth, the desolation? Watching the others around you shuffle through the days with the same looks of utter desperation plastered on their faces… 

I had everything…a life, a home, a lover…Gone in the mere blink of an eye.  Now there’s only this: this abomination I’m supposed to call an existence. I’ll be damned before I call it a life.  

For a long time now I’ve been merely existing. Not living, not in any sense of the word. Floating through the days like a soap bubble, ready to disappear at any moment. 

Living in the memories I have of what once was, and never will be again....and yet, still aching from the want of having it all back. 

These memories are killing me, slowly, surely, eating me alive from the inside. And nothing I can do will stop it. And at times I’m not even sure I want it to stop… 

This journal might be a bad idea, recording all these thoughts, but some days it’s all that keeps me sane. And someday...it might fall into the hands of the people who will understand. 

~~~ 

Diagon Alley, November, 1994 

“Such a shame, really. All that potential, all that talent, gone to waste.”

“I can’t pretend people didn’t wonder where she’d gone, what she’d become after, well, after everything…but now…I find myself wishing we’d never found out.”

The two men paused to nod, silent in their agreement, heads bowed, surveying the gruesome scene that lay before them.

A body, dressed in tattered, shredded robes, soaked from the cruel icy rain that poured down in sheets.

A girl, frighteningly thin, ribs showing through the holes in her robes.

Her long, curly brown hair, matted with blood and dirt, clung to her pale skin, laced across her face in garish strands.

Her eyes were open, staring unseeingly into the rain that pattered mercilessly down on her.

Neither man could look away, entranced by the horror, repulsed by the attraction, both of them filled with the same overwhelming sense of loss, of sadness.

Such an innocent creature shouldn’t die like this in the street, as nothing more than a beggar, a waif.

Where was the honor in death, and the respect?

The first man sighed, chest heavy with the raw emotions that swarmed through his soul.

“The Ministry’ll need to be informed.”

The second man nodded again, his despondent expression a mirror of the one standing beside him.

“Indeed.”

They shared a long look before the second man finally echoed the first’s sigh and let his shoulders slump in weary defeat.

“I’ll go.”

As the crack signaling his Disapparation rang along the brick walls, the first man bent forward, gently closing the girl’s eyes.

“I hope you’ve found peace at last...”

~~~

 Hogsmeade, June, 1988 

The sun was bright as it twinkled down on the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Graduation ceremonies were almost required to be held outside when the weather was this inviting, even if it meant the students and adults alike that were seated, in neat rows, across the grass were withering with the heat.

Minerva McGonagall stood before the assembly, proudly calling names, shaking hands with each student as they came forward.

Polite applause rang from the crowd as each name was called.

The girl that bounced up the aisle when it was her turn was radiating an exhausting amount of excitement. Her eyes sparkled as she shook the hand of her previous headmaster and professor, now resigned to the role of dear friend. Educator no longer.

The two shared a small, secret, smile as they shook hands, both remembering years, and events, now firmly in the past.

The girl missed the rest of the ceremony as she retraced her steps to her seat, lost in the jumble of her thoughts and memories. All around her people were crying, both for joy at the end of another term, and sadness at leaving their beloved castle. Shouts and screams filled the air as the service ended; she brushed away the lone tear that slid down her cheek as the feeling of finality washed over her.

She slipped away from the crowd, crept inside the castle, suddenly desperate for one last romp through the corridors, one last jaunt through her old common room.

One more password whispered to the guardian swathed in pink robes.

She had to bite back another flood of tears as she climbed the stairs, running a hand along the smooth, cool stone of the banister, staring at all the paintings that covered the walls around her. Trying to memorize every brushstroke, every stone in the wall, every grain of wood in the frames.

“Are you alright?”

The sudden voice made her jump; she spun around, hand grabbing automatically for her wand.

She found herself staring into a pair of brilliant blue eyes that were smiling gently down at her.

His face was familiar…for a moment she could do nothing but stare, and then…

“Oliver?”

He grinned, bowed deeply.

“At your service.”

He held out a hand; when she took it, instead of shaking, he raised her hand to his lips and pressed a gallant kiss to the back of her fingers.

“What-what are you doing here, Oliver?”

He nudged her gently with an elbow, as though sharing some secret joke with her.

“I always come back for end-of-term ceremonies. Get in touch with my roots and all that.”

She nodded.

“Right. I figured you’d forgotten about this place…Being a big Quidditch star and all, these things sort of slip your mind...”

He laughed softly.

“Yes, yes. I’m not that big of a star. And you! Still head of your year, best of the best. Not at all surprising, if I may say so.”

She fixed him with a rather quizzical look.

“I’m rather surprised you noticed. You were always too busy being out on the Quidditch pitch, too busy to pay much attention in lessons, or anywhere else.”

“Been talking to McGonagall again, I see.” He chuckled, the warmth that radiated from his smile sinking down into her toes. “I did pay more attention than she, or any other professor, gave me credit for. And there was the always the added insult of getting outscored on every test, in every course, by someone four years younger.”

She was gracious enough to flush delicately.

“I take it you’re not sorry?”

She smirked up at him.

“Not in the least. Someone had to be responsible for bringing you back to earth when your head got too big for your own good.”

He returned her smirk, eyes twinkling merrily, and for a moment neither of them spoke.

“It’s good to see you, Oliver.” Her voice was quiet, gentle. “I always wondered how you were doing after you left for Scotland.”

“You did?”

She nodded, flushing a deeper red, infuriated with herself for being such a…a girl...

“Everyone talked about you a lot. The celebrity of Hogwarts, gone off to play pro, turned into a household name. It was hard not to wonder.”

He nodded slowly, still watching her with those gorgeous eyes of his.

A sudden thought occurred to him.

“What say we get a drink later, at the Three Broomsticks? Grab a butterbeer, do some catching up?”

He looked so hopeful, so adorable, she couldn’t say no.

“That…that sounds nice.”

He broke into a grin, obviously elated.

“Seven o’clock?”

“Seven it is.”

He turned to leave, the foolish grin still plastered to his face, stopped halfway round.

“Hey-“

She twisted to face him, waiting for him to finish.

“Thanks.”

She nodded, smiled, and then he was gone.

 ~~~ 

London, November, 1994 

She was buried in a small cemetery in England.

Three people attended.

Three men.

All of them wept unashamedly as they stared at her coffin, none of them hearing the generic words of comfort the priest uttered.

Finally, they were left alone. The silence around them was deafening, thick and heavy, filled with pain.

“I can’t believe she’s gone…”

The short, raven-haired man was the first to speak, his words so quiet the others almost missed them.

“I don’t want to believe it…this is a joke, isn’t it? Someone, please, tell me it’s a joke!”

The burly brunette’s voice broke as tears poured afresh down his cheeks. His heart was beyond broken, nay, it was shattered. Shattered into miniscule fragments, unfixable.

“Where was she, all those years?”

The lanky redhead was the last to speak, voicing the question that had passed through all their minds at least once, if not a million times.

None of them had an answer. Nobody did, it seemed.

She’d simply vanished.

And with her she’d taken a piece of all of them, leaving gaping holes behind that nothing, no matter how they tried, could fill.

“I always hoped she’d come back. That she’d hear the news and she’d just…appear…”

“We all did.”

“We all never stopped hoping, either.”

“Fat lot of good it did…”

They fell silent again, unmoving in their vigil even as it began to rain.

How fitting that here, on their saddest of days, the sky should mirror their emotions.

It was growing dark when they finally turned, as one, to leave.

Several reporters were lurking beyond the gate, waiting to catch them at their lowest, at their worst, waiting to exploit their grief into skyrocketing sales.

Such was the price for being famous.