EDIT / NOTICE: THIS STORY HAS BEEN DISCONTINUED. I have changed my mind about it... Layla was going to be way too Mary-Sue ish for my taste, and I don't even know why I didn't catch it sooner... grr. BUT, I am planning a different Harry Potter fic. It will star an OC, but not a Mary-Sue. And it won't be some HarryxOC DracoxOC fic; I think the OC might pair with another OC... but whatever It'll be like a side-story to the HP books... sort like a 'what went on outside Harry's realm' fic. let me know if you're interested! otherwise, it'll be up whenever I get around to it... which might be years...

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. But I do own Layla

just something I was working on. please tell me if you like it or not.

Behind Clouded Eyes

By: Chi Yagami

Chapter I

There was no doubt about it; she’d only just managed to escape. Panting softy, her legs tired from running the five blocks distance to Mason Avenue, she sank onto the firm mahogany surface of her trunk. It quite fascinated her, actually, and she often wondered how such a mere box could capture her interest. The answer was not far, as she had never possessed anything so beautiful in her entire life. Sighing, she stretched out over her belonging and gazed into the dimly lit sky. She could not believe she had finally done it. Impossible as it had seemed before, she’d finally accomplished her goal: she ran away from home.

Okay, that wasn’t completely as bad as it sounded. She hadn’t exactly run away forever, just temporarily. It wasn’t as if she was one of the many increasing in number teens who abandoned their good life for something of less value, usually sex, drugs, or some rebellious feeling that resulted in depression. No, she had not traded a wonderful life, filled with loving parents and awesome friends, for the core of the apple; in fact, it was the polar opposite. She considered losing an abusive fath—caretaker a privilege and what she further gained a bonus package. She wiped her eyes fretfully, her fingers damp with tears. Why was she crying? She had nothing to be guilty of; she’d left nothing important behind. Everything that had ever meant anything to her was in that trunk, which, recalling something she’d thought earlier, was not the most beautiful thing she’d ever owned. Clasped around her neck was a thin silver chain on which hung ancient brass key. As simple as it was, that necklace meant more to her than chicken casserole, her favorite dish. According to her first guardians, the only people from her past whom she wished to find information on, her father had given it to her when she was born. She relaxed her head against the solid oak. After checking her watch and seeing it to be a little past three, she confirmed that it was time to get moving. She only had eight more hours until the train departed, pretty soon from her point of view.

She wasn’t entirely sure how it worked, so she pulled out her wand to be safe. Pinewood, eight inches, unicorn hair, it weighed about the same as one of her schoolbooks. She took a few steps toward the road and glanced around uncertainly. The man hadn’t given the best procedure to follow. She took the folded parchment from her pocket and stared at the backside, spidery handwriting jumping off the page. Throw out wand arm. Should come very quickly. Like that explained a whole lot. Well, might as well try it and see what happens.

Her right arm flew out like a skyrocket, and she closed her eyes, bracing herself for some sort of impact. BANG. She heard the screeching of tires and the exhaust of a beat engine. Cracking an eye open, she saw a double-decker bus. A man was standing on the platform, holding a small white placard and staring down at it dumbly.

“’Ello and welcome to the Knight Bus. We’ll take ya all over tha country, ’n some parts ’o Scotland. For a small fee, ya can stow away on our awesome vehicle here—” he patted the bus “—while riding to da destination ’o your choice.”

She blinked and took a closer look. He was probably around nineteen or twenty years old, his face consumed by acne. She gathered together her belongings, which the man helped lift onto the bus. Amused by the interior, she sat on one of the comfier-looking beds halfway down the isle. Unlike a normal city bus, this one had beds instead of seats, so its occupants could sleep while they traveled across the country in darkness. A rickety flight of stair led to the second floor, but she preferred to be close to the doors, just in case.

“My name is Stan, by tha way,” he introduced, pocketing the sickles, “and this ’ere’s Ern.”

She smiled faintly at the bus driver, then turned to Stan.

“Do you go to King’s Cross Station?”

“Yeah we sure do. Take it away, Ern.”

She sighed into the soft pillow. Part of her could barely believe any of this was happening; the other part welcomed it with open arms. She finally felt as if life was giving her a rest. Perhaps this time, she might start over nicely. The others had been, well, disasters.

“Whotcha name?” Stan asked curiously, taking a seat next to her.

“Layla.”

It wasn’t her full name; Layla was a nickname she went by because she disliked the other. Nana, her first foster mother, had told her that she was named after her father’s favorite food.

“The nurse came in as your father was ordering lunch,” Nana had said. “She asked him what your name was to be, and he yelled at her. He was mad because his… company was not doing so well. When the poor lady asked him again what he wanted to name you, his only reply was ‘I wanted marmalade on my toast…’ And after that he vanished. The woman claims he disappeared before her very eyes. Following the few words of your father, she named you Marmalade.”

She had adored the uniqueness of her name until she turned five. One of the boys at her birthday party had joked how her name was a type of jam, then called her Peanut Butter. Angry, she had vowed never to go by Marmalade again. Nana would’ve cried; she loved that name. However, by then Layla was living with the Johnsons, a decent suburban family.

Nana had told her the story of her father’s death when she was only two. Layla didn’t regret hearing it so young; Nana had died four months later. Her father had been a great leader. He was strong, persuasive, and determined. He ran a tight business and didn’t deal with horseplay. Nana had never mentioned what his business actually did, and to this day Layla wondered about it. Two months after she’d been born, her father was killed in a car accident. She wasn’t sure if she should be affected or indifferent to the event. Even when he was alive, she never saw her father; he had directly placed her in the care of Nana, one of his close friends. The only time that she knew of being spent with her father was the day he brought her from the hospital to Nana. Oh how she missed Nana! She would’ve done some Internet searches for possible information, but she had no idea about Nana’s real name. She had asked the Johnsons when she was six, but they didn’t know either.

After the Johnsons, Layla had been to a total of forty-six foster parents, quite a lot for just five years time. Twenty of those had been during a single year. For some reason unknown to her until thirteen days ago, none of her foster parents had wanted to keep her for very long. The longest family she’d ever stayed with was the Johnsons, who’d kept her for four years. Other parents never lasted a year. Some families she tried to escape from (such as her current residence), and some families tried to escape from her. Often, strange accidents would occur around Layla. During her time with the Dawsons, the front lawn was uncontrollable; every time Mr. Dawson would mow the grass or trim the bushes, they would grow back to twice their normal size within twenty-four hours. Suppressing thoughts from her forgotten past, she focused on more recent events.

Almost a week ago, on her birthday, an oddly dressed man (who looked like he’d been hit by a truck…) had knocked upon her front door. Her foster brother Nick, a spoiled little brat, answered it and had screamed for his dad. Mr. Chase was a rounded man with a hairy goatee; he did not like it when people interrupted his television time. Layla had heard loud arguing from the hallway, followed by a stuttering Nick. A moment later, the odd man was informing her that she was to come with him to some diagonal alley to buy things for school.

“But I already have school supplies,” she had said, showing him her pencil bag. He laughed and mumbled something about a mugged writing utensil.

“Who are you?” she asked at last.

“My name is Mr. Filch,” he had replied in a raspy voice, digging through a coat pocket. “I’ve been sent here to fetch you. Didn’t you get your letter?”

Letter? No one ever sent mail to her. She moved so much that she didn’t bother to make friends anymore. Also, the Chases never bothered with mail, not that they would’ve given her anything. The father and son absolutely despised her; Mr. Chase made her clean the house and do everything, and Nick, being only seven, annoyed her and ate from her quarter-filled plate. Mr. Chase deprived her of food, and he beat her when he thought she might be having fun. Layla had shaken her head.

“Well, then, here ya go,” he handed her a thick envelope. “You can read it on the train.”

Train? What was going on? Why was this strange man here, telling her to come with him? She must be dreaming… and yet, she felt as if she expected something like this to happen.

She was glad to leave at once, but her good mood was smashed when she discovered she’d return and stay until the first day of September. She had tried to act somewhat interested in what Mr. Filch was saying about his journey to her ‘home’ but it was somewhat boring. It was only when they were entering the train station in Liverpool that Layla noticed something weird about the man’s right pocket.

“Sir, your pocket is moving about…”

He looked at her, bewildered at first. Chuckling lightly, he reached into the pocket and pulled out a giant furball.

“Aww,” she cooed, “it’s a cute cat.”

Mr. Filch seemed surprised at her reaction, and he was even more shocked when she asked if she could hold the cat on the train.

“What’s her name?”

“Mrs. Norris,” he replied gruffly, a look of wonder in his eyes.

Mrs. Norris had purred happily in Layla’s arms the whole way to London. She looked forward to seeing the cat again today.

“Umm, Stan, how much longer until we get to the station?”

“About an hour an’ a half, Miss Layla,” he answered sleepily.

Nodding, she slipped under the quilted covers. She herself was very tired; she hadn’t slept in two days. After calculating that she would arrive at King’s Cross around five in the morning, she let her body succumb to the long-awaited nap.