Chapter One

S.N. Blade

A simple enough question asked by an articulately raised eyebrow; simple enough when applied to a simple situation. Three letters, one-syllable, both requesting what could be a multitude of answers, of replies, of reasons, even excuses, all asked by the extension of the enemy's brow; something, for once, I cannot spare the energy to find annoying. This interrogation could have easily been comprehended wrongly, but I know I am not mistaken. Any person who harnessed even an ounce of wit (a minority in this haphazardly conducted excuse for a school) would have known exactly what the Slytherin slime was requesting. The question in question is 'Why?'

The seemingly innocent question has sent my mind into a reckless frenzy. I have an extensive list of answers, of justifiable reasons for why I resent each and every smiling… or happy, frowning…or mad, grateful…or remorseful…any face that I am forced to surround myself with every goddamn day of my freakishly prolonged life. After searching my unreasonably overloaded brain, I have concluded that a single silent word can, and will, satisfy each fragment to an end. There is one way to make my enemy understand without revealing my innermost thoughts, something I cannot even bare to do as of late for my 'best friends.' Without breaching his personal space, as he has not mine without the conceding of my answer, I have merely raised my own brow, mirroring his with a darker replica. I can observe the acceptance of the parallel look for its worth, not the mocking, disrespectful gesture that most would perceive it as; and, though I loathe to admit it, I know this is because he is indeed an intelligent wizard.

As the dark eyebrow rose, I knew what would accompany it. He did not smirk, he did not sneer, he did not mock, but the Boy-Who-Lived asked. His thoroughly thought out answer was to ask me the twin of what I had questioned him. How did I know it was well contemplated? Simple, it was Harry Potter after all. His appearance might make him look as thick as Crabbe and Goyle, what with the too baggy clothes and old, worn-out threads hidden beneath his cloaks, but my enemy cannot be easily compared to any in this ruined school. I must admit that he is near equal to me, but I shall spare the arrogance for once and search for the meaning behind this façade of questioning he wears.

My search will not be a long one, for I do believe I have discovered the answer already. It is not a façade really, nor a mask, but rather a diversion, the way a real parent occupies a toddler with sweets as he or she quietly slips away the child's security item as it is too tattered to be distinguishable; or, in my case, the way Lucius occupied my younger self with tutoring and punishments while he tore away my childhood with a nasty smirk of conspiracy. When the average individual puts up a front as such, they usually intend to camouflage their emotions, an act I have not seen one student at this 'place of learning' perform successfully; which just goes to show how ignorant they are to their abilities, or lack thereof. Once again Potter must be different from the crowd and stand out; of course he can't just settle for remaining out of the spotlight for more than ten seconds. Quite an ironic thought, really, because that seems to be exactly what he has been attempting and failing miserably at for quite some time now. At the far end of his list of abnormalities, I have found the answer.

I never thought I would have found the solution in such a place, but I have. Scarface doesn't attempt to hide his emotions from anybody, he actually wants people to know how he feels. Then why doesn't he? Because he's afraid. Imagine that, famous Harry Potter, warrior of the Light Side, scared. I almost want to smirk at the prospect of it; if only I could hold it over his head…maybe I will. Instead of telling them, he diverts their attention with that blank face revealing nothing to them whilst filing it as something he can put off until later. I am not sure if this was the way he intended me to find the answer, but this is the way that I have done it and am all the wiser for it, something I cannot complain about. I am not telling him why I hate life, he is not telling me why he hates life, but the answer comes ex post facto. To find his real answer, I must relinquish mine and vice versa, that is the understanding conclusion I know we both have come to. Ha, to think, I've come to a mutual understanding with the Gryffindor git, it simply amuses me.

Hermione turned to Harry in hopes of engaging him in the conversation, expecting to find him talking to another Gryffindor on his own since he had not chimed into his other friends' conversation. The young witch did not expect to find him staring intently, his mind somewhere other than the world in which they lived. Forever having to be knowledgeable concerning all things, Hermione tried to follow his ethereal gaze but found to her dismay that it abruptly ended far across the Hall at something only he could see. Hesitating briefly the young witch finally argued herself into interrupting him and insisting upon his inclusion to the conversation at hand, for his opinion was always valued. He did not stir willingly, the only visible movement to her of his body caused by her own summoning touch at his shoulder. Again, she attempted, this time squeezing his shoulder, hopefully sending a message of reassurance to signify the justification in being conscious to his surroundings; he often jailed himself away from the other students and she felt it was because he feared interaction with people who revered him so. Finally, with the third encouragement, his head snapped around and stared her straight in the face, his eyes fierce and defensive unlike they had appeared moments before.

The roughness of his gaze stole her breath and, in its robbery, took her courage along with it. "Har…" She choked on his name, somehow feeling that it did not belong to the face before her. A mask of bravado that was renowned to the weaker Gryffindors crept onto her face and she began again. "Harry, might you join our conversation? I'm sure you've got something to say about how the Minister is handling this." Harry frowned, his eyes narrowed as he turned away, the black mass upon his head barely moving in his swift departure from the Gryffindor table. Hermione, with an affronted look as if her intelligence had been insulted, turned to Ron for reassurance that she was not the sole witness to the abnormality.

Ron was dumbfounded as was shown by the lack of empathy in his voice as well as the stupid look upon his face. "What's gotten his pants in a twist?"

Of course I have just got to have something to say about how the Minister is handling the mess I've left behind. I am the famous Harry Potter after all and most therefore be intelligently inclined to add spectacular insight into every matter that pertains to me; no one expects any less than me. What strikes me, however is, that Hermione has shamelessly fallen into stride with them. First she approached me as if I were as fragile minded as the prisoners in Azkaban whom have earned themselves a life sentence and have not yet passed on. You would think that when I did not respond to that sort of treatment that she would either persist (she is Hermione Granger after all) or that she would give me space until I was ready to talk about it. Instead of giving me space, she began to treat me as if I have not been her friend since first year, as if we do not have a shared history. What's more is that Ron went right along with her. He cannot seem to stand on his own in any matter unless he feels that one of his friends has wronged him; then it is no bars held. What a loyal friend, no? One that will turn his back the instant he feels wronged even though it matters not in the grander scheme of things? Certainly I can understand being upset, but really, he acts so very childish that I can no longer decide if I will lower myself to that standard anymore. I will protect, no doubt, for was that not why I survived Voldemort's death curse? That does not mean, however, that I will remain close with those that simply disgust me these days.

Why is it that I can feel eyes on me even when I am doing something that most others do without gaining as much attention? Surely I have been at this school long enough with the other students that they should no longer be in awe of 'the great Harry Potter'. Also, none of them knew that Sirius was my godfather, so they cannot profess to feel for me. Humph, as if anyone could 'feel for me'; none of them have experienced half of what I have. Even so, why are they watching me leave the Great Hall? Can I not leave in peace? I did not make a spectacle when I left, I am not leaving under suspicious activities, I am just leaving for Merlin's sake! I'm finished with breakfast and I just want to be alone before class! Is that so much to ask?

Actually, I've just lied in two instances. I didn't actually eat anything therefore I could not be finished with something I did not begin. Secondly, I'm not leaving to be alone, I am leaving to get away from insufferable ignorance and from those that irk me so very much that I simply want to listen to Mermaids above water for the rest of my life. An exaggeration, I know, but it gets the point across as to how much I would endure to escape this unusual form of torture. Now that I'm out of their presense, I do not know what to do with myself. As of late I have found myself in odd places without remembering the journey there, even though I am aware that I was conscious during said journey. I do believe I will allow myself that escape from reality to follow where my feet will lead me. It sounds rather pleasant.

I'm back!!! I feel terrible for leaving this story for so long, especially now that HBP is out and this does not conform to it. Even so, I plan on continuing the story along these lines so you'll have to deal. I am also sorry for postponing the rest of the tale for nearly two years. I have only just now found my muse again. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!

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I do believe it is disclaiming time

As in usual fashion, I shall use a rhyme

To let you know that I have no rights

To write about these characters' plights

To J.K. Rowling they do belong

And now I must say 'So long!'

But before you go, I ask you please

To review the latest, chapter three!

(it's actually chapter one but after two prologues…you get the drift)