A/N: Just a little bit of background for y'all. I wrote this story when I was fourteen years old. So a little over two years ago. I think the sixth book had either just come out, or it was about to be released. I don't remember. Anyhoo, I'd just gotten started writing fanfiction on a different website and I thought I was SuperAuthor, capable of making even the lamest ideas seem interesting. Needless to say, I got bored after a few chapters and scrapped the story. Well, as I was browsing through my documents earlier today, I came across this story and found myself reading through it again. And while I noticed that there were quite a few flaws in the actual text (along with some canon conflicts), I also saw that it's a pretty good idea for a story. It just needs to be beefed up a bit.

Oh, and the title is taken from a song of the same name by Ingrid Michaelson. I got her CD for Christmas and fell in love with it :) Plus I think it goes pretty well with the premise of the story.

Enjoy.

August 31st

11:57 PM

Dear diary,

I don't know what else to say but this: I'm terrified. I've never been able to handle abrupt change on my own. I wish Mother were here right now. She'd know what to do. She'd find the right words to say, the calming tune to hum. She was always able to do that. But Mother isn't here. She never will be.

I wish Father was more of a daddy, or even just a dad. I wish he would be more personal. I wish he would say more to me than "go wash your hands again" or "you're not going to wear that, are you?" whenever he sees me. But that's not the way he is. He's never been that way. I really don't know what Mother saw in him that made her fall in love with him. Because she was in love with him. She told me so many times. She told me how kind and caring and charming my father always was to her. She said that it should be enough to know that you're being taken care of and leave it at that. I was never satisfied with that. I wanted him to love me, to care about me. Mother said that my father does love me. Mother said he just can't show me.

Mother said a lot of things that confused me.

I just glanced down at my watch. It is officially the first day of September. In less than six hours I will be in a car, traveling to the train station. From there I will be sent off to God-knows-where. Exiled with hundreds of other children to a vast hall of learning for months at a time. At least they all have breaks to look forward to, when they can return to loving parents and annoying siblings and complain about the work load. I don't have the luxury of annoying little brothers and sisters. I don't know what it's like to have loving parents. I've never felt the warmth of a hug. I've never heard the three little words that so many people thrive on: "I love you." Oh, sure, I know Mother loved me. But she didn't ever tell me that outright, for some reason. It always hurt me a bit, but I never let on. After all, no one ever really talked to me. I hardly know what a real person looks like.

I suppose all this isolation has made me what I am. Except that I really don't know what that is. I mean, I know my name is Natalie McLain, but I don't know who I am. Mother told me I was special. Father says I am frustrating. The maids say that I'm tragic. The gardener says I am queer. But I am really not interested in their opinions. The only opinion I am interested in is his.

He is the man who sent me a letter at the beginning of July. He told me that I could amount to greatness.

He said that I was magical.

The letter said that he is the headmaster of some school that I'd never heard of before. It said that I could be taught to be something powerful, to be something spectacular, to be something new. It contained a list of amazing and odd things that I would need if I wanted to attend the school. It mentioned that I would have to leave my home for most of the year.

It was a dream come true.

I had always wondered what was wrong with me. I never understood why strange things always seemed to happen to me without any warning whatsoever. When these strange things happened, Father always got upset and Mother always smiled at me wistfully. I never really understood their reactions, nor did I attempt to. Far be it from me to determine why bad things always seemed to happen around me. Why did the glass break when I was angry enough to throw something? Where did that doll come from the time Father made me cry? I didn't know, and I didn't ever expect to know. But when I read the letter, suddenly everything made sense. I could do magic. Not just parlor tricks and sleight-of-hand, but real magic. I wasn't a freak. I was a real person. There were other people like me.

Of course, now that I'm about to leave, I'm not so sure that this is the best choice. What if I'm not special after all? What if I just can't do it? Everyone will make fun of me and shun me. I'll be sent home. Father will make me feel worse that I already did. And this time, Mother won't be there to comfort me afterward.

Mother has been dead for a month now. Somehow, the house seems darker, emptier without her, as does my life. Even though she never told me outright, I know she loved me. She was the only person that ever did. And now she's gone. I'll never see her smile again or hear her laugh. She loved to laugh. When she laughed, even Father almost smiled. People loved Mother. They loved her energy. What happens to energy when it dies? Does it collapse in on itself and create a black hole, negative energy? Does the negative energy work as a vacuum, sucking up what little life there was before?

I had better get to sleep now if I'm going to go through with this school. I don't want to be utterly exhausted for the first day. Thinking negative thoughts certainly won't bode well for me. I'll just think about this school and the headmaster. Hogwarts, and someone named Harry Potter.