I wonder whether you should know your future.

The day you die.

I don't think you should. You'd only desperately try to stop it-

And fail.

I've read multiple books where the main character is life-threateningly ill, but something always stops it from happening. Always. Love so strong it beat the illness. Courage so overcoming it destroyed the sickness. A new cure.

But all of that only happens in a fairy tale.

I wish I was in a fairy tale. The kind witch, whizzed away by a brave prince, saved by a good wizard.

If I was in the world of make believe, then maybe my curse would be removed.

Dad and Mum say I don't have to go back to Hogwarts. I want to, though. To pretend this isn't happening. To have pride in my Head-Girlship. To say 'bye' to my friends. So now I say 'bye' to my parents.

They both cry, of course. This might be the last time they see me.

Maybe.

They don't know why I never cry.

I don't know, either. Maybe the curse is getting to me.

I see my friends, Emily Longbottom and Jayni Bozoar.

"Hey!" They greet me cheerfully. They don't know, I realize, of course they don't.

"Hi," I whisper gloomily.

"What's wrong, Rosie?" Asks Emily, the epitome of worry.

"Are you OK?" Says Jayni.

"Yes," I answer in the same near-silent voice. I decide to switch the subject. "How were your summers?"

This sets them off immediately.

I have to leave them when the train appears. To the prefect compartment, for some sort of pep talk.

I don't know who's the Head Boy. I hope he's nice. (Nobody's 'nice' in this age, though. No boy, anyway.) I hope he won't pry at me, I don't want to tell anyone of my curse. I don't even think the Potter kids know.

"Hello, Rose."

James Sirius Potter. I suppose he's a prefect.

"Hi, James." I say quietly, purposely looking anywhere but his face.

"What's up, Rosie?" He says, squinting at me. "You don't look sick..."

"I'm not sick," I murmur.

"Then what's wrong?" James says. "Was it Malfoy? If it was, I'll sk-"

"No, Potter." A silky, sarcastic voice interrupts. "I'd say Weasley is just pondering what she's doing here... can't be for her smarts, though, can it?"

"Malfoy," James growls.

"Well," Scorpius Malfoy continues. "You certainly didn't get in here for your intelligence, either, Potter."

James snarls.

"Enough," I say in a monotone.

Scorpius turns to face me. "What's wrong, Weasel?" He sneers. "Trying to hide behind your oaf of a cousin?"

"No." I say. "I'm trying to remind him the ferret isn't worth it."

And I walk away, but not before I notice a silver glint on his robes.

A badge to pair with my own.

A Head Boy's badge.

Professor McGonagall comes in soon after the argument. She knows about my curse, so I ask politely to be excused.

She eyes me sympathetically. Pity is almost never shown in this teacher's eyes. I suppose I'm a rather sad piece of work at the moment. "Of course, Rose." She never calls a student by his or her first name.

So I prepare to slip away. But, before I do, something inexplicably odd occurs.

I feel a hand on my shoulder. It's Malfoy.

His head is cocked in confusion. His grey eyes clouded with confusion. "Weasley," he mutters. "What's going on?"

I shake my head, and shrug him off, vanishing out the door.

Scorpius Malfoy showing anxiety? Unheard of.

I don't go back to Jayni and Emily. Instead, I cowardly hide in the girl's bathroom.

Myrtle Jr.

Ugh.

Just call out the Basilisk, it would really just make this day perfect.

I pull out my book. It's sweet. The norm: love, adventure, justice.

Maybe I shouldn't read this. It's too happy. I'll just get my apathetic hopes up.

Part of me considers hunting for the sweets trolley. I could be seen, though, compartment-less, depressed and alone.

So I don't.

I feel lonely. I should probably leave, but the thought of a line of desperate girls waiting to go to the toilet scares me.

I may have been in here for an hour, now.

I sit on my trunk. It's small and only half packed. I'll only be here a while, anyhow.

A message booms through the speakers. A reminder to get into our uniforms. I strip off and pull on my robes.

Suddenly I hear banging on the door of the bathroom. My fear of a line of impatient girls slaps me in the face again.

"Weasley," calls a muffled voice. "Open up, you idiot."

I let the latch of the door click free. Let them see me. The hapless, wretched pile of robes on the white-tiled floor. Let them see my tear-stained face. Let them- NO! DON'T LET THEM!

I struggle to lock the door again, but do not succeed.

Scorpius Malfoy glowers down at me, like I just smacked him or something. Well, technically I did. With a door.

"What was that for, Weasley?"

I don't answer. I glance longingly at the cauldron cakes at chocolate frogs tucked beneath his arm.

He follows my gaze, and a flicker of a smile enters his face. He has never smiled at me before, I think to myself, but it is nice. (I hate that little word). "You can take them," he says gruffly, dropping them by my feet.

I stare.

He stares back.

Malfoy turns to leave, but I grab the tail of his black robes. He looks back.

"Thank you," I mumble.

I see something. An emotion fluttering in his eyes.

I can't identify it.

I watch the first years as they're sorted.

It's cute, the frightened expressions on their faces. "A mind reading hat?" I contemplate what they are fearful about. Stealing from the cookie jar? The sorting hat won't sell them out.

That was me, some few years ago.

"Ravenclaw or Gryffindor?" The hat had asked.

"I'm brave!" I'd cried out proudly.

The hat had chuckled. "Yes, Miss Weasley, you are."

I don't believe he'd think that now.

The Gryffindor prefects and I show the first years back to the common room. One boy attempts to climb up the Girl's stairs, and is shocked when the staircase turns into a bright red slide, and he topples down. His house mates laugh at his misfortune.

"It's okay," I say to him. "They'll forget it as soon as someone gets pranked by my cousins, Fred and James. Don't worry over it."

He, still blushing furiously, grins. He grumbles something incoherent.

"Pardon?"

"Do you think they'd let me help?"

I nod, smiling.

His beam widens, he starts towards his dorm, when I call up to him. "Hey, what's your name?"

He glimpses back. "Donny Brown!"

My eyes morph into saucers. "As in Lavender Brown's son?" I recall mum's moaning about the irritating, beautiful, vain Lavender Brown.

"Yep!" He says zealously, disappearing up the boy's stairs.

I smile. I suppose you can't judge people by their parents.

I fall into the shadows as I stroll up the the Heads' common room. I tell the arrogant portrait the password -Scorose- and climb in.

I marvel at the green, silver, red and gold room. The floor is a bright red, the walls a tranquil green. The chandelier is silver, with golden jewels hanging off of it. One arm-chair is dark green, the other light red. The sofas are white.

The brown fireplace is burning. The blazing heat is welcomed by yours truly. I sink down into the white couch, and close my eyes tight.

When you dream, it's like you're free...

Like the problems cease to exist...

Life goes on for ever, when you dream...

Nothing ties you down...

You can be happy...

Then you wake up.

A soft 'boom' tugs me into conscience. I open a lazy blue eye.

The colorless silhouette swept across the room. I saw no more: I was asleep once more.

When I open my eyes at sunrise, there's a light green blanket over me.

Because of my curse, I've decided to help others forget me sooner. I tell Sasha Wood that I can't play keeper anymore. She doesn't understand. I shouldn't of expected her to, though.

"But why, Rose?" She bellowed. "This year is OUR year! The year Gryffindor has a party and puts the big, BEAUTIFUL quidditch cup in the common room!"

I take a wary step back. Sasha is scaring me. "I'm sorry," I say, though I don't mean it. I truly don't know what I've done to deserve this.

"No you're not!" Sasha says hotly, tripping over a Lightspeed 300.

"You're right," I confess. "Look, Sasha. I've got some medical problems-" an ugly curse "- to deal with at the moment, and I can't play, OK? Sorry."

Then I go back to the Great Hall. If Sasha wasn't cursing to herself and punching the wall, maybe she would've noticed that I actually wasn't rubbing my eyes from lack of sleep.