My Immortal:

A revamp fanfiction. I read a really, really crappy fanfiction May 19, 2008 and decided, I can make this better. So, I have since then been making up a proper storyline(it barely even had that), semi-non OOC characters(I can't make everyone exactly like the Rowlings has them, I just don't have that talent), better English, better grammar and more details!

I refuse to say whose fanfiction this is a remake of, but I am completely sure to a few of you out there "no" exactly what I mean. Now, hopefully, the new storyline I make is good. I have no worries about being better then the original. I already know I am in the non-conceited way. I truly feel that my writing sucks, but her grammar and everything was just too horrible for words. Even the character is different. I am not even trying to claim anything here, really, but I am just showing how the fanfiction could have been better. Anyways, I would like it if there were no flames, but they are expected if anything. Please try to make them constructive, though. If flamers do that, I'll be sure not to call them "preppy". I laugh every time I hear that now.

Disclaimer: It's mine I tell you! Mine!! ...

Really, if it was mine, I so would not be writing in fanfiction...Actually, I would, but that is totally not the point. Here is the point. This is a Harry Potter fanfiction. I lay no claim to the characters, storyline in the books and all that mumbo-jumbo.

On to the reVAMP!

Prologue:

Ebony. That is what they all call me. My hair is the same as the definition. A deep, lustrous black. I started Hogwarts when I was eleven years old, like every other witch and wizard in England. But I was never like them. Even the Slytherins, the house I was sorted into, find me strange and foreboding.

I understand a lot. Many people would never think that, though. I'm not what you would call a goth. I like black, but not as a color. To me, it is a symbol for everything. In the prism, it is all colors, none left out. I like that idea, so I wear it. It makes me feel like I can connect to others and not float off alone. The dark arts also interest me, as it does every other Slytherin. The house isn't that bad of a place to be in. Really, it isn't. I even look up to Professor Snape. Now that is saying something.

But, there are times when I just have to be alone. During those times, I cut thin lines up and down my arms. Every time, I feel the tender, sweet pain as the blade cuts through my arm and I watch myself bleed. I have no mental pain that I can't stand. I have no real reason to do such things. The only thing I could possibly think of would be the pleasure I get out of cutting. The sweet slice of the blade on my skin. The blood seeping out of the thin wound. Each drop of blood, filled with enough power to save a life. That is what I feel. That is what I know. I do my best thinking then. Now that I think about it, I guess one could call me a masochist. I just like the pain of it.

I come from an ancient pure blood family. We have a lot of money and power in both the wizarding and muggle world. Or should I say, we could. We are one of the very few families who have never shown a care for either: muggles and wizards could destroy themselves for all they could care. I took after the family trait for a while. Until my second year.

I met him the day he was sorted in. Well, I met the both of them. It was the beginning of my second year. I thought nothing of either of them at the time. Staying true to the Demonata name. They were sorted. One to Gryffindor. The other to Slytherin. The blond boy sat down next to me with his friends. Back then, he ignored me and I ignored him.