Disclaimer: all recognizable names, places, or characters belong to J.K. Rowling. This is a oneshot and will remain that way. I'll leave it up to you to decide how you wish to believe the story ends.

I can't knock on a door.

The December air is harsh and biting with each shallow breath in, even inside the drafty corridor outside Ravenclaw Tower. I've been standing outside Logan's common room door for fifteen minutes now, staring at the strange knocker and trying to convince myself to actually knock.

What is wrong with you? You're just going to go over the Muggles Studies notes with him, you big wuss. Nothing's going to happen. Besides, there's no way he'd actually like you.

I stare at the door for a moment longer and step forward, legs shaking like a newborn colt, and rap three times before I can change my mind.

Immediately the door begins to rattle off a riddle, but before it finishes a dark-haired teen steps through the threshold.

"Hey!" Logan greets. "You got here right on time. Man, this hall is cold! Come on, let's get going. The library's bound to be warmer than this."

What's there to like?

I can't speak up in class.

The blackboard is too far away, and the professor's handwriting is too small. Every word she writes looks like loose bits of sewing thread on the carpet of my grandma's tailor shop. One of the Hufflepuff girls asks her to read it out loud, and my breath evens a bit. I know this one.

"Can someone tell the class what is wrong with this problem?" Professor Babbling asks, her eyes scoping through the class like a hawk hunting down a field mouse. I keep my gaze trained on the table in front of me.

You're going to be wrong.

"Anyone? How about you, Miss James?"

My eyes snap to her. I feel the rising heat on my neck and ears.

"Do you know what's wrong here?" she asks like I wasn't paying attention.

"It's the wrong rune for the ward," I say, only my voice comes out so quiet she asks me to repeat myself three times. The snickers of the girls behind me grow louder each time she does.

God, just give up already!

I swallow the rising bile and try again. "It's the wrong rune, ma'am. The rest of the rune set shows that this is supposed to be a ward of protection of some sort, but the rune underlined is supposed to be for keeping something contained."

"That's correct," Professor Babbling says, already erasing the error to scribble in the correct answer. "How about this next one? Who wants to give it a whirl?"

Well, that went well.

I can't ask for more napkins.

The spill isn't much. However, the cup is too full and I wind up spilling the butterbeer in my lap anyway. I look up at the waitress of the Three Broomsticks before ducking my head. My right pant leg feels sticky and cold. Glad that at least I wore dark colors today, I dab at the stain with the too long sleeve of my sweater. I search for the waitress once more; my throat feels like that time I tried to swallow a jumbo marshmallow whole when I was seven.

God, you're so pathetic. You're going to cry over a spilled drink? Well, you got yourself in this mess; no reason to bother that poor waitress with your needy ass.

"How is everything, miss?" she asks.

I look up from the now unappetizing meal. It's a shame, autumn squash soup is my favorite.

"Can I get you anything else?"

"No, thank you. I'm fine," I smile even as I drop my gaze. "Umm, actually? Could I please have a few more…" I ask around the tightness in my throat, but she's already turned back to walk to the next table. My voice is too quiet. "Napkins."

Nice one.

"Hey, Sam! You'll never guess who I saw snogging in the back booths by the loo." Logan says as he takes his seat across from me.

Next time, you should remember that no one gives a shit about what you have to say.

I can't hang out with new people.

Fifty or so people mill about the Gryffindor common room, filling the small space with mindless chatter. The voices rise by the minute as more and more of them trickle through the door like ants. I pull at the end of my second favorite sweater. I should have worn the pink dress after all.

What are you doing, sitting in the corner like a jackass? What on earth makes you think you belong here? You're nothing like these people. You're not pretty enough, you're wearing your dad's twenty-year-old sweater, and you're not friends with single person here. You should just leave; no one wants you here.

"Hi!" says a boy wearing a tee-shirt with a troll dressed as Merlin printed on it. "I'm Oliver Wood. I'm the– ."

"Captain of the quidditch team, yes I know. Hello." I wipe my sweaty hands on my skinny jeans and pray that he won't notice. "I'm Samantha James, but everyone usually just calls me Sam."

Yeah. No shit, Sherlock.

"You're in my Transfiguration class, right?" he asks over the growing hum. He sits on the sofa and angles his body toward me.

"Yeah. I'm two rows ahead of you, I think." My fingers pick apart the muffin I swiped from the refreshment table.

"So, what do,—Oh hey, Fred." He starts, but then turns away to greet one fiery-haired pranksters. The other boy drags Oliver off, something about a minor candy problem with one of the second years, and I am left to my corner and now decimated muffin.

Told you so.

I can't be in large crowds.

I scan the crowd for signs of Logan's dark curly hair. He said that he and his friends would be sitting near the top of the stadium by Ireland's goal posts. The stadium is packed with thousands of unfamiliar faces and people push past like cattle. Body after body jostles me and I clutch the railing of the staircase with a vicelike grip so I won't get swept away.

He's not here. Come on, you look like an idiot standing here all alone. There's too many people. It's time to leave, leave, LEAVE.

"Sam! Over here!" the shirtless guy covered in green body paint yells over the rising cheers. His dark hair towers over everyone else. "We saved you a seat!"

I swallow hard around the ever-present sensation of marshmallow and make my way down the already crowded row to where Logan and his other leprechaun-colored buddies stand. He looks a bit fuzzy; everything looks a bit fuzzy. I sit down hard on the damp bleacher and start counting, my fingernails digging into the palms of my hand until they sting.

Breathe in for one… two… three… four…

Cry baby.

Hold for one… two… three… four… five… six… seven…

Why do you even agree to come to this thing?

Out for one… two… three… four… five… six… seven… eight…

When the tingling leaves my fingertips, Logan turns from the game to me.

"Alright there, Sammy? You're as pale as a ghost," he sits down next to me despite the uproar around us. Ireland must've scored again.

"I'm fine, just tired."

Liar.

I can't call people on the phone.

Callie and I were best friends in primary school. We passed notes every day in geography and even created our own code after Mr. Yates caught us one time. I thought we'd be best friends for the rest of our lives. Then I got my letter. The last time I talked to her was last year at her wedding. We made plans during the reception to grab coffee sometime and catch up. The phone feels heavy in my hand as I wait for the dial tone to signal that she picked up. I twirl the already tangled cord in my fingers and watch the fly on the kitchen window crawl blindly up to the spider web. I really should get the ladder and sweep out the ceiling corners.

Ugh, hang up already. She's obviously not home. Or maybe, she saw it was your number calling and is not answering on purpose. Face it, she's outgrown you.

"Hey!" I finally hear through the earpiece and I breathe in with a smile. I open my mouth, but before I can push the air back out of my lungs in the hope of forming words I hear, "You've reached the answering machine of Will and Callie Rauschenbusch. You know what to do!"

Oh, glorious.

I can't live like this anymore.

I stand in middle of the kitchen, staring down at my wand and the scattered pieces of the broken plate. I hadn't even noticed how numb my fingers had become until my wand slipped through them. As I bend down to clean up the mess, I absently wonder if the sharp edges would push back the numbness.

It would be so easy. Probably as easy as diffindo.

I pick up a particularly jagged piece and run my finger down the side.

Anyway, why not? It's not like you have anything to lose.

"Shut up," I whisper into the empty room, the plate shard slipping through my fingers once again. The echoing sound of porcelain hitting the linoleum is too loud in the quiet house.

Weak.

"Shut up," I say louder. The hot summer air is stifling and the barren walls are like a prison cell. Despite the August heat, a cold sweat breaks out on my neck and chest.

Coward.

"Shut up!" I scream, my voice cracking near the end. I gasp for air, sucking desperately but I find no relief. It's too much.

Too much.

Too much.

I run to the dusty window, unlatch the lock, and pull at the pane. It doesn't budge. Tears stream down my face and ugly, broken sobs rip their way from my throat as I claw at the seams of the glass.

Worthless. Weak. Unloved. Pathetic. Worthless.

"No!" I cry. I punch the glass with all my might. I keep punching until there is nothing left.

Not in the pane.

Not in myself.

The quiet tinkling of shattered glass raining down on the linoleum sounds like thunder in the room with only my labored breath for company. I hear a gasp behind me.

"Sam, love? Oh my God!" Logan rushes over to me and gathers me to his chest, the cardboard box full of pots and pans lay forgotten where he dropped them. "Oh my God, honey, what the… why…" He stumbles, at a loss for words. "Oh, honey," he finally settles on chanting over and over again like a spell as he rocks us both back and forth, surrounded by the broken mess I've created.

I stare down at my bloody hands, bits of glass stick out of my knuckles. The cool breeze should be a relief, but it chills me to the bone. I can't breathe. I can't get out. I can't make the voices stop.

And you never will.

"I can't… I can't…"

I can't.