Lilac is a silly name, she muses as the hat bellows her name for the entire hall to hear. Lilac Potter is entirely far too anxious, standing before an audience in the boots she bought from the thrift store months before she had even heard of Hogwarts. It's a lovely building, she thinks as she gazes up at the ceiling, slowly making her way down to the rickety stool with her fists clenched tightly. They will not tremble she vows with determination as an older woman sets the worn hat down on her head.
The hat is large on her, covering her green eyes perfectly.
You're an odd one she heard it's voice whisper in the depths of her mind. Within second it practically screams Ravenclaw and she accepts its decision easily. Ravenclaw sounds like a practical house for a quiet girl and maybe she can fade away within the people.
It's a lovely thought that proves wrong as whispers practically drown her. She's the girl who lived, sorted into a bookish house of nobodys. Lilac Potter couldn't possibly belong amongst the bronze and indigo-she needs to be surrounded by gold and crimson.
She settles down at the table away from the other students, tugging at the sleeves of her robes. They don't quite cover her skinny wrists and leave her bruises far to exposed for her liking.
"What do you aspire to be?" Demands an older boy, eyes bright in the candle light.
She shrugs. "A writer, maybe."
He looks horrified. "Of what? Spells?"
"Stories." She says as simply as she can, turning away to gaze up at the staff table. Figures are lined up and she can feel their power from across the room, bright and feverish as it pools in one small corner of the universe. One woman wears robes made up of stars and another man trembles, turban resting crooked on his head.
"That is such a bore. Who has time for such trivial nonsense?"
Everyone bursts into fierce giggles but they don't matter much. They ring as familiar as Dudley's taunts but she learned years ago how to tune them out.
Eventually dinner ends, her plate mostly untouched, and she leaves for her tiny bedroom that exists away from the others. Her trunk sits before her bed and for the first time she feels safe.
Lilac Potter locks her door and spends the night waiting for monsters to come.
.
She hates Granger.
Hate isn't a strong enough word, she thinks as she glowers at the brown haired girl. She despises her.
The girl haunts her footsteps, spewing odd facts about the night her parents died and she defeated the most powerful wizard (a fact entirely wrong, she knows. He was one of the stronger at the time, rivaled only by the Headmaster. History reveals a long trail of evil villains capable of sinking Atlantis and so much more.). Lilac doesn't need this useless twit bringing up things better left buried, so she tells her so. Abruptly in a corridor before class with a large audience.
Her hands tremble at their stares and she wishes she was able to hide from everyone.
Potions, however, is a delight.
It isn't simple. It's painfully delicate and needs complete and utter patience. Professor Snape looks at her for exactly seven seconds before turning away, giving a speech filled with passion and contempt. It makes sense, gazing at the set of cauldrons simmering. It reminds her of chemistry, filled with equations and proper balances and so many possibilities for errors.
Lilac sits with three Gryffindors, Granger unfortunately part of the numbers. At every question the professor asks in a delicate voice she responds in a blunt manner. She stumbles over her knowledge. Her responses are faulty and less than adequate, and Professor Snape is slippery in his questions.
He looks defensive standing in the shadows of the classroom, and she thinks she gets it. Standing in front of people day in and day out would break her nerves entirely.
At the end of class she hands him a bottled potion, perfectly matching the colour of her eyes.
He looks surprised.
.
She stands in front of her mirror, dark hair spilling over her pale shoulders. Her body aches, still healing from her Uncle's punishments. She had a burn over her chest, from where her aunt threw hot tea at her and on her back in a passive bruise from where the frying pan hit her. Along her spine are a number of welts scabbing over, reminders of the belt.
He always made her gather the belt, taking it from his closet and bringing it to the bathroom where he waited for her. She'd have to count each blow and sometimes he'd wash the wounds with vinegar to make her twist and cry out.
Her body is pale and almost ruined by the abuse, ugly scars covered her legs.
She turns away and dresses for the day carefully.
.