Disclaimer: Not mine. All J.K. Rowlings. Except my character.

Rating: PG-13ish.

Nameless.

By: Katrina

I never was well-known at Hogwarts. I was the hidden crumb in Ravenclaw, the quiet, mousy, misplaced seventeen year-old in seventh year. Hermione Granger had thought she had problems fitting in; try having three quarters of the teachers not quite remembering your name, stumbling and slurring my name into an unrecognizable mess to hide their rising embarrassment. Everyone would eventually chuckle, and I would be left, cheek in my palm, watching with dull eyes. It happened every day in stone grey walls.

Some would think I would be telling you this story to achieve sympathy, to garner attention, but that's not the case. Despite what the general population has been lead to believe, not everyone wishes to be known. I had been quite happy to sit by the fire and watch flickering portraits gossip to each other.

I was born from muggles, making me a "mudblood" in the eyes of many, but that never bothered my house. Intelligence was our sun, the object we revolved our thoughts around. Why people take on the characteristics of their house, I'm not entirely sure. How could everyone fit perfectly into a willing slot? Was the house of Hufflepuff really that sadly pusillanimous? Was the bravery of a Gryffindor a waste in the face of death? Was Slytherin's elusive way of speaking really what they wanted in the forefront? And last, what of the Raven's, the ones so oblivious to the outside that they forgot the present and remembered only the past and future.

While I know I was the seventh year pariah, I knew all that went on around me. I was not the fumbling incognizant people that generally frequented my dorm. I knew what Voldemort's true agenda was. I knew that without Dumbledore and his merry band of followers I wouldn't know a Wingardium Leviosa from an Accio.

Harry Potter was an enigma I wished to figure out. Not many people went to the lengths I did to understand what he thought. Why had he lived with non-magical relatives? Why was he so lanky and short? Why didn't he understand that Slytherin's didn't have to be his enemies? What was his favorite type of ice cream? Why did I want to understand him? Heavy digging and eavesdropping had leaded me to the point where I probably knew how many hairs he possessed on his head. It was disgusting, vile, and eerie. I had never had an obsession that prolonged.

When the time came to fight, when it came time for me to show my intelligence, my prowess on the battle-field, I honestly had no idea what the fuck I was doing. It was a haze of colours, spells, blood, screams, and gurgles. All I could concentrate on was right in front of me. The battle-field, actually Hogwarts' grounds, had seemed different, as if it had been shifted and twisted into some unrecognizable length of grass. As I had fended off Death Eaters, Werewolves, feet the size of my body—which I guessed were giants—I finally looked to the right of me. There I saw a sight that not many would be gifted with. Harry Potter stood over a kneeling Voldemort who had a sword sticking through the junction between his head and neck. It hadn't been an earth-shattering moment. Nothing exploded, except maybe a few giants' feet, and no one noticed except a few people close to Harry.

The battle didn't stop. And that's what I had forgotten. In all my naivety, I believed that once Voldemort had finally perished, had finally been erased from all existence, that the world would pause and take a shuddering breath. But nothing stopped. And the sword poking through my stomach certainly hadn't slowed to a crawling speed. In some old movies I had watched in the movies, I never realized how much force had to put into a sword being pushed through the belly. The crunching and gritting sound it made as it reached its momentous destination was unbelievably loud to my ears. As it was wrenched out, another forcefully loud squelch emitting from my fresh, gut wound, I sloppily fell to my knees, my wand slipping to the russet coloured ground. I took a breath, and to my ears, it sounded wet and static, as the entire thing hadn't quite been make it.

Br-eath.

I hadn't been alone as others hit the ground, and definitely hadn't been the first.

Br-ea-th.

I looked up at the mockingly clear, starry night above me. I vaguely thought that it was the witching hour. The full moon looked bulbous, as if it was feeding on the slaughter occurring.

B-re-at-h.

My parents were probably sitting at home, watching an action-movie that involved people dying, being killed for a pointless war. They probably had greasy hands from eating too much popcorn. My thoughts were beginning to have no shape I noticed. The static that permeated my breathing was fogging my brain.

B-re-a-t-h.

As I began rapidly moving my eyes around, a figure from the right, a blurry figure, made its way to me. I could remember hearing his voice, soft and mellifluous, squirm in my conscious.

"Hermi- shhh, Hermione, I need you to sit up. You need to keep those eyes open okay?" Harry was talking to his best-friend. She must have been hit by something because she was panting rapidly, and making pitched moaning cries.

B-r-e-a-t-h.

"Help other people Harry, I'll get some—ngh—, oh god, help from one of the medi-witches. It's not that bad, I just got hit with something that,"--sharp intake of breath—"something that makes me feel really cold. It'd simply superficial, not internal." Hermione Granger, ever the scholar, even when in immense pain, I thought to myself.

Harry nodded, and turning towards me, saw that I was still alive.

B-r-e-a—.

I must have closed my eyes, because when I had looked up again, my head was gently cradled between his palms. "Hey, you have to stay awake. I have a medi-wizard coming soon." I must have vaguely nodded because he looked a little relieved.

"So to keep you awake, I'm going to prattle on like an idiot, okay? My name is Harry Potter, and asking how you are would be redundant." He shifted, looking uncomfortable, but continued speaking. "I'm not exactly sure what year you're in, because I haven't seen you around Hogwarts before."

B-r-e--.

I wasn't taking any healthy breaths by this time, and he had known it. His eyes shadowed over, and an intense, feral look passed over his face before being wiped clean.

"I—I—wan-ted to a-sk you so-me-thin-g," I stuttered out, coughing a little.

"Anything," he replied intently.

"Wha-t's you-r fa-vor-i-te t-ype of i-ce-cr-e-ame?" My question must have caused a violent reaction of surprise, but at this point my eyes had lost all focus and the pain was seeping through pores and all thought.

B-r—.

My breath was just hitching at this time, and he quickly replied, "Cookies and Cream, my favorite ice cream is Cookies and Cream."

I gave him a little quirk of my lips, a thank-you, before fading into the abyss. As I swirled between worlds, I thought of my last few minutes. It had been a trivial question for sure, but one that lead me to my simple thoughts. I broke down my thoughts, the ones that had plagued me as an eleven year-old. Why did the world turn? Why did people cry tears? What was my favorite colour? What was Harry Potter's favorite ice cream flavour? And while I never figured the world out, while I shouldn't have ever gotten obsessed with a simple boy that had the fate of the world in his palms, all I had wanted to know was something so trivial, something that held no impact-value to feel as if the world was okay without me.