First Day of My Life
Hey, readers, this is my first fanfiction. I've read a few in the past, and hopefully I live up to the legacy that is Harry Potter. Review! I love constructive criticism.
Prologue
There's something odd about being a teenager.
In a teenager's mind, they know all, see all, can do all. But the trick themselves into thinking that they're indestructible. That no one can beat them. That they are absolutely fearless. They lie and tell themselves they can handle anything that's thrown at them. That they can stand strong on their own, and face the world.
Until they meet that person.
THe person that changes it all, changes them. That person brings them back into reality again, and she'd light on their personality. That person is the constant reminder that they are vulnerable. But that they can always have someone by their side to help them.
I've seen this happen. Damn, I've lived it. I was lost before I let her in.
She gave me her secrets, and I gave her mine. Our soul's intermingled and our hearts were shared.
It was beautiful.
She was beautiful. I'd never known anyone like her. Growing up, I had never paid her that much attention, but now, it was the complete opposite. She was always on my mind, day and night. She visited me in my dreams, and when I woke up, I knew exactly where I wanted to be.
By her side.
But she was just as hopeless as I was. Just as lost as I was. Was it possible for someone unable to even help themselves be able to save me?
Yes.
I whole heartedly believe she was the one who saved me from myself. From who I could have become.
Meeting her was the first day of my lie.
Chapter 1: I thought family friends were supposed to be actual friends.
I traced the forgotten raindrop patterns with my eyes as I felt the rhythm of the wheels turning grow steadily faster until the countryside was just a blur of grey. I sighed, slumping in my seat, looking around at the empty compartment. There were too many of those this year on the train. We barely filled half of the Hogwarts Express, a thank you owed to one infamous Lord Voldemort.
What will this world amount to if it's driven mad by crazed villains? I wondered to myself, following the raindrops flying across my window with the tip of my finger.
I turned away from the depressing scenery and grabbed my leather over-the-shoulder bag. I had charmed t so that it would fit almost everything I needed to keep close to me inside. I reached my arm in and tentatively felt around inside, looking for my sketchbook and charcoal.
Bingo.
I drew out my art supplies carefully, and stared at the blank, crisp new page. A few years back I vandalized my sketchbook and tore off the front and back cover. Now it was a mystery as to where it started and where it ended.
Just like my life.
It seemed new enough, just beginning and open to whatever I fancied. But at the same time, I had no clue as to where it ended. Maybe it was five pages from now, or ten years. Feeling suddenly superstitious, I turned the next page cautiously.
Blank.
For an unknown reason, I breathed a sigh of relief, and began to sketch my view of the hallway and neighboring compartment across the way. It wasn't much, but still it was something. Usually I spent my time sketching one of my friends-Drew or Luna or whoever else was in my usual compartment. But this year I hadn't had time to find them on the train. I quickly gave up on my drawing a few minutes later, deciding in a frustrated huff that it was doomed to failure and a waste of a picture. I stopped short, remembering one of the few bits of artist advice my father had preached before he had died.
I ran crying to my father, holding my new, shiny sketchbook in my five ear old hands. The page was tearstained and bearing a large, dark X through it. My father knelt down next to me as I tearfully showed him my ruined picture.
"Ari, what happened?" he had asked, his voice warm and rich, flowing like caramel..
"I messed up in my new sketchbook. I'll never be a great artist like you, Daddy," I had choked out between whimpering sobs. He gently took my sketchbook and studied it with a knowing eye.
With me being a fiver year old, I automatically assumed he would agree with me, and tell me to do better next time. After all, what were a five year old's scribbles compared to an art genius?
But instead, he had smiled and turned the sketchbook around so we could both see.
"You thought this was a mistake?" he asked. Of course I nodded my head, wiping away the steady stream of tears in the process. My father looked me in the eye and his tone became slightly more serious.
"Ariadne, I don't want you to think that just because at the time it seems like you made a mistake-even f it looks damaged beyond repair-never write it off as a failure. Maybe you'll comeback to it and make it right one day, or look back and realize that the mistake was only disguised as a failure, but was really what the picture needed all along. And if it's neither of those, making mistakes is how we learn, alright? It's the only way we can get better and not make them. Remember those three things, Ari, promise?" I had nodded, and he had handed me my new sketchbook with a ruffle to my head. I flounced out of the room, beaming with this new found knowledge.
It wasn't until years later that I realized he wasn't just talking about art.
I sighed again at the memory of my father, and flipped pages back until it came to the picture I was looking for. A hand drawn, faded pencil picture of a younger me and my alive father, enchanted so that we danced goofily around the living room, me standing on the toes of his shoes. He was beaming at me, and I grinned my five year old smile, and we twirled awkwardly around the page, laughing every so often. In the corner was a note I had read a million times, scribbled in my father's messy handwriting.
Ari-
Don't ever forget
that I love you.
Someone is always
looking out for you in
the world.
Love,
Daddy
I fought back age old tears, and I bit my lip and hastily flipped back to today's picture, and beyond to the next blank page. I shoved my sketchbook forcefully back into my school satchel, along with my piece of charcoal that had broken into three parts when I had clenched it too hard. As I zipped up my bag, I noticed the dusty, black finger prints scattered on the brown leather. I groaned, and held my hand up, knowing the answer already.
Covered in charcoal.
I wiped my bag on the seat and set it up on the rack with m clean hand. I paused for a moment to think, then grabbed my school robes. The Ravenclaw emblem grinned at me like an old friend, as I made my way into the corridor.
The cold water splashed up on my ace as I brusquely scrubbed at my hands, my movements jerky and tense. Thinking about my father-my family- made my emotions run hot and cold.
Unlike this faucet. Which obviously only ran cold.
"Damn," I swore under my breath. You would think a couple of wizards could fix one defective, ice cold faucet. I flung the useless temperatures knobs to the right, shutting off the water with one last icy splash. I quickly wrung my hands with the old, faded, rough hand towel, and slammed it down on the rack. Then watched as it plopped tauntingly to the floor, splattering water all over my shoes.
"Stupid..." I muttered, kicking the towel into the dust corner, and grabbing my bunched muggle clothes I had changed out of.
Whatever.
I opened the door forcefully-a little more forcefully than I intended.
"Blood hell!" I heard someone shout rom the other side. All anger vanished, replaced with concern. That is, until I closed the door and realized who I had hit.
Bleach blonde hair, glaring grey eyes, smug smile (which was gone, replaced with an angry scowl at the current moment), sporting brand new Slytherin robes, and as of recent, a large, red bump on his forehead.
Draco Malfoy.
I hadn't seen him for moths, with the brief exception of seeing him and his family on the platform for a moment from afar. He seemed weary and stressed, dark bags encircling his once, bright, grey eyes that used to gleam with a hint of mischievous. Now the were dull with sleep deprivation. Draco seemed more...tense and jumpy. But I wouldn't expect anything less, seeing as what he went through at the end of last year.
He glared daggers into my head.
"Watch where you swing doors, Schuler," he sneered.
"How is this my fault, Malfoy?" I scoffed, giving him my best 'You must be completely and utterly mental' look.
"This is obviously your fault. You hit me with that bloody door, you twat!" I raised my eyebrows in mild shock. Twat?
"Pardon me? Watch who you're calling a twat, Mr. Malfoy," I sneered tauntingly. He narrowed his eyes menacingly at me.
"Watch where you're flinging doors," he replied, raising his voice a little higher. As if volume would allow him to have the last word in this conversation.
"How am I supposed to telepathically know when stuck up, egotistical, blonde haired snobs are in the perimeter of swinging bathroom doors?" There actually was a simple spell to see what was on the other side of the wall. But that was besides the point.
"Look what you did to my head!" he yelled, feeling the large goose egg on his forehead tentatively. "You wait until my father hears about this!"
"Your father happens to adore me, so good luck with getting me in trouble!" I shot back immediately. And it wasn't a lie. Lucius Malfoy and his family were...old family friends, so to speak. I brushed past Malfoy impatiently before he had the chance to come up with anything remotely clever to say.
I finally reached my lonely compartment and sat back. Me and my stupid family issues. Making me hit people with doors. At least it was only Draco Malfoy, that insidious little bastard.
I exhaled deeply and allowed myself to cool off and get my mind off my dysfunctional family.