Me: Hey guys, so this story just popped into my head one day while reading Vampire Diaries. If that makes any sense. Let me know what you think of it in the comments, and give me any pointers you can think of. I'm not perfect, but your critiques help me get a little closer each time. Anyway, I already have chapter 2 written and won't post it until I get 2 reviews. *cue devilish smile

Elma: But what about me?! I barely even feature in this chapter!

Amajla: You'll just have to wait for those two reviews, then, won't you?

Elma: But I'm not in the second chapter either!

Amajla: That's not my fault.

Me: Don't look at me like that! Fine, I'll give you a big 'ol section of chapter 3. Fair?

Elma: Acceptable.

Me: Whatever. Anyway, on with the story!

My pen dragged sloppy little lines across the page of my notebook. I tried to force my hand to stay alert and draw something at least close to the notes on the blackboard, but, like my eyes that refused to stay open and my head that kept nodding down after I jerked it back up, it didn't want to cooperate. I was beginning to become frustrated with myself. Everyday in every class I fought wave after wave of drowsiness, never completely falling asleep and humiliating myself, but always missing at least half of the lesson. I felt like crying every time that homework I didn't even remotely understand was dolled out. For the past couple of weeks I had spent every night stumbling into the library, promptly falling asleep, and waking up in just enough time to grab some textbooks before curfew. My roommates had begun to complain amongst themselves about my light being on until almost dawn.

But surprisingly, despite my nodding off sporadically in class and making my fellow seventh years a little grouchy, the school change had gone rather well for me and my family.

Mum and dad have worked as curators of magical artifacts for years, identifying their level of power, threat to wizard and muggle kind, and state of disrepair. We moved to Hogwarts because old Dark Arts relics from Wizarding War I were causing mischief in the Slytherin and Ravenclaw dormitories.

They say that when I was very little they traveled across the whole of the world, seeking adventure and learning the oddities of magic. My oldest memory is of playing soccer with a small group of children in a place called Bosnia(where my family originated). I picked up a few words from their spry, lilting language. It was a type of speech that either was sarcastic or hilarious, even if you didn't know what they were saying.

When I was six we settled for a few years in Germany, where my parents were helping the country's small wizarding population(called the Begabte) with a robe rumored to be cursed by Grindewald. By that time I knew small amounts of over 10 different languages and adapted to accents and regional mannerisms quite well, but German was different from all other languages entirely. It was thick and sluggish in the throat, the vowels often running together to take on a song-like quality. I became fluent in German after about 6 months, my brain being young and sponge-like when it came to new knowledge. In Germany Begabte children began schooling at the age of five, learning how to control their magic mostly, which put me ahead of my future peers at Ilvermorny by leaps and bounds.

We traveled to many different places when I was eight. My parents were needed everywhere it seemed, when one of the old Dark Lord's followers scattered one hundred dark arts objects to every corner of the globe. The man had been trying to ride himself of all suspicion that he was once a villain in Wizarding War II; but all he did was get himself found, kill thousands of innocents, and (I selfishly add) uproot my family.

When I was close to my tenth birthday we moved back to Bosnia. I picked up the language very quickly. It turns out speaking a language is like riding a bike or using chopsticks- you never really forget how. There were only 20 magical people there, partly because of the country's small size, but mostly because of the genocide that had occurred barely a decade and a half before. I hadn't noticed it when I was six, but Bosnia was a broken country full of broken families. We clung to each other and to our shared faith to try and stave off the pain.

I was taught magic in a neighbor's dirty, foul-smelling house close to the city's edge, with a girl a few months my junior named Elma learning alongside me. We were soon very close, and, as cliché as it sounds, we were more like sisters than friends. There wasn't a single aspect of Elma Beganovic that I wasn't privy to, and vice-versa. We both began menstruating on the same day, something both our mothers attributed to our being joined at the hip, and helped each other put on our first hijabs. My family was not very orthodox and said that it was my choice if I wanted to wear one or not, but Elma's family was very strict. I decided that either we both wore one or neither of us did. I loved my change in attire and felt closer to Allah and our faith than ever before. Elma, on the other hand, despised having to cover every inch of skin but her face and hands. We would walk to regular school and watch all of the girls who were unorthodox run around in shorts with their long hair out for all to see. I would think only of what they were missing. Elma could think only of how she was pushed to hide herself while her brothers were free to dress as they wished.

I got 6 years with Elma.

Elma slit her wrists and bled out in my bathtub when we were 16. I was the one who found her. She had dug into my old things and pulled on some jeans shorts and a paisley patterned tank top. She shaved her legs, underarms, and arms. She painted her face with makeup. Her hair was out of its bun and floated like an island in the pink water. It was four hours until my parents came in to wake us up for breakfast, finding me clutching the limp, pale form of her with my whole body and shaking from head to toe. I refused to let go of her, I cried out and fought every time somebody so much as touched me. Elma's mother was unresponsive, staring at the unmoving form of the most important girl in her life with glazed eyes. Even after a day and a half, it took the combined power of my father and Elma's three brothers to pry me off.

"Hey." Someone shook my shoulder, making my head snap up. It was Professor Longbottom. "Sorry, I'm terrible with names…..um…."

"Amajla Mrzlak. But you can call me Anna if its easier." I say, hurriedly packing up my things when I see the emptiness of the herbology classroom. I actually fell asleep this time. Great.

"Amajla's not so hard. Easier for me to remember, really." He rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "Anyway, the class ended about 30 minutes ago. I thought I might wake you in time for dinner."

"I'm so sorry professor, I truly didn't mean to disrespect you by sleeping in your class." My face turned a brilliant shade of red and my hands began to shake in mortification.

"I'm not going to say that it was okay, but I know you didn't mean any disrespect." He cleared his throat and began to wring his hands. "I just thought that since, erm…..Well there was a staff meeting when you came-"

"I am very sorry to interrupt you professor, but could you please give me a detention?" I fidgeted with the bag on my shoulder and stared at the small hole in my left stocking. "You gave that boy Thomas one for sleeping last week."

"Are...are you sure?" I jerked out a nod. Professor Longbottom stood there awkwardly for a moment, opening and closing his mouth, trying to say a million different things but thinking better of them right before they passed his lips. Eventually he strode over to his desk and scribbled something on a bit of spare parchment. He duplicated the paper with his wand, sending one copy away- in the direction of the castle, presumably to Headmaster McGonagall's office-, and handing the other over to me. His hand was chilled and sweaty as it accidentally passed over mine.

There it was. My first ever detention slip. I deserved every sloppy cursive letter and spelling error in my name.

Request for Punishment

Professor Longbottom

Seventh Year Advanced Herbology

Second of February

Amailah Merslack

Sleeping during lecture period.

One 2-hour session recommended, to be served on the coming Monday.

Assisting the Grounds-keeper also recommended.

I sighed heavily. It wasn't a secret to Professor Longbottom that I loved to help Hagrid care for the animals. I was, for all intents and purposes, Hagrid's unpaid assistant. The half-giant often sent me running to the green house for medicinal plants or to check on the growth of his favorite tea. Hagrid claimed that the best and only tea to drink was grown by 'little Neville'. Hagrid said that he often bragged to Professor Longbottom about the knowledge and cleverness of his protégé. It took me a while to figure out that the 'protégé' was me.

I wanted to argue against my teacher's pity-driven decision to make me do something that I would have done anyway, but I just didn't have the energy.

"Thank you Professor. I'm really very sorry about falling asleep, your class is one of my favorites." I looked up from my detention slip when there wasn't an immediate answer, only to find that he had already left. I awkwardly walked back to the castle as if on new, completely non-dexterous legs.

The health craze hit Britain hard in the late stages of Hogwarts' reconstruction. Yoga, high intensity interval training, veganism, vegetarianism, needlessly going gluten-free, Buddha Bowls, and everything 'low cal'. It was all the rage among the students, almost as popular as wearing leggings as pants. Even though that was almost twenty years ago, the fad still continues with vigor today. There are different sections in the house tables, each with a place for every person with every dietary need in existence. A gym was added to every common room, a track was placed around the Quidditch pitch, swings were put on the limbs of the Womping Willow, a soccer field was made, and, of course, the Everything room was installed.

The Everything room was just a regular mugglish locker room upon first glance; equipped with showers, fluffy white towels, vented cubbies, toilets, the usual; but the real commodity was in its doors. Lining every spare inch of pale lilac wall were tall, dark brown double doors, each with a wooden plaque above the frame stating its purpose. A student would simply need to find the right door for whichever activity they wished to do, keep in their head whether they wanted to be alone or join other students, and walk in. There was literally every sport imaginable, even ones that you wouldn't expect at all. Thee was indoor mountain climbing on a real mountain, yoga in a room with walls that change to depict your favorite landscapes and music that changes according to your desires, a giant trampoline room with trampolines literally everywhere(set stairs-like in the air, on the ceiling, and covering the walls), a surfing room with endless rolling seas, and a tether-ball court that even generates opponents for those who wish to play solo.

I go to the Everything room everyday. I often spend hours in there, exercising away all of my cares. I like to pretend that each bead of sweat is a trouble that I will no longer have to deal with. But tonight I'm not seeking a physical outlet, but a place where I know that I am truly alone. I zipped down the changing staircase, blessedly unhindered by student traffic because of the ungodly hour. Without hesitation, ignoring the irate cries of sleepy portraits as my wand light passed, I thought of being alone and bounded into the Meditation Room.

I immediately collapsed on the soft, cushy floor. The meditation room conforms into whatever relaxes a person most, and apparently I happen to be comforted by ginormous pillow fort with several stories, unending fluffy blankets, a roaring fireplace, endless amounts of diet soda in every flavor imaginable, a huge flatscreen playing Fraggle Rock, Disney, and Nickelodeon; and the constant sound of thunderstorms in the distance. Magic is very specific.

I try to cleanse my mind as I unenthusiastically watch Jump In!, blankets enveloping me like the poblano in chiles en nogada, a frosty vanilla orange Crush in my hand, and a tower of pillow fort swaying above me like a crib.

A dark and twisted image from the nightmare I am so desperately trying to forget pushes itself to the front of my brain. I was holding a girl in Thunderbird robes, snogging her heatedly against the inner stone wall of Isolt Tower. Her hands were clutching the front of my robes; my fingers were under her rear, trying to pull her higher, closer. My blood sang and flowed downward pleasurably. We came up for breath and I opened my eyes to tenderly glance at my partner. Instead of a soft face and lust-filled eyes, I found only a torn and bloodied hijab suspended before me by some strange human-shaped force. The cloth was nearly unrecognizable in its filth and direpair. Nearly.

I fiercely rubbed my palms against my eyelids, as if force would shoo away the horrific image. I looked back at the TV, which was now playing Spongebob. He was alone in his house with a used napkin, a potato chip, and a penny. It was most definitely not what I needed to see.

The TV promptly changed to Drake and Josh. I watched apathetically as the two brothers failed in infiltrating their conniving little sister's room. The screen chugged right along, undeterred, though Spy Kids, SpeakOut, Recess, Kim Possible, Bagpuss, Hallo Spencer, Max and Ruby, etc. As the minutes progressed into hours I slowly slipped from the suffocating grasp of my nightmare and back into reality.

The light of the TV began to tone down as my eyes fluttered, but I forced them back open. I would not risk sleeping again. Maybe the next dream would be of me eating out a Gryffindor who just happened to be the spitting image of her.

The lights continued to fall and the TV noise dimmed to highlight the crashing lightning outside.

Just like in Herbology the day before, my eyelids fluttered without my control and my body went slack…..

"I...I….I…." My voice quavered almost as fiercely as my body. "I don't know how to..."

"Shhhh. Its okay. You're okay. You're more than okay. You're beautiful."

"I love you. So much. You're perfect, Elma. I want this."

"Shhhh…..Shhhhh. Its okay." A tear slipped down my cheek, and I let out a small sob, overwhelmed by the feeling of nothing between us, no more barriers to keep us apart. "Shhhh, shhh..."

Me: Alright, here we are at the end! Don't forget to give me your critiques, even the little ones count! And remember, if you want to see the next chapter of this story, I need at least 2 reviews! If you are from Bosnia/Herzegovina or are of the Islamic religion and find my story offensive or incorrect, please tell me! That was most definitely not my intention! I have grown up in a very diverse school with a large population of Bosnian immigrants, so all of the names and concepts come from my classmates. I will take the story down and edit it to fix whatever is culturally inaccurate. Thanks for reading!