Midnight for the Nameless Witch
Prologue
Danica
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Where does the forging of spirit begin? What makes children the adults they become? Who is responsible for the actions of those who have never learned to question their convictions? Is it they, or the ones that created them? Is there a single moment in a human life when, in the space between two heartbeats, a decision can be made that will alter who you will become, forever? If there is, when would it come? And how would a person learn to recognize it?
My name is Danica, but this is not my story. I'm just the narrator, the facilitator, the stepping stone. I'm the mirror that reflects the story, that leads you through the door to where the magic starts. I am a lot like my sister in that respect. Invisible, silent, never to be noticed until I'm needed. Unlike Juliet, I've always known that was my purpose – to show what needs to be seen, at just the right time.
Now is the time.
We were nothing special, the group of us. Each of us had issues, of course. Draco's father was a violent psychopath. Pansy's mother was obsessed with always being young, thin, beautiful. We called Mrs. Parkinson "the vampire" because of what she'd do to pansy. Crabbe and Goyle's parents had always told them that they were worthless, stupid, pathetic, and only Juliet tried to push them past their own self-hate. Out of all of us, those two giants were the ones that managed to get my sister to do something totally unselfish for once. Blaise's mother hated him because he was a boy, and Ginny's mother loved her too much because she was a girl. Daphne wanted so badly to be invisible, and poor, ignored Astoria wanted to tshine, but the two of them were cursed to bear the burden of the other's desire. Hannah wore the chains of tradition, and Neville wore the chains of inefficiency and clumsiness that told people he was less than what his family wanted. Even Luna, hiding behind the gossamer clouds of her own silliness, mourned for her newly dead mother. But none of us had anything special to us except, really, our own averageness. Even Draco, as rich as he was, only really had that to distinguish him. Just kids, all of us.
And hidden behind us all, never stepping out, was the girl who, if she were different, would have been the star of this story. But she was always running, always hiding, a blur that constantly flitted out of sight. She would dash away the minute anyone tried to pin her. We were the black velvet curtains behind which she hid, the mirrors that reflected emptiness to the world because she was a coward and refused to face the great, wide place the grown ups called real life.
Someone else would have stepped up to the plate and acknowledge that she was the centerpiece, the solar flare, the beginning of the story. But not Juliet. Not my selfish, cowardly, uncaring, lonely sister.
Most stories are about heroes. Most stories follow the lives of warriors or mystics, great defenders and princes and kings. But not this story. This story is the tale of one girl who made the choice to hide, so that she would never have to show the world just how ordinary she really was. Because no one wants to read about a strange, runaway witch girl who has no talents and can only say she had one real skill – accepting. And no one wants to read about someone who refuses to move past their own problems.
But she was always there in the background, watching, listening, and accepting. The binding of the book, the spine of the story. Saving her strength, her heart, her passion, for the one big thing we all knew she would have to do one day, even though she denied this was so. I'm not sure what it is she's supposed to do – saving the world, saving someone's life, having a baby who'll do either one, becoming Head of the Auror Department or the newest addition to the ranks of Dark Witches. Something like that. But she hasn't done any of that stuff, doesn't want to. Like I said, Juliet's a selfish coward. The fight against Voldemort – which raged from before we were born and ended only six months ago – is over, and it seems like we're still waiting for her to do that one, big thing.
Maybe it's a lie. Maybe there is no big thing. Maybe she's just a lazy, selfish witch who will never amount to anything because she's too self-absorbed to care about anyone else but herself. Maybe.
Then again, maybe not.
Maybe, just maybe, someone else can figure it all out. After all, that's not my job. My job is simple. I am the mirror – I reflect the story, give it to you, the listener, the reader, the seeker. I am only the narrator of this small piece of the story, the stepping stone from the present back into the past.
I am Danica Moon, and this is not my story. I belongs to Draco and Neville, the boys left on the side of the road by a prophecy about a Dark Lord and the end of an age. It belongs to the Slytherins: Daphne, Blaise, Crabbe, Goyle, and Astoria. It belongs to the Ravenclaws who loved us despite our flaws – Luna, Ralph, Parvati. To Hannah, Hufflepuff in name if not in heart. And to our Gryffindors – Ginny, Alicia, Colin, and Hank. Without all of them, there would be no story. Without our colors – green, blue, yellow, and red – there would be no rainbow. And without the truth behind the bare bones of history, our pain would not be the burden and the blessing it is. For without pain, the love in our hearts is less.
And all in all, this story belongs to my little sister, Juliet, who will always be there in the background, watching, finding the lies and truths behind everyone's masks, because hers are the most flawless of all.
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Author's Note: I don't own anything copyrighted by anyone who isn't me. For the record, Ralph and Hank are original characters. I'm trying to improve how I do boys. And I think the kid's name is Ralph (the Scamander kid Luna ends up marrying, I thought it started with an R) but it might be something else, so if it is, I'll go back and edit the chapters. Reviews are great.