The first few weeks of class passed swiftly. Eventually, everyone settled into a routine that would become their lives for the next year. Wake up. Eat. Go to classes. Eat. Study. Eat. Play. Sleep. It seemed kind of monotonous, but there was a certain charm to it that everyone welcomed easily.

Groups were formed and friendships reaffirmed as people began making plans for the times spent away from classrooms. During the first Hogsmeade trip, I found myself leaving that castle later than the masses, having enjoyed a morning of solitude in the library. Whilst I did stop to buy some chocolate frogs and licorice ropes from Honeydukes, I soon made my way to a small hill overlooking the village. Nestling myself at the trunk of a older tree, I could watch the activity of the town from afar as well as enjoy a book which I had brought with me.

As I munched away at my goods, I lost myself in the pages of another world. Only when I noticed my fellow peers beginning to trek back to the castle did I finally stand up and follow slowly, taking small bites from an apple I had snagged from the Great Hall that morning.

Fall was most certainly in the air, with crisp air that felt most refreshing. Leaves were beginning to change colors and soon, I knew that the branches would be barren, awaiting the arrival of the fresh growth of springtime.

Of all the seasons, autumn was most definitely my favorite. There was something about it that just made me feel calm. It was transitional, but something all of it's own. And every year, I watched in silent awe as the world shifted and brilliant hues of orange and red danced across the landscape. It truly was a thing to behold.

The one thing I didn't like was just one day. One measly 24 hours.

September 29th came around every year, it was inevitable. A constant reminder of my loss, my pain. September 29th.

She was born on September 29th.

She died only forty years later.

Four decades for someone who deserved four thousand.

It seemed like such a final thought. Death. And it was. Death was it.

But rarely did people look around death, look to see the destructive path is lay to bear. Sure, death is final for one person, but to everyone else… the ones who cared… it was everlasting.

September 29th.

Happy Birthday, Mom.

I was late for class that day. A majority of my morning had been spent lying awake in bed, quietly going over the photo album I kept hidden in my trunk. My mom smiled up at me from the pictures that scattered across the pages. It had been a gift from my dad, about a month after she had died. He had collected as many pictures as he could of her, eager to let me remember as much as I could. Now, it was my most cherished possession.

Today was her birthday. Because of that, it was one of the worst days of my year. The only competition being the day of her death.

Pulling my hair up into a rather sloppy ponytail, something unlike me, I rushed down the stairs in a hurry and walked through the common room swiftly, ignoring the dirty stares and the whispers about my family. Honestly, by this point, their close-minded behavior had become quite annoying. Many of their parents had witnessed and been a part of the battle against Voldemort yet they were falling prey to the same type of prejudices.

Why would I care to be friends with any of these people when their values were so obviously construed?

Because of my absentminded thoughts, I didn't realize hitting another person as I exited the common room until my bag spilled onto the floor, the contents dispersing on the stone.

"Umph." The person I hit let out in shock.

"I'm so sorry. I wasn't paying attention." I hurried out quietly, moving down to collect my things.

"Not a problem. Here let me help you with that." A male voice exclaimed as he too leaned down and began gathering a few excess papers.

Standing up, he handed them to me and I finally got a glimpse of his face. I had run into James Potter of all people.

My stomach twisted slightly in anticipation of the onslaught. Whilst I don't believe he'd ever actually spoken to me, I couldn't help but fear his family and the Weasley's above others. They had so much power within our school and their numbers were so vast that I had always steered clear of them.

It didn't help that this was James either, of course I would run into to him out of all of his many relatives. For some unexplainable reason, I had always had a slight crush on him. Whether it be the way he was always laughing, encouraging happiness wherever he went, or the way his hair always somehow managed to look perfect even when it was so clearly not. Or his smile and how infectious it was or maybe how he simply had never spoken a word to me, refraining from taking part in the everyday torment of the "Malfoy girl". There was just always something about him that made me calmer… happier.

I startled slightly, but he didn't seem to be upset at me. Instead, he looked at me curiously, as if waiting for me to say something. When I didn't, his eyes drifted down before he spotted something in my hand.

"Your mom?" He asked.

My throat constricted as I saw the picture of her looking happily at the camera, the one I kept in my bag at all times. It was my favorite of her. One hand waved towards my dad, who had been taking the picture, whilst I was cradled carefully in the other.

"Yeah." I responded quietly, my voice slightly wavering.

"She's beautiful."

"Ya she was…" I said softly. "Today's her birthday. She would've been forty-four."

I looked up quickly, shocked that I had spoken. Usually I wasn't in such a sharing mood but I suppose that my mind was elsewhere.

It scared me, the look he wore, the softening of his eyes. And I soon realized my mistake. Turning quickly, I muttered something about being late for class and hurried away from him, eager to forget the whole exchange.

Because I had given him an edge.

James Potter knew my weakness.

But, as I recalled the strange look in his eyes as he observed me… not one of loathing or cynicism but rather interest and sympathy… I realized that I might have more than one weakness. And that he might just be one of them.

I dwelled on this thought for nearly the whole day, barely paying attention to my classes or conversing with anyone. Both saddened by my mother's birthday and intrigued by James, I didn't spare much thought to anyone else.

Until later that afternoon, when I was finally drawn from my musings by a boy with whom cruelty was an old friend.

Markus Crowe.

He was a broad fellow, with dark hair and a sinister smile. Usually, he was well-liked by most of our peers, thought there were a select few who knew just how outrageously mean he could become. I never quite understood why he targeted me so, though I had heard rumors that death eaters killed quite a few of his family members long ago, during the war. He hadn't been alive then, but his older siblings had, and I suspect they told him all about my father, the crimes he had committed.

There were a few other students with death-eater parents. Not any in my year, though Markus cornered them just the same. I think that he gave the younger students an easier time, thankfully, that was all they needed. Me, however, there was something about me that just really didn't set with Markus. Perhaps there was a deeper history there, one where my family name was more prevalent, but one I didn't not know of. And whilst I thought it unfair that he target me for a reason I was not aware of, I recognized the need for an emotional outlet. He was a bully and, like most bullies, there was an underlying need for attention and the need to improve ones emotional standing by tarnishing another's. Quite a complicated thing but I had read a psychology book about it several years ago.

When Markus did corner me today, in a larger corridor after lunch, I resorted to my carefully crafted mask, indifference. He could say what he liked, but never would I give him the response he craved.

The taunts were usual: my father being a death eater… me being a loner. It was quite monotonous honestly, he never said anything more.

But then, something flipped. He kept going.

"I can't understand why anyone would ever want to be a part of your family. Bloody hell, what was your mum even thinking… marrying filth like your father?"

I started slightly, coiling in shock from his words. They sounded like poison but were sharp like a dagger. Looking around, I noticed a group of people gathering around, all looking on at the spectacle with mild interest.

That's what got to me the most whenever this happened… people would watch. They preached the brave qualities of their parents and taunted my own, yet here they stood, cowardly watching as my life was ridiculed to no end.

It was despicable.

"What? looking for your mum? Last I heard she was six feet under." Make taunted, looking at all of his friends and garnering support.

"Who knows… maybe your dad did it. He's a killer after all, isn't he? Tell me, are you like daddy… got a tattoo on your arm too?" Markus smirked nastily at me as his friends and the crowd around us began to snicker.

"Maybe… maybe your mom killed herself. You never know… I would if I had you as a kid."

And finally, for once in my life, I felt defeated.

Never had they spoke about my mom before. For some reason, I had thought there was some sort of code. Anyone who had known my parents… had known my mom… would never say anything so vile. I didn't know anyone could say something like that ever, despite not knowing her.

Losing a parent is the absolute worst thing that could happen to someone. I wouldn't wish is upon even my worst enemy, and having something so awful used against me made me feel about as terrible as the day it happened.

My throat contracted and I could feel the blood drain from my face as I stood looking at this boy who didn't know what true pain was like. There weren't words to describe what I felt in that moment.

I wanted my mom.

I took in a sharp breath, feeling as though I had been slapped a thousand times, and stepped backwards, retracting from the harsh blow of his words.

It was then when I finally realized that maybe people were just plain cruel… deep down to their core. For some reason, I had always believed in humanity, believed that there was at least some speck of love within everyone. But I had been wrong.

And I was so alone. But if being alone meant that I wasn't surrounded by such evil, then it seemed like the best option.

So I turned finally, my quiet footsteps bringing me farther and farther away from their torment. I hated how much it hurt. I hated how much I couldn't change. And, above all else, I hated how much I cared.