A/N: Hallo everyone. My apologies for the long delay. I was off dealing with life for a couple years. Not sure how many of you will still be reading this, but I think we all know that reviews are always appreciated.

I'm just getting back into the swing of things, so sorry if this isn't what you're used to. Enjoy :]

I come back from the loo again, and look out the window. The rain has started up again, thick, fat drops that smack and streak against the train. My mind still on Hogwarts, I think back to a February so long ago.

While everyone else was fussing about Valentine's Day and French exams, I focused more and more on my technique. Years later, reflecting on that time with Hermia, she mentioned how much more serious I became. While I still joked and played like your average eleven year old, I had grown an immense amount in a short period of time.

I worked almost religiously, finishing all my homework at light-speed, so I could sleep early—and wake early. I would rise from bed in the dark every morning, and go for a run around the lake. Then, I would find an empty studio—it was never hard at that time of morning—and practice on all the infinitely small aspects of my dancing.

Of course, I improved quickly, and others noticed. Gemma especially noticed, glowering at me. Adelaide told me not to be bothered by her—she was just jealous. Though I did get a small satisfaction from it, I was hardly bothered by Gemma any longer. In rehearsals, though sullen and bitter, she no longer attempted to upstage me. Shadow Dance pulled together, slowly and surely, under the hawklike gaze of Madame McGonagall.

One morning in early March, as I stood in bedraggled sweats and threadbare socks, clutching the barre, slowly rising again and again onto my toes, feeling the slight burn of my muscles, a cough broke my concentration. I looked up, startled, and saw Monsieur Dumbledore.

"Oh! Sir—I'm sorry, sir, I didn't see—"

"No need to apologize," He said, smiling. In the dim light, his half-moon spectacles still gleamed, "What are you doing up so early, working so hard?"

I—shy girl that I was—didn't met his eyes. Thoroughly engrossed in the loose threads of my socks, I muttered, "Oh, just... practicing, working, you know. I just want to... do better." I glanced up, to see him still smiling, observing me with a look that almost seemed like pride.

"Do better? But, Miss Evans, you must—by this point—have realized your skill. You must be aware that you are top of your class."

I still didn't meet his eye. I was so utterly modest, it was hard to admit—but I had realized that, out of all the students in my year, I was one of the most advanced, "I had...noticed, sir, but..."

"But?"

Now, I looked at him, a sudden, strange burst of confidence rushing through me, "But one can never stop improving, right sir? One can never believe that just because they are at the top means they have no where else to go. Sir, I don't want to be better than anyone else—I just want to be the best I can be—" I stopped quickly, realizing how blatantly cheesy my small monologue had become.

I realized that during my whole outburst, our eyes had locked. His face was once more filled with that inexplicable pride. "Of course, Miss Evans," was all he said, "I'll let you back to your work, shall I? Have a good breakfast."

And he turned, and left. I stood, staring after the man. It had seemed, in his simple "of course," that he verified every thought that had passed through my head in the last months. It had seemed that in his small smile, he had understood exactly why I was working so hard, and why I felt the need to, even when I was at the top of my class.

I found myself staring at myself in the mirror—small, pale, dressed in bland, too-large sweats, with my flaming red hair pulled loosely up. I walked slowly to the stereo and—not knowing what was about to come on—pressed play. The strange, haunting music of a single violin filled the small studio.

I began to dance. I let the music pull me, turn me, push me, change me. I moved slowly, the quicker. I reached high, turned, reached low. I danced. It was exhilarating. I felt that this small, once broken body of mine could accomplish anything. The music faded, and I was left, no sad, but breathing hard, grinning. I went to breakfast.

Potter was the problem I had yet to figure out. Though he had long since stopped trying to apologize or fix what had been done, I often found him staring at me from across the breakfast table—or worse, found myself staring at him. Though the thought of him brought on a thick, heavy rush of anger, I couldn't stop remembering the feeling I had when I first met him—a feeling, strangely, of fate, or, more precisely, naturalness. Yet I always brushed it aside, scoffed it away, reminding myself of the hatred I held for that dashing, dark-haired, cruel, nasty boy.