A/N: Hello! This is my first story on fanfiction, and I hope to do a good job! I'm really sorry if some of the characters go OOC, but I'll try not to! I'd love to get some reviews and some faithful readers; it's a real push to keep writing. I've been trying to decide how to write this story for a while, and I've put a lot of thought into the plot and into each character I create or use (from J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter books), so I'm really trying very hard. Please, read and enjoy! The beginning has nothing to do with Harry Potter, really, so it may seem a bit slow, but I'm trying to introduce Willow, her life, why she is the way she is, and her attitude towards life and other people, including herself. It's necessary to set up a firm beginning, don't you think? Anyways, here's the story!

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Harry Potter characters, nor the song "Dust In The Wind" by Kansas.

Prologue

It's amazing how a simple sunset can make you feel, how the images of beauty seem to warm you from your fingertips right down to the tips of your toes. I had always loved watching the sun set; I had the perfect view. I would watch atop a small hill every night, seeing the blueness of the water brighten and fade into a soft gold-orange color. The mountains on the other side of the water would darken into shadows, their outlines clear and distinct against the bright setting sun. The sky would slowly fade back, as I turn and face the west, from a dark red to a yellow, and, every so slowly, change into a light blue. One star, often to the south, would be visible in the light-blue sky, flickering on and off like a light bulb unwilling to die. From there, the sky fades to a deep, dark blue, the kind you can barely breathe in, the kind of blue you could swallow yourself whole in, and finally, black. Stars in the blackness appear from all over, flickering, twinkling; often caught laughing. I hear their voices in the wind, whispered words, hidden giggles, and silent smiles. A wind from the east blows and, shivering, the shawl is pulled quite close, like icing is pressed upon a cake. Suddenly, without warning, darkness envelops all, suffocating, strangling, contracting, gripping you tightly. The sun is gone and you're left in the cold dark. The sky is a giant blind-fold with little stars cut out, little beings of light to smile down. And though the cold air bites at your nose and your ears, gnaws and freezes your hands, numbs your thoughts with it, a grin will still break out. You close your eyes, memorizing every detail until you bleed with it, its magic still fresh, so strong about you that you can barely breathe. You're lifted higher, spinning out of control, until you fall flat on the soft earth...

These are my thoughts.

And with that last thought, and with the sky as a blanket, I close my eyes and sleep.

Chapter 1: Reality

It is the most hated word in all of the human languages. Without us even realizing it, we let that word morph into a supreme being who tells us what's real and what's not. It decides our beliefs and creates our boundaries, deciding what we can and cannot do. After awhile, it attacks us, destroying our concept of magic or believing in the unknown. Then it goes for something more precious; our childhood and our innocence. It closes in and suffocates, sucking us dry of the thoughts that there might be more. Life shouldn't be this way, we were meant to live for so much more than this. I have to escape reality.

I've been bullied my whole life to "let things go," to "get my head out of the clouds," and to (quite simply) "GROW UP!" But I don't want to grow up. I like to dream of magic and adventure, to imagine and believe in a world so unlike out own. People say, "Life is an adventure." To that, I have to laugh. An adventure? This life? Whoever said that must be reading the wrong books.

"Willow?" I heard my mother call. Sighing, I stood up, letting the breeze blow my hair from my face. Yet again, I had been sitting atop my favorite hill, about a quarter of a mile from my house, if I took the shortcut through the woods, anyways. The hill was more like a small cliff, covered in grass all the way down, and I would sit atop, staring at the trees below as the entire land around it is covered in forest. My hill faces a strait (a body of water with land on either side while connected to a larger body of water; a channel) and the dark mountains on the other side. We lived pretty far away from the rest of the town, which was fine with me. City lights, or even the simple lights of Suburbia cloud out the stars and darken the moon. You can see everything when you're alone.

"Willow?" I heard again. Rolling my eyes, I tucked my black hair behind my ears and took off for home. I was running through the woods at top speed, dodging the same branches I had been dodging for the past 12 years. I had discovered the hill as a four year-old, running from my father. He was yelling at me when suddenly he... anyways, I hid there until he calmed down and since then, it's been my own private spot. I take too many twists and turns for them to follow me anyways; over fallen logs, through sticker bushes, and now that I've found a shorter route, a 10 ft. wall, or mini cliff. Speaking of which, I need to climb over it. I leapt from the top of the small cliff and onto my rope, which I had tied to a thick tree branch from above. I swung to the ground and landed. It was but a moment later that I began running again. I climbed over the fallen trees and climbed up a tree, jumping to the next on and the next one to avoid the sticker bushes below. After that, I jumped to the ground and sprinted out of the woods. There was a burst of sunlight as I left the forest and I squinted.

"Willow! There you are." My mother exclaimed. I shielded my eyes and saw her walking towards me. "Come help me with dinner, and then you can go back to your secret place." She said, rolling her eyes at my 'childish behavior'. I laughed.

My mother was a beautiful woman. I often compared her with a wood nymph; she certainly reminded me of one. She had mischievous, twinkling, green eyes and fiery red hair with natural blonde streaks. She was petite with a thin, pointed face and dark, tan skin. She had a rosebud mouth, with the corners always tilted up in a hidden smile. With a nymph-like appearance such as that, it was no wonder to me how I got the name Willow.

"Honey?" She asked, concerned. I blinked twice, pulled out of the clouds. Grumbling, we walked back to the house, complaining about the dry weather. "It's killing all of my flowers!" Mother moaned. I chuckled; how like a nymph.

The grass was a deep springy green and the sky was a bright blue with a few thin, vapor-like clouds. The sun shone brightly, laughing merrily at the earth as it heated it. I sighed, wishing that something, anything, would happen in my life. I was living the same day over and over again, day in and day out... It wasn't much of a life. I hated it.

We walked up a small slope and there sat our small cottage. It boldly faced the world below our high peak on the middle of the Lone Mountain. The town in the valley between the Lone Mountain and the Abenfolly Mountain Range hustled and bustled with loud noises I could not hear, foul car fumes rising that I could not smell, and the activities of the people below of which I could not see. People say that I'm quite peculiar and blame mother for it, saying that keeping me away from the "healthy society" was the problem. I decided long ago that I'd rather be peculiar than boring like the rest of them. Our small town of Scottsdale was fully of nosy, gossiping people who were without true thoughts or interesting lives, and for that I pity them. To be completely devoid of actual, philosophical, or insightful thought is—

"Moira!" A sickeningly sweet and loving voice called. I looked up, losing my train of thought, seriously annoyed. "Moira my angel, my love! Come here!" My mother giggled and ran to the front door of the cottage, jumping onto Ren.

Ren is my stepfather and I hate him. He's never hit me, yelled at me, or abused me physically or psychologically (at least, he hasn't yet, but I believe it's only a matter of time). He cooks great food, cleans up the cottage, and has never tried to follow me out to my secret spot. He cares for my mother, loves her, and treats her with respect. You ask why I hate him? Maybe because he talks to me like I'm three years old. Or maybe it's because he's lived here since I was 7 and still messes up my middle name. Or maybe it's because he thinks he's my father. Or maybe—

"Hey Willy!" He called. I winced. "Come on in the house! It's getting late and I'd hate for you to get sick from the cold!" He put my mother down and kissed her. He mimed a very cold person, shivering and rubbing his hands up and down his arms for warmth, and then broke into a grin and waved me into the house. "Besides, I made pasta!" He finished in a singsong voice. I slogged into the cottage and rubbed my temples. "Willy, will you help your mom set up the table?" I gritted my teeth; I hated it when he called me 'Willy'.

"Whatever, Ren." I rolled my eyes with a sigh and walked to the cupboard. My mother grabbed my arm and turned me around as I opened it.

"Willow, I wish you would stop calling him 'Ren' and start calling him 'dad'. He's been a father to you since you were 7, and you still don't treat him with an ounce of respect!" I sighed and tried to turn away again, but she held me there. Her green eyes flashed dangerously. "I believe the correct response to his request is 'Yes dad, I'd be happy to help.'" I stared. She nodded, trying to get me to. I raised an eyebrow and snorted.

"Don't worry about it Moira, she's only a kid. Besides, I say we get on with the dinner! It smells deeeeeee-licious! I'm starving!" He said, rubbing his stomach enthusiastically. He and my mom laughed. I went into a small coughing fit with a pained look on my face, and spit in the sink.

"Willow, what was that?" Mother asked in a cautious tone, anger edging into her voice. I smirked.

"Sorry, I just threw up in my mouth a little." Moira and Ren didn't get it, but I still gave a dervish snort and laughed softly to myself.

Finally, I returned to the cupboard and pulled out three plates and three glasses. Setting them on the table, I grabbed three forks from the drawer. As I finished setting the table, Ren brought out a large crock-pot holding the pasta. He opened it and the room was filled with its good smells; I kept my face blank, only scowling when I came close to smiling from the rich aroma of his tangy pasta sauce. Mother served up the food onto each plate. I ate in silence while mother and Ren talked.

"...The man was completely out of control, raving and yelling like a lunatic. So I pulled him aside and said, 'Mister, you better calm down and rationally explain the problem to me. If you don't, then you can wait outside of my office until you're willing to! No need to make a spectacle of yourself!'" My mother smiled at him proudly and brushed a tendril of his dark brown hair away from his face. I stopped paying attention to my food and watched them, disgusted.

"You handled it beautifully, darling." I sat there, trying to ignore them. I wasn't really eating; I was just kind of pushing the pasta around on my plate. Mother noticed. "Willow, eat your food; stop playing with it." I scowled at her. I hated being home.

"Relax Moira, she's just a kid. She'll start eating like a young lady before you know it... and then she'll be off to college and all grown up..." He trailed off, staring at me with watery, pale blue eyes. "She's growing up so fast, Moira. We've got to treasure the simple moments like these. In a couple of years, you'll wish our little Willow Anne (I cringed) was still playing with her food."

I stared at him in disgust. Did he just say "our" Willow? As in, I was his daughter? And he messed up my middle name, again! I turned to my mother, praying for some sanity from her. Sadly enough, I found none. She stared back at me, tears welling up in her eyes and she nodded to Ren.

"You're right," She said softly. "Oh Ren darling, thank you for putting into the right perspective for me." I wrinkled my nose and scrunched up my eyes in a confused glare, my mouth partly open in surprise.

"First of all, my name is Willow En, not Anne. Second of all, I'm not your daughter and you're not my father, Ren. Third of all, I'm 16 years old! I'm not a child!" Mother slammed her hand down on the table.

"Go to your room." She said quietly. I stood up, pushing my chair back hard, and walked to my room. I grabbed my acoustic guitar (which was in it's soft case) and hung it on my back, turned around, and walked out the front door. "Willow En Daelin! I told you to go to your room!"

"I did go!" I shouted. "But now I'm leaving!" I slammed the big blue door shut and ran down to the forest. Father had only painted it blue because I begged him; blue was my favorite color when I was three.

Realizing that I wouldn't be able to get through the sticker bushes and up the little cliff with my guitar (without damaging it through the soft case), I turned right instead of left when I got to the forest. I was going to take the long way through the woods.

I wound my way through the trees quickly, in case Mother or Ren was trying to follow me. I reached a clearing with a huge oak tree dead center. Carved onto the tree was a large cross, but only I knew why the cross was there; it would help me find my way to my secret place. I knew because I had carved it there 5 years ago when I was 10 and a half. It was a few months before my birthday and I wanted to explore the woods. When I round this tree, I pulled out my pocketknife and carved the cross as a place-marker.

If you were to move forward from the cross, you'd find yourself at the edge of a much larger, much higher cliff than the one I sat at. If you were to turn right, you'd find a fast moving creek, and beyond that, the thorn fields. Those stretched for miles and miles... there was a large arch-shaped opening in the 20 ft. high thorn wall. Were you to move forward into it, you would find yourself at a fork. Taking the left fork will seem the safest route because it's wider than the right one, but it was much worse than the right fork. Eventually, the left fork path would grow narrower, ever so slightly, and soon you would find yourself surrounded by thorns, not able to remember where you came in from. It took me three hours to get myself of out that mess. The right fork, on the other hand, would lead to a small clearing. Pointless, but less dangerous than the left fork.

From the cross, if you were to turn left, you'd find a bog, and unless you knew the right path through, you'd either leave looking or smelling awful... or you wouldn't leave at all.

I turned left at the cross and myself in the stinky swamp. I managed to jump from rock to rock, a path straight through the bog, without slipping once. I moved on, jumping over the 4 ft. wide crevice, through some bushes, over a fallen log, and there was my secret place. I put my guitar case on the ground and opened it, pulling my acoustic guitar out.

I've been playing guitar since I was about 4, under Mother's teaching. We started slow learning the basic notes and chords, followed by scales. It took a lot of practice before I could slide from chord to chord without any problem, or being able to switch from part of a scale to a chord. Then, she taught me how to read and write tablature. Writing tab was a lot harder than reading it, I discovered. After that, she taught me how to play riffs, add distortion, and how to ear-read the different solos and chords that she would play or we would listen to. I learned how to "Travis Pick" and how to play even faster than I already was. Now that I play hours on end each day, Mother and I can't decide who is better.

"I close my eyes

Only for a moment

And the moment's gone

All my dreams

Pass before my eyes a curiosity

Dust in the wind

All we are is dust in the wind

Same old song

Just a drop of water

In an endless sea

All we do

Crumbles to the ground

Though we refuse to see

Dust in the wind

All we are is dust in the wind

Now, don't hang on

Nothing last forever,

But the earth and sky,

It slips away

And all your money

Won't another minute buy?

Dust in the wind

All we are is dust in the wind."

Travis Picking was difficult at first, but natural now. "Dust In The Wind" was fun to play and it made me feel better. It's meaning was as clear to me as the thoughts in my head. Though strangely belittling, it was comforting. Imagine living your life knowing that in 50 years, what "happened at the prom" won't matter. Imagine living your life freely; it was as if the song was killing my thoughts of consequences. It made me numb, it made me turn off emotions. Apathy. My mother once told me that "apathy" would be my downfall. I still remember the argument...

"Stop talking that way... it scares me; you sound suicidal, almost..."

"I'm not suicidal; I just don't care."

"You can't push everything away, Willow! You have to let yourself feel once in a while or you'll wake up one day and find yourself to be a bitter old woman... you have to let people in."

"You let Father in. He hurt you." I whispered, challengingly. Her eyes flashed. I smirked, knowing I had hit a nerve. It was just what I needed in order to prove my point about what apathy can save you from.

"Yes, I let your father in, he left me, and I got stuck with you." Mother said. A muscle in her left cheek twitched. I stared at her blankly. "Don't you have anything to say to that? Aren't you angry?"

"No." I continued to stare.

"You can't tell me that didn't hurt you." She said in disbelief.

"Yes I can; it didn't." Her brow crinkled, hurt.

"How can you just turn off your emotions like that? How can you let what people say just... disappear?"

"It's easy. I just don't care. It really doesn't matter." I shrugged her off and started to walk to the woods when I heard her call after me.

"It'll be your downfall, Willow! Apathy will kill you! It'll suck the life right out of you, leaving you an empty, soulless shell! To live is to feel! You will die knowing nothing of life, and you'll regret it! You'll wish you had died young rather than feel that pain!" I whirled around, facing her, my face steady and calm though inside of me, rage flickered like a candle ready to explode.

"I am an observer." I said simply. "To observe doesn't take emotion. The more you let emotions out, the more they get in the way of observing. I take in the world with every breath and sigh I make while you..." I laughed darkly. "You never stop to record it all in your head. You forget all of the simple moments in life, only remembering the times when you felt extremely emotional. Rage, grief, pain, sorrow, pure happiness... Love. Hatred. Those things get in the way of seeing how beautiful and ugly things can be." She met my stare without blinking.

"If being an observer means to never experience any of those emotions, I wish you dead right now, where you stand. To keep you alive and live in the torment of never experiencing emotion is only something I would wish on my enemies." Her voice was low and harsh, anger reflecting in her eyes and she blinked away tears.

"What good is love when it leaves you with horrid, wretched things like me?" I spat out at her. "Apathy is going to save me from the hell you're living in! Ren has blinded you with his sweet words. Love does not, and will not, ever exist." Hatred flickered in my cold gaze, and I turned to walk away.

"Your father left for a reason, not because he stopped loving me!" She yelled out, almost desperately. I shook my head and smiled to myself, knowing how defeated she was..

"Love does not exist; get over it."

"Your words are poison to me." With that, she turned and walked away from me. I fled to the woods for comfort.

I blinked, returning from the memory. It was painful and I didn't wish to reflect on thoughts that would make me angrier with Mother. I couldn't allow myself to hold a grudge as big as this against her. I sighed and set the guitar down. I crawled forward to the tip of the cliff and watched sun slowly sink behind the mountains. Purple clouds dotted the skies and they moved across the blood-red sky in puffs. Deep inside me, I felt something stir, like something wild, like something raw, unused, awakening. The dark shadows of the mountains across the water loomed before me and I felt the sudden urge to run to them. I closed my eyes, legs folded beneath me, arms stretched out in front of me. I sat like that for an hour, just thinking, comfortably.

Then it hit.

When the wave of power hit me, I looked around, startled. Another wave. It felt like the sun was in my blood, burning me into ashes. My veins stood out even more clearly on my deathly pale skin.

"RECEIVE YOUR GIFT!" Someone screamed in my head. The voice was loud in my head and sent me crashing around; my head, it must have been splitting in two. I thrashed into a tree and fell, pain gripping me. I stood up and ran blindly into the woods. I met sticker bushes and they tore at the only parts of me not covered; my face, my neck, my arms and hands. I stumbled out, right on the cliff.

"RECEIVE IT!" The voice screamed again. It was a man's voice and it made my head ache. It was wrong, somehow, as though it weren't meant for human ears. There was too much power for it to be okay to hear.

I fell backwards, pain searing every bone in my body, and I writhed on the grass like a dying animal, back arched, face scrunched up in a silent scream.

It stopped.

My body was still aching and I breathed heavily, tears in my eyes. I had inherited my mother's beautiful green eyes and my father's silky black hair. My hair hung to my waist, straight, and perfect. I was horribly pale, as though I'd never seen daylight, and I was average height, underweight, and very developed in... some places. I would have died for my mother's tan skin or her perfect body... alas; I only inherited the size of her small feet, and the shape and size of her thin face. The rest came from my father's side of the family. I was too curvy; it was unnerving. I felt like an hourglass, but uncomfortably so.

I stood up and wobbled, pain shooting up through my legs. My knees collapsed beneath me and I fell onto them, my hands flat on the ground, helping brace the fall. I was breathing hard, confused, tired, and in pain. I rolled over, onto my back, and tried to sleep, but my dreams were filled with nightmares. Black shadows chased me, from monstrous forms that shrunk to wolf-like forms, and even a giant raven tried to peck at me in my dreams. Fire... fire was everywhere. Cold air hit my face, full blast. Shivering, I woke up. It was freezing, and I only had my black Dickies and black t-shirt on. I started shaking uncontrollably but kept my eyes closed when I heard someone speak.

"Wow..." I heard someone whisper by my ear. It was a boy's voice, low and matured; I could tell even though it was only a whisper. He smelled musky, but sweet. The boy was in awe of something, I could... smell it? No, that's not it.

"Shh... we don' want ter wake her..." Something large and heavy was draped over me. "Blimey, she's freezing! She'll catch 'er death out 'ere. What's she doin' out 'ere anyway?" A gruff voice said. The man was British. He smelled of... warmth. Compassion. Undying love for nearly all creatures. He was good. I was more relaxed, especially around this one. He smelled even more musky than the boy, but he smelled of a forest and animals of all kinds.

"Are you sure she's the one?" The boy asked. He was dark, deeply mistrusting, and angry. No, confused. Afraid. No, not afraid; terrified. He was good, but deeply troubled. I tensed. The boy noticed. "She's awake. Do we leave?"

"No," The gruff voice said. "We have ter watch 'er..."

After a while, I fell asleep, finally warm, and I was without nightmares. I finally woke up, without opening my eyes when I felt someone touch the side of my face. I sniffed the air; it was the boy.

"She's awake." The boy said again. He had a beautiful voice, somewhere between that of a tenor and a low bass. It was pleasant and I sighed happily. "What do we do?"

"We leave." I heard the gruff voiced person get up and he grabbed the boy. I could hear him grab his hand and drag him away. I froze as I felt soft, cold hands grab my arms and then let go.

"We can't leave her yet; she needs us to watch her!" The boy argued.

"No." The boy sighed.

"Don't worry, we'll come back for you." The boy whispered. I opened my eyes. There was nothing there. It was a dream, and nothing more.