The Scarlett Secret
Presents
300 km/H in the Wrong Lane
Oh God, look at me. I'm a mess. I'm so scared right now. I always know what to do- always. I'm the girl nearly half the school's girls turn to if they need help or advice, I'm always the one in control of the social scene, knowing what to do to make it all happen like magic. I'm even scared to look in the mirror- and that's saying something. I'm the kind of girl who looks at windows in passing, except I don't look through them. I look at them, at my own reflection. I'm sure my mascara's running and my face is without doubt blotchier than the time I got mad at Draco for pinching my butt and threw a bitch-fest in the common room about it. Not that I'm a prude or anything- there's no way I'm a pansy like that Hermione Granger girl. Except that's just what I am: a Pansy.
Pansy Pamela Parkinson, to be exact. Yeah, I know I'd be the laughingstock of the entire school if they knew my middle name. But it doesn't matter, because they don't. I might die of embarrassment if they knew my middle name. Hell, I'd probably keel over from the blood rushing to my head. Which is exactly what would happen if someone barged in on my right now, which is exactly why I stole the prefects' bathroom and locked the door against any charms to unlock it. My father taught the charm to me, among other things, this past summer.
You probably think I'm a Voldemort worshiping clone, don't you? No, it's alright, everyone does. That's part of the reason I'm here right now, locking myself away, turning on the faucets, and crying in the windowsill. It's that bloody bastard-of-a-wizard who calls himself "Lord Voldemort". Lord of what exactly? Anyway, it's entirely his fault the world is in turmoil, entirely his fault I'm not in control of my own life, and entirely his fault I'm crying when I should be out flirting with Gryffindors and Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, only to leave them heartbroken on the floor.
You see, last night, I had this dream. A dream? you're thinking. She's sobbing because of a dream? Is she really that fucked-up? The answer is "yes". But in my defense, my dreams aren't made of the fluff yours are. I'm not about to tell you about some nightmare of torture and screams, no. In fact, it's just the opposite.
It all started really in Professor Trelawny's classroom. It was third year, and I'd finally gotten the courage to talk to the crazy old bat about these dreams I'd been having.
I shuffled my feet, taking my time to get out of the classroom, pretending to drop my books in order to stall for time. I shooed away my friends who were waiting at the door, and made my way to Professor Trelawny's desk.
"Er, Professor?" I asked, my voice cutting through the hazy air. The old lady jumped at least a foot in the air- that should have been the first tip-off that she was less a fortune-teller than just plain crazy if she couldn't foresee me asking a question after class.
"Yes, dear?" she asked, looking up at me through those huge glasses.
"I... I wanted to ask you about something."
"Go right ahead, dear."
"I've been having these... these dreams... lately..." I looked down at my feet, nervous, as she stood up suddenly and got this mad look in her eye.
"Is it possible?" she asked, more to herself than to me. "Do I finally have a student with... the talent? Go on, dear, tell me about these dreams!"
I told her about them- how they were so realistic, but my vision was always fuzzy on the edges, and in half of them no one talked to me, and in others, I was totally immersed in conversation. The wierd thing was that I could remember every detail of the dream even days after. In the first kind, where no one saw or paid attention to me, those same events would happen a day or so later, which really creeped my thirteen-year-old self out. In the second, I'd see the same events play out, but without me in them. Which was the opposite of how the dreams actually occured in my head.
Needless to say, Trelawny was overwhelmed, and told me to document these Dreams (she said it in such a way that the word had to have been capitalized) and get back to me on them, before flying out the door shouting about magic and wonders and Seeing. She even cancelled classes for the rest of the day. I actually did document my next Dreams and planned on telling her one day after class, but it was that same day that she asked me, very loudly, in front of the entire third-year Slytherin and Hufflepuff class, if I'd had any Dreams lately. Which resulted in snickering and reddened cheeks.
I'd lost my control over the class and didn't know what to do, so instead I fled the classroom. I went back and talked to her one day, saying the dreams were a fluke, and I'd just wanted to feel special, and could she please not tell anyone? I failed divination after that, despite the fact that I can successfully read tea leaves and the stars and planets in the clear nighttime sky.
Anyways, that was the start of it. I guess I'd had the Dreams as long as I could remember, but that was the point where they were longer than a few seconds and could be avoided and dismissed as déjà vu. They've gotten longer and more detailed over the past four years, but they've never had anything to do with the war- until last night.
I'm in front of the mirror now, fixing myself up. My hair's all over the place. I always keep it down, it's what Mother says is my best feature, and I have to "flaunt it". "Make them like you," she says. Whatever. I keep it down, straight, shoulder-length, and shiny to please her. She's gotta have some pleasure in life, right? The first dream I had that night was normal, but I guess I should tell you about it anyways.
It started with me riding the Hogwarts Express with Draco and his goons for the first time, them teasing me and me ignoring them. The dream was a little choppy, going from scene to scene. After the train ride was the Sorting Hat, being put on my head and, after some minor turbulence, shouting to the world that I was a Slytherin. Then came Draco, a few major crushes, learning to dislike Harry despite him being a rather nice bloke, summer holidays, my first time in bed (with Draco, of course), seeing Father come home from a "meeting" with blood-soaked stains, and learning to hide my emotions. All the while being in control, knowing what to do. These were all things that have happened to me, like a scrunched-up biography of the lovely Pansy Pamela Parkinson pushed into mere minutes. Then came the new part.
I was in a ballroom I've never seen before, but I know it's Draco's. Don't ask how, I just know. The ceiling is high and arched, decorated in marble and gold designs of cherubs and grape vines. I'm wearing a gorgeous red dress, low-cut in the front with virtually no back, just ties criss-crossing to hold up the sides. I sip champagne and socialize around the room, in control of the scene. But the thing that sends shivers down my spine is the feel of the room. I mean it's beautiful and everything, but something's wrong.
The people are mostly people I know from my parents or school, but despite knowing most of them my whole life, the conversation is guarded, and we play games of poking and prodding, wanting information but unwilling to give any away ourselves. My smile is fake, and I know everyone else's smiles are, too. I know, and I don't care. I'm used to it. Hell, I'm used to it already. That's my life, that's what it's going to be. Nonetheless, I can't shake the feeling of dread.
The little socializing crows begin to break up, and the main event is on. Draco comes over to my side, finishing his glass of champagne in a single gulp and setting it on the table, unfazed, despite the fact that it was his tenth or so glass. In the front of the room is a raised platform of marble, with the Lord of evil himself, Voldemort, sitting upon a throne of sorts. He has his hand on a cane-like staff, smiling as he uses it to pull himself up, swatting away at Pansy and Draco's fathers who stepped up to help.
"Friends and family," he starts, knowing full well that none of us are friends. "We have a visitor here, tonight. Bring him out."
Crabbe and Goyle's fathers, each more menacing than their offspring, have their wands concentrated on the body of a redhead, levitating him up above the platform to face the room. I let out a small gasp at the face of Ronald, the second youngest Weasley. Bloody and bruised, his eyes are like I've never seen them before: cold, determined, and staring straight forward, above our heads. He was in control.
"It appears Harry's little sidekick thought he would figure out just what we were up to," Voldemort said, with the dramatics of someone who's more than confident in what he does and more than capable, more than strong enough, to do it. We laughed together, the polite courtesy laugh of a polite crowd.
"Well," he said, stroking the side of the boy's face with a crooked finger, "I think we should show him how we treat... visitors."
They used hexes on him- all sorts of hexes- hexes you can't find in the restricted section of Hogwarts for a reason. Ron stood up there after they'd stopped levitating him, and took it for as long as he could before his body collapsed and sent him into the fetal position. They continued their torment for what seemed like hours, while the rest of us smiled and chuckled and encouraged them, like nice little followers would. They only used an unforgivable on him once, and that Crucio was more than enough to put the poor boy out- perhaps for good. I couldn't tell from where I was. I just remember being thankful it was over.
Anyways, that was the first part of my dream. Nothing special, I told you. That part about Ron was upsetting, though. And seeing him at breakfast, laughing with his friends, occasionally turning flaming red, and having Hermione reprimand him once again for stuffing his face? I had to leave the Great Hall, I had a date with my breakfast all over again in the Girls' Lavatory.
In case you were wondering, my face isn't blotchy anymore, and my hair is flat again. My emotions are back under control, and I'm less scared. I still don't know what to do. I'm sitting in the windowsill again, but I've turned off the faucets. The sun is setting outside and everyone's probably wondering where I am. I missed all of today's classes. They'll probably think I was off shagging Malfoy or something, and I'm sure Malfoy would have no troubles in saying that's the truth.
In thinking over the second part of my dreams, it's kind of funny that it's this second part that has me in such an uproar. I think you'll see why.
It starts out with me on the train with Draco and his goons, them teasing me, like the first dream. Except, instead of ignoring them, I glared at them and storm out of the compartment, finding the one a few doors down more to my liking, since its occupants were girls, as opposed to bafooning boys. Padma and Pavarti. I remember thinking that their names were wierd. But whatever. It was better than Crabbe and Goyle.
Time came for the sorting hat. Same crowd, same faces, same song, same hat, same amout of small turmoil over where to put me. But instead of putting me in Slytherin, it belted out a different name.
"GRYFFINDOR!"
The next few parts, me following a crying girl into a bathroom and getting attacked by a troll, befriending the "Golden Trio", going to Quidditch games and practicing the sport on my own during free time with the littlest Weasley, and laughing my heart out in both the common room and once the Burrow, passed by rather quickly. I remember my parents throwing a fit and basically locking me in my room that first summer. I didn't have a "first time", it wasn't expected of me to either have it or not, and I'd decided against it. I revelled in this dream, being different and new, and wanting to know what it was like in the opposite corner of the castle, in a tower rather than dungeon.
I remember being especially close to Harry, and at one point having him grab me by the hand and swing me around after beating Slytherin in the game of the century, making us the highlight of what was left of the crowd, which must have been at least three-fourths of the school. He was smiling like mad, and asked me to be his girlfriend. I don't recall ever being so happy.
Ron thought of me as a sister, always protecting my name when the Slytherins said something, but making fun of me, too. Ginny looked up to me, and I felt a sense of pride when I saw her do something I'd advised her on. Hermione was my best friend, believe it or not, and I remember trying to get her and Ron together under both their noses. The Twins Weasley loved my ideas- far and few, since I prefered not to give them out- and loved pulling pranks both on me and with me.Of course, whenever they were on me, I'd have to get them back.
Seamus, a boy I've never really thought about, thought I was smart, which is something I've never really thought myself, and Dean was always checking me out. He'd say I was "Hot, smart, funny, and a great friend." Which meant he was crushing on me big time. So was Neville, but he never outright told me. He did thank me for listening to him and paying him attention one time, but stuttered so much while telling me this that I could barely make out his words. Oliver Wood, however, was a suave as I'd ever thought a man could be, and thought I should join the team. He told me that Harry and I were great together, but please- please- don't distract him from Quidditch. As if the Boy Wonder didn't have enough on his mind to distract him.
I was great friends with Luna Lovegood, which surprised me, and sworn enemies with Draco, which surprised me even more. I never thought I could hate him... Be bored with him, sure, but hate? Crabbe and Goyle sided with Draco, picking on me and grunting, all the while trying to catch a glimpse of something they'd never EVER see. Which isn't much different than how they are now...
I remember one scene, where we were all in the commons, seventh year. "We" including the whole of seventh year plus the Creevys, Ginny, and Luna. We were all so warm and happy despite the snow falling outside. Everyone was scattered around the room doing various things, but talking together at the same time. Quidditch, gossip, potions, you name it, we talked about it. Slowly the room depleted until it was only the Trio plus Ginny, Luna, and Dean. It was a comfortable silence, and I had my head in Harry's lap while he stroked my hair, absentmindedly. My hair was in a ponytail.
I looked up, and saw him staring into space, which he'd been doing a lot lately.
"Harry? What's wrong?" He looked down at me and smiled a faraway smile. "Come back down to Earth."
"It's just... the Order isn't getting anywhere lately. We're missing a lot of information. I just want this war to end, but it wont, not without information from the other side... And with Snape gone..." His eyes drifted off again into another world. I sat up.
"Harry," I said, taking his hand and drawing his bright green eyes to her own matching green eyes. "Harry. It will be alright."
His eyes linked to mine, and I could feel everyone in the room latching onto my words, wishing, hoping, clinging onto them. There was a connection in that room, between all of us. A bond. Friendship, love, courage, a feeling of strength and togetherness.
"Everything will be alright." Harry sat there a moment longer, then motioned for me to turn around, where he redid my ponytail, something he did every morning for me. The conversation in the room eventually eased back into its normal pattern, with people coming and going, until it was time for dinner.
Do you see what's wrong? If I had been placed in Gryffindor, my whole world would be something else. Something calmer, quieter, warming, more comforting. Sure as hell less safe, but thats part of the price, I suppose. So now you see why I don't know what to do. Should I keep doing what I usually do? Or should I... should I help? I don't know. I don't want to go back to Slytherin right now. I don't want to see their taunting faces when I don't tell them where I've been, confirming their suspicions about Draco and I. No, I'm in the wrong lane. Going way too fast in the wrong lane.
I get up off the windowsill, the pattern of the stones etched into my skin. On my way out of the bathroom, I pause once more at the mirror. Looking around, I find a pristine soap bar on a shelf nearby, and wordlessly transfigure it into a hairbinder. In front of the mirror, I slowly gather my hair together, and wrap the binder around it. I move my head from side to side, then redo it. Then redo it again. And again. Finally I get it right.
I open the door and start jogging to the Great Hall, planning on grabbing a bite before finishing my History of Magic parchment. What I don't plan on is running into Hermione, on her way back from the library.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, books flying to the floor around her. Instinct tells me to sneer, and I hesitate, then bend down to help her stack the books without a word.
"Oh, thank you, I'm just so sorry, I was on my way back from the library and..." She looked up at me, suddenly wordless, a great contrast to her ramblings before.
I hand over the rest of the books to her as we both get to our feet. She's still gaping like a fish. I've half a mind to tell her she looks ugly that way, but with my new attitude towards the girl, I restrain myself.
"Hi," I say, awkwardly, breaking the silence.
"Er... hi," she replies, mouth still open slightly as clockworks turn on inside her head.
"Hermione?"
Pansy Parkinson calling a mudblood by their first name? Even more for the poor girl to comprehend.
"Y-yes?"
"Don't leave your mouth hanging open like that. It's not as pretty as you think." She quickly blushes, then starts heading the same way I'm going.
"Going to dinner?" she askes, juggling her books.
"For such a smart girl, I think you know the answer to that one," I remark, then head off towards the Great Hall at a stride she can't match bearing all those books. Maybe I will help her, one day, but for now I'm not making any promises.