Disclaimer- I do not own the Harry Potter series or anything that has to do with it.

A/N- Wow, this took a long time! Sorry! And this one is pretty short. Almost annoyingly so. But I'm pretty happy with it, and I figured you guys have been waiting long enough. I'll get started on the next chapter as soon as I can, but I'm not going to give myself a deadline because I am/have been extreamly busy and won't get around to writing too often. For the reasons why see my profile. Enjoy!

I couldn't sleep that night.

The things Dad had said to me kept running around in my brain. He had acted like I had betrayed him or something, and apparently I was working for "them".

Even though I didn't know who the hell "they" were.

So, yeah, it would only make sense that I was for "them".

Psssh. Come on.

I mean, couldn't he have been a little bit more vague? 'Cause "they" is way to specific. "They" will probably get angry now and nuke the house or something, I mean, if the people who work for "them" can't even know who "they" are, it must be pretty damn bad if "their" enemy knows who "they" are.

I know I know, Dad never specifically said he was "their" enemy, but I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that he is. . . mainly because I'm pretty sure everyone he's ever met considers him an enemy (except Mom, but I'm pretty sure she was drunk or something when they got married). . .

Jeez, I really shouldn't feel like this about my Dad, but he's just such a jerk sometimes! Seriously, he slapped me. Slapped me. And then he THREATENED me. I don't know what on earth is wrong with that man, but he seriously needs to go to therapy or something. He has crazy anger management problems.

I sighed and glanced around my bedroom, attempting to calm myself down. My bed was still roughly made from when I woke up earlier that morning, so I threw off my shoes and laid on top of the comforter, venting mentally about my father.

Well, I guess I finally drifted off at about 5:30 or something, because it seemed like just a few seconds later my alarm started blaring some random song from my iPod. . . Did I not mention that I had one of those? Oh. . . oops. . . Well, I do and it started playing some song. . . I think it was by the Clash or the Sex Pistols or some other old punk band. I wasn't really paying attention because I was so angry about what had happened and the fact that I didn't even get to sleep in afterwards.

Why didn't I get to sleep in?

Well, you see, my mother and father, being the amazing parents that they are, had left me in charge of my siblings while they went out to buy some furniture and do stuff (I think Mom actually had a sonogram scheduled for today, too). Sounds like fun, huh?

Right. Sure does.

Note the sarcasm.

I do believe I've already mentioned how annoying my younger siblings can be (especially Claire), so now, if you will, please imagine spending a whole day with them; no parents and no friends to help, and with having had little to no sleep during the night.

Sound like fun now?

Yeah, that's what I thought.

Not to mention that the place where Dad had hit me last night was now a lovely yellowish-brown bruise. So, not only would I have to explain that to Mom, the little ones would be bugging me about it all day too. I could just imagine it.

"Katherine! What happened?"

"Run into a light pole again, Kat?"

"Your boyfriend hit you, Kat?"

The last one, of course would be from Claire, which would raise up about a million more random questions from them, mostly consisting of things like: "Ooh! Who is he, Kat?" or my personal favorite; "Katherine and (Insert name here) sitting in a tree! K-I-S-S-I-N-G!"

This was, most definitely, going to be one of the longest days of my life.

So, after I convinced my eyes to open and my legs to hold up my body, I tip-toed to the bathroom, make-up in tow.

And about 30 minutes later, I discovered that it was pretty much impossible to cover a bruise with anything but stage make-up.

Oh great.

Today was going to be a lot longer than I thought.

It was hard for me to sleep that night.

Everyone I knew always said I always wanted to be the hero, and I guess they're right. I mean, I can't help it, I just wanted to help her last night, you know, to go over there and give her dad a swift kick in the arse.

It was probably good that I didn't though. Lately, every time I've tried to help someone, things just seem to get worse; they end up getting hurt or. . . dying. . .

My mind wandered on that thought for quite a while that night. Every time I closed my eyes memories replayed like films on my eyelids; Cedric. . . Sirius. . . Dumbledore. . . I saw all of their faces again that night as if they were haunting me.

Then, when I finally did get to sleep, my dreams were filled with nightmares. All of them involving the death of someone important to me; Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. All of them. I stood there and watched them, writhing in pain on the ground in front of me, but I couldn't move. I couldn't do anything to help them.

And then I would wake up, covered in sweat and ready to scream or pee my pants- whichever came first. Then, after I had relieved myself and dried my face, I would glance at the light in her window and wonder if she was okay.

When I had convinced myself that she was alright, I would try sleep again; only to be plagued by the same nightmares- and the cycle would repeat itself.

So, after what was quite possibly the longest night of my life, daylight finally came through the window and I sat up; giving up on getting a peaceful night of rest. My glasses were still on and I swung my legs over the side of the bed and once again looked toward the girl's window.

'Maybe I should go see her today. . .'

Eight 'o' clock in the morning, and my parents had already left. Joey and Jane had already woken up and were begging me for breakfast.

Oh, and when I say begging, I mean pounding their silverware on the table like Neanderthals and chanting "PANCAKES!" constantly until I thought my eardrums were about to burst.

As I rushed to finish cooking the pancakes, and get Joey strapped into his high-chair (he always kicked and screamed until you finally got him in), and get out drinks without spilling them all over the floor, the doorbell rang.

Groaning in frustration, I dropped the cup I was holding to the ground (Thank the Lord it was empty) and looked at my siblings. "Stay here. I'm going to go answer the door," I said. Jane nodded vigorously as I headed toward the door. "And don't break anything!"

The doorbell rang again and I threw it open quickly, hoping that they wouldn't have woken Claire up.

However, who was at the door scared me more than and angry Claire.

It was Harry Potter- the axe murderer.

I slammed the door in his face.