A/N: I don't own Harry Potter or any related characters.

Word Count: 397

Fingernails over flesh

scratching, digging, trying to make it stop.

It's under the skin,

these feelings, this...this...disconnection.

Once the best

one the brightest

most brilliant

now, laughing at the idea of ever being

something, someone, impressive

shot down

put her in her place.

What happens when evil wins.

What happens when the good isn't good enough.

Always someone else there,

always someone else better

someone jealous and willing to push those around

them down to the depths.

She doesn't want to do it anymore,

the books stacked around her.

The ideas mostly filling her head.

She doesn't want the trouble anymore.

Tired of being a team player,

tired of putting herself on the side lines

because she outshines

those around her.

Slowly it becomes something else.

First there's anger,

a frustration at being who she is,

a frustration that it's for the Greater Good

and they just can't see that.

That fades slowly,

even righteous anger can't last.

Manipulation replaces the anger,

just do it, but don't let them see

just do it, but hide it.

She'd not put anything aside,

she'd done the research,

written the pages upon pages

of proposals,

but now, now no one will benefit.

She can't keep it going though.

She can't keep it to herself forever

the idea of failing,

of someone calling her out,

she waits and waits,

watching to see if anyone notices

how quiet she's been,

how different she's been.

She knows no one notices.

She's learned to hide things,

learned to fake a smile

fake a conversation while

they all lollygag and dither,

nothing getting done,

nothing changing.

Slowly, she loses interest.

Slowly, she stops caring.

She's learned where her place is,

learned who these people are,

the ones that once stared at her in

wonder.

The ones that once called her a hero.

They'll never see her,

she's just a figure head to them,

not a person, not something, someone

to be praised.

She's upset the status quo too much,

she's put herself out there too far.

Now, she retreats to the shadows,

a spark of an idea forming

in the very back of her mind.

A spark that maybe he was right.

Maybe things needed to be changed,

maybe it was time for those oppressed to

rise up, to stand up,

and maybe overthrow the world

that insisted on pressing them,

on keeping them,

down.