With your left leg pulled up, palm pressed against the palm of your hand, you traced your fingers across initials–carved into the large wooden table, filled of memories of past students that spend their summers lazying around the group home. Everybody above fourteen had two options: Keep up your studies, or find a job in the muggle world to build character and connect with the non-magic population. But honestly, you hadn't done ither. Instead, you spent your days lazying around and you were paying the consequences; behind in most of the summer assignments that were due upon arrival to Hogwarts.

The ink of your quill spilled inside of your own initials, worked over the summers that you'd spent trying to will yourself to concentrate in the still air of the home. Alvina's Home for Young Witches and Wizards had stale air, sitting still despite the windows being open throughout the summer months. It had been built some hundred years before, and aside from the impact of having young witches and wizards, hardly showed any years of wear.

Still, the house was quiet. Most of the children had gone away for summer camp, able to blend in with the muggle children with little trouble, and the one's that had decided to keep up on studies were actually doing that. Aside from the soft, familiar creak of wood as a blonde girl came swinging around the wooden pole of the steps.

"You don't look like you're working. Aren't you supposed to be finishing your herbology assignment?"

Your nose scrunched, gaze lifting to meet with Ophelia's as a smile slowly blossomed across your features. You watched as she settled into the seat opposite of you, copying the way that your hand was pressed against your cheek; pink strands of her dye job falling over her knuckles as she looked at you. "First off, not herbology. It's history. Second, nobody's gonna notice if I don't finish it anyways. It's not like they line us up and start checking off who's done what."

"No," Ophelia responded, her voice dropping in offence as she started to sit up straight. "That's not how they do it in Slytherin? Flitwick has up up the first night just going over the syllabus that we were supposed to follow over the summer. Don't even get me started on the tests. Ugh."

"What flowers do you want at your funeral?" You responded, faking your sympathy, placing your hand over your heart. You tried to conceal your smile, but it started to grow as Ophelia's giggle filled the room. "You should've fought the hat for putting you in Ravenclaw."

"Nah. It'd probably just eat my head."

"At least you'd be able to join the headless hunt."

"Eat your fucking heart out Nearly Headless Nick."

The conversation fell into the dull mumbles of nonsense going back and forth, becoming a contest of who could avoid what neither of you wanted to do: Pack up for the school year. You had to vacate the bedrooms for the kids that didn't get to leave for Hogwarts yet, and were returning from mandatory (supposedely theraputic) summer camp.

And honestly, the prospect of packing up to go back to Hogwarts left you feeling sick. It was your home...more than Alvina's, even if you had grown up here. Here, people knew that there was a reason that you were there, even if they didn't know what it was. At Hogwarts, you were another student that left from London, and rode into Scotland. You could be anybody that you wanted. There was an unspoken pact between the students from Alvina's: You were all cousins, and Alvina didn't exist.

But that security that you'd had since you were eleven was nearly at the end. You're sixteen, entering your sixth year. By this time next year, you were expected to have your next summer's plans out because you were no longer welcome at Alvina's. That was a part of growing up, and graduating from Hogwarts. You wouldn't have a home anymore.

"I feel like the three muskiteers are gonna fuck something new up this year." Ophelia pulled you out of your growing panic, making you flinch slightly when a grape hit the middle of your forehead and rolled across your parchment.

"Oh yeah? Like what?"

"I heard Ron is trying out for the Quidditch team with a hexed broom."

"Where'd you hear that?"

"I have my sources."

Your brows knitted, head tilting slight as you dropped your foot from the chair and onto the floor to straighten up. "You know Fred and George aren't reliable sources, right?"

"Okay? What do you think'll happen, then?"

"Mm, you-know-who's back, right? Probably something with that. But I also had a dream a couple of students turned into centaurs, so." You shrugged, picking up the grape and flicking it back at Opelia–smiling when it bounced off of her arm.

"So? So what? You're turning into Trelawney? Getting visions, y/n?"

"Fuck off," you snorted, getting up from the table and gathering your things. The idea of Voldemort being back made you feel worse about going back to Hogwarts. It meant the possibility of having to go home, and the school being shut down. Hogwarts was supposed to be the safest place to be, but with Harry walking the corridors, you had doubts. "I gotta pack."

You didn't share a room with Ophelia, so it was the perfect opportunity to run away before the conversation got too close to sore spots. She must've known too, because as soon as you took the first step up on the stairs, Ophelia called out, "don't forget to pack your diary! I want all the updates about how dreaaaaamy Draco is as he studies."

Your cheeks burned hot, and you turned just enough to flash your middle finger at the blonde before running up the three flights of stairs that landed you in your bedroom.

The culprit was on your bed still. Black covered, bound with golden edges that most of the Wizarding world had become accustomed to. You picked it up, stuffing it immediately into the chest that you would be hauling across Kings Cross Station tomorrow.

That morning, you'd already pulled your robes out of storage and hapharzardly threw them on your bed, not accounting for the way you were going to push them further off to the side to lay down instead of packing them. Your back ached, ignored in favour of staring at the wooden pannels that crossed the ceiling with softly faded Hippogriffs and stars moving. Their paint was chipped in some places, but they all moved with unforgotten purpose.

And you can't help but wonder what child these had been painted for.

The wizarding war had made orphans out of a lot of children, leaving them without anywhere to go. And for those without family to protect them, they needed somewhere to go. The once barely used Alvina's had become an example for other group homes for the children that hadn't been adopted.

There were, of course, children like yourself that had come a few years after the war was over. A result of trials against those accused to have been working with Voldemort. Wizards and Witches that had chosen dark over light; some their Lord over their children.

You inhale deeply, but it feels shaky inside of your chest. Shivers run through you, so you grab for the closest material. House themed robe covers your body, but it doesn't really help.

Both of your parents had gone on trial. Both had been found guilty.

The Riverty family had been seen too close to Voldemort. They had spoken too loudly on his behalf, and been too prideful in who they believed in. In what they believed in. And as far as anybody knew, their pureblood line had died when they were locked in Azkaban.

Nobody knew that your identity had been changed, or that their daughter hadn't died, only disappeared. It was trauma that you kept burried deep inside of you, and were willing to go to your grave without telling anybody else about it. This was your battle.

But that was before you knew Draco Malfoy was going to change your entire life.