EDITED: July 10th, 2020

02 — The Anger Within

I was lying on my side. The mirror of Erised stood proud across the room. In its reflection, I saw myself and the fire dancing around me.

It hurt. It hurt like hell. The flames licked my clothes, my skin, but I wasn't burned to a crisp.

But it hurt. Oh, how it hurt.

Shadows danced inside the mirror. I reached out for them –

A snap of fingers brought me back.

I blinked. Then I scowled as I saw a familiar face – one I was beginning to detest for the simple fact of existing.

"Get off me," I snarled, shoving the hand away. The girl stumbled, but caught herself in time. She glared at me before huffing; she seized her abandoned broom and stomped off as loudly as she could.

Great. Now I would have to deal with a prolonged session of stumping and huffing right before bedtime. Just my luck.

Sighing, I pushed myself off the wall and stalked down the opposite way Marie had gone. The light outside had thankfully disappeared, leaving nothing but gloom and brightness; the clouds had shifted and hidden the sun. For once, I was grateful for England's climate. Who would've thought that when the sun came out, it lit most of the town like a –

I shook off a shudder. My skin was cold to the touch, but my insides were burning. A lingering effect of the daydream. Of the memory.

I thought I was done with it. The memories of that night had begun to blur a week ago: no longer could I recall neither what the mirror's top was shaped like nor which side of the room had Harry been thrown at. Voldemort's voice had even faded to an annoying buzz; most of the time I replaced it with Boris Karloff's voice. The typical villain tone. But Ron's third letter this week had brought back everything.

Harry hadn't been writing to him. Or Hermione. Or me, for that matter. The three of us talked of the day we went after the Philosopher's Stone, each wanting to get something off our chests: Hermione felt guilty she hadn't been able to think quickly at the Devil's Snare; Ron wrote strategy after strategy, each one avoiding his accident at the chessboard; and I talked about fire. Of the feeling of having pieces of glass falling on me and still feeling the weight of the Mirror of Erised on my shoulders before it fell sideways. I told them how Voldemort looked like on the back of our former professor, and of how sick both they'd been.

Harry did not write a single thing back. He didn't answer to Hermione's rants about homework, Ron's constants invites to his home, or my heated words complaining about his lack of communication. There was simply no answer.

It was disheartening, but... I couldn't even say I had to move on. We'd gone through a lot past semester just to throw it all away. And if I felt this sense of obligation, then Harry had to consider us his burden, the bloody martyr that he was.

Harry Potter didn't abandon his friends. Despite the lack of caring in his home, he was perhaps the most caring person I'd ever met. The most foolish, too, but this came with the package. So there had to be something wrong with him. Something none of us could see because we didn't know where he lived – the owls even had trouble finding him, and that was... impossible, if Ron was right.

I hoped he was.

I stopped short on the threshold of the kitchen. A fifteen-year-old girl was leaning over the table, blonde head bent as she —

As she read my journal.

I slapped the door hard. She jumped and turned. Wide blue eyes gazed at me with surprise, then accusation.

"What the fuck was that for?" she said.

I scowled. "What the fuck, you say? Well — what the fuck are you doing reading my journal, you connasse?"

Carol Davis' glare darkened. She'd fallen on the habit of answering with swearwords during the course of my absence but she did not like it when she was answered in kind. To be honest, I hadn't really thought about speaking like that, but the language had stuck with me. Poor Mrs. Darcy.

"It was open. Anyone could've read it if they wanted to."

"It was not." I was sure of that. The cord that clung from the spine had been charmed to fasten automatically whenever I stopped using it, courtesy of the Charms club. It had been one of the first spells Professor Filius Flitwick taught us, one that would apparently last long. Carol was neither magical nor smart enough to know that, though.

I scanned her features quickly. She was a mess. A beautiful one, at that. Not surprising. Carol was at that stage where her limbs either grew sideways or up – and trust life to be unfair. Trust Carol to turn aesthetically beautiful, just like she'd planned. She was now tall and slim, but with a set of curvy hips and blossoming chest that made men drool (and drool they did). The one thing that hadn't changed was the calculating glint in her eye that betrayed her intelligence. For some reason, she looked meaner today. Madder.

But I was angrier than her. How dare she touch my journal?

I was also afraid. What had she read? What hadn't she? Most of it contained doodles, notes from classes, things that wouldn't make sense to her. But at the very end, there was a speech. A speech I had written over and over, until I memorized the words.

'My name is Anya Barton. I am a witch. I can do things out of physics' laws, with a past that consists of throwing people in the air, talking to snakes, and transforming flowers into butterflies.'

What would Carol think? If she believed me, she wouldn't shut that gob of hers; she'd rat me out and Ministry would know. They would come after me and... snap my wand.

Or maybe she didn't believe me. Equally dangerous. She would tell Mrs. Darcy, and the Head Manager would believe there was a loose screw in my head. She would call Doctor Carver, again, and there would be no escaping this time.

Either way, I lost. Somehow having a second face-off with Voldemort seemed less scary than those options.

Carol snapped the journal shut. "Whatever," she muttered. She walked past me, making sure to bump my shoulder on her way.

I stood there, staring at the diary for a long time. I moved until I felt I could let go of my wand.

•••◘◘◘•••

I looked a lot like my parents. It was not something to boast about, as most of the Wizarding World lived in ignorance of their existence. My father – Alec Barton – had been a great asset to the Ministry of Magic until his death. He was now remembered for his failure – a failure that was only that because no one had believed he would succeed. My mother, on the other hand, was an unknown. There was little information about her in the newspapers: Cassie Barton, wife of Alec Barton, deceased.

After that, it was like they were nothing but myths. When I arrived to Hogwarts, people already had placed me on the same pedestal as my father, which was a ridiculous path to follow. All those miracles, those successes – they belonged to him and him alone. Of my mother, there was no word. There was only one proof – two, if you counted me – that she'd lived.

Except I knew something no one else did. Cassie Barton had died the very same night the Potters did.

Cassie Barton died protecting her friends... and it had been a wasted sacrifice.

Or perhaps not. Not if Harry was still alive.

The thought still scalded.

"What are you doing?"

I exhaled. I tucked the piece of paper inside the journal before turning.

A blue-eyed girl with dark hair tied into a ponytail stared at me across the room. One arm was inside the room but the rest of her body was glued to the wall, ready to belt off at the first sign of my anger.

I tried to soften, but I couldn't. I resented her presence. I resented the fact I had to share my Attic, the only place of solitude in the orphanage. I resented that she'd been living there and wearing my old clothes as well as sleeping in my bed while I was away. But most of all, I hated that it was Natasha who brought her, and that the woman hadn't told me when she dropped me off. I haven't seen her since then.

Mrs. Darcy hadn't been kind when breaking it to me. "Ms. Rosenberg brought her," the old woman had said, shortly. "There was no room left, and we had no choice but sent her up." I didn't ask why she didn't throw her out; Mrs. Darcy, as cold as she was, never denied entrance to any girl. "Her name is Mah-ree-eh, by the way," she'd looked over my shoulder and to the girl, "and this is Anya. She will be your superior. You do everything she says about our cleaning schedules, and you," she looked back, "will be responsible for everything Marie does. Am I clear?"

Clear, yes. But I couldn't quite look at the woman in the eye. I suspected I would until I faced Natasha Rosenberg and told her everything I felt about the situation. You'd think she would have remembered I wasn't like the other children, that I needed to be away from them because of what I was, but no – I had to hide that part of me in an old trunk and my wizened owl Otto slept who-knew-where, appearing only to pick or drop the mail.

And it hurt. Not using my magic hurt. I didn't necessarily use it before Hogwarts, but it'd been there, bursting from time to time. Now that I could control it somewhat, I wasn't even allowed to practice at home, which I'd been really looking forward to. Well then, if I couldn't use it, then I could polish my knowledge, couldn't I?

No. I couldn't. Not as long as Marie was here. But I suspected that resentment was broadcasted in a way, as the girl was aware to not cross me. Rumours may have convinced her I was a violent person, but I alone showed her just how unstable I could be.

(One shouldn't be proud of this, but I was).

"Thinking."

"You are always thinking."

"It's that or drowning in the stupidity that surrounds me," I snapped. Impossible as it was, Marie somehow got closer to the wall. I sighed. "What is it?"

"Mrs. Darcy is looking for you," she said.

Looking for me. Not demanding my presence, but looking. Mrs. Darcy only did that when she had to bestow bad news.

"Okay." I peered at the nine-year-old. "Think you can wash the dishes alone?" The first time she'd tried, she'd broken three plates. Her excuse had been that they were heavy, but it had been pride talking: Marie, like many other girls that arrived at her age, wasn't used to household chores.

She rolled her eyes. "I doubt I'll start a fire."

I walked past her, smirking. "You never know these days." I had classmates that melted shoes and burned the hair off the head, after all.

It didn't take me long to find Mrs. Darcy. When she was looking for you, you knew you would find her quickly in her office. Unfortunately, she was not alone. A petite but statuesque woman sat in my favourite chair. Her face was as refined as a sculpture and did not betray any emotion other than amusement. Her dark skin was complimented well with her light green suit.

She was not looking at me, but I saw her shoulders stiffen slightly when I closed the door. Mrs. Darcy gestured me to sit on the free chair, and I did, wincing as the sunlight hit me on full. When sight adjusted, I was met with an eerie smile. I scowled.

"Miss Anya, this is Dr. June Carver. You may or may not remember her well, but she's St. Louise's psychologist."

"I remember." Unfortunately. When it became obvious the fights between Carol and I wouldn't stop, June Carver had been called. I did not know what she told Carol, but when it was my turn, I couldn't really concentrate on what we were talking; she made my skin crawl and my body shift uncomfortably. Carol's response to her was just as bad though, and it had been the only thing we ever agreed on: no unnecessary fighting, no June Carver.

And yet, here she was. Looking just as dazzling as then, feeling just as nerve-racking. Not even Natasha could've topped her.

I didn't beat around the bush. "Why am I here?"

Mrs. Darcy took off her glasses. "I received a letter from your school informing me of certain events at the end of your term." My heart skipped. "Professor McGonagall felt that there could be... some after effects."

I stood up. "I'm not mad."

"Of course you aren't," intervened June Carver smoothly. "But the betrayal of a teacher you thought you could confide in still leaves scars. And these scars can be dangerous if left untreated."

What exactly had Professor McGonagall said? "I'm fine. I didn't even like him that much." I tried to appeal Mrs. Darcy. "I don't need therapy or counselling or whatever! I'm fine! Absolutely fine."

"That's not what your roommate suggested," said Carver.

That little — "What does she know? She wasn't there!"

"Miss Barton." I stilled. Mrs. Darcy never used surnames. In St. Louise's, we were all equals. "This isn't up to discussion. The decision has been taken."

•••◘◘◘•••

Undefined treatment. Mrs. Darcy and June Carver discussed what exactly would be done but a limit hadn't been established. Events like these, Dr. Carver said, can be life changing. Her being right just made me hate her more.

Marie was literally shaking when I met her at the kitchen. Oh, I wanted to say a lot, but I didn't; I took a rag and helped her dry the silverware. Silence was the best torture – just ask my Potions teacher, who lived off torturing children.

Where was Natasha when I needed her? For four years she'd snuck her nose in my business and now it was like the earth had swallowed her. Mrs. Darcy was no better, as all she knew was that Rosenberg had taken a sabbatical of sorts, and she rather deserves it after two years of not receiving pay, don't you think?

No information of where she had gone. No news of whether she was alive. No reasons as to why she had disappeared.

I wanted to rage. I wanted to cry. In the end, I didn't do anything because I felt uncertain.

I hated feeling uncertain, just as much as failing. I couldn't even do my homework because revealing magic to a girl – one I did not trust (nor liked) – was not an option. With Marie taking residence in my space, I had no shots to practice wand movements, no chances to bring out my things and establish a sense of familiarity and comfort. And apparently, my sleeping habits couldn't be left alone either.

Angry as I was, I kept an eye on her. It was not a joke she was terrible at chores. When dishes almost slipped from her fingers, I was there to catch them, feigning that it was time to dry them but separating the still dirty ones into another pile. I didn't want Mrs. Darcy on my case after today.

Someone coughed. Both Marie and I ignored her.

The coughing grew louder until I thought the person was having a fit. My hands slowed, but I didn't look back. Marie didn't bother to stop.

As a final round of fake coughs transformed into real ones, I finally looked up, hoping to display my annoyance.

It faded away at the sight of Carol Davis bending over the trash bin, throwing out what we ate for lunch today. She was extremely pale and looked she was about to faint. She wasn't wearing one of the frilly dresses she used to prefer; instead, she wore a two piece suit that hugged her like a second skin.

She was so beautiful it was sad that she wasting at such a young age. It was even sadder that I, of all people, pitied her.

"Barton," she sneered, but it was an empty threat.

I just watched her. When she left, I realized she hadn't started a fight. We hadn't really done more than just greet each other curtly since I'd returned.

A part of me felt weary at this. Another felt disappointed. Perhaps this was what growing up meant.

•••◘◘◘•••

I was getting used to holding a quill but I was still terrible with them. I either broke them or ended up smudging the papers. It took me hours to wash off the ink of my hand, but the results were gratifying.

I smiled down at the snitch, which had survived my dirty thumbs. I used the ink on them to add some shadow to the wings as well to contour the lines over the small ball's body.

I was almost finished when a hand appeared out of nowhere and snatched the journal; I held onto it tightly, but the ink in my hand slid across the page, ruining the drawing.

Scowling, I stood up to glare at Carol's retreating form. She was backing slowly, leafing from page to page, her eyes intent. Searching.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I snapped. "Give it back!"

Her fingers stopped. She stopped altogether. Carol was as still as a statue.

No, she was worse than that. She'd taken to wearing makeup, but it unflattered her today. She was crying, and the tears had mingled with her mascara, leaving two inky streaks on her cheeks. Her arms had bruises too.

I reached for my wand.

"Carol, what's going on?"

She heaved. Once, twice. She looked at me with an expression I'd never seen before – one of unaltered hatred.

"Where were you?" she asked. I frowned. "The last ten months – where were you?"

"School," I gritted out. I nodded at my journal. "Give me back the journal. Now."

She didn't react. She continued staring at me.

"No. What do they teach you at that school?"

"What do you mean no?"

"What do they teach in that school of yours, Anya?"

"What the fuck do you care? Give it back!"

Her fingers dug into the leather. "Tell me, or I'll –"

I seized the vase next to the window and threw it at her. It smashed behind her, but she didn't flinch.

Somewhere, voices began to speak louder.

"Give. It. Back."

"No."

I took off my shoe and threw it at her head. She used my journal to cover her face, but the low heel scratched her hand.

I stepped forward. My head hurt.

"I am not joking, Carol. Give the journal back, or else."

"Are you threatening me?" she said slowly, the beginnings of a laugh showing on her face.

"I don't threaten. I do it."

"Nothing can touch me. Not even you, Freaky Anne."

And then she ran.

I followed her. Girls instinctively moved aside when they caught sight of Carol and me short on her heels; they knew this was one of our fights and didn't want to get involved.

I cleverly moved around doorways and walls, until I finally made it to the last set of moving doors. It was the kitchen.

It was strange seeing her standing in the room; she never came unless Mrs. Darcy forced her. But sometime in the period I was gone, she had found her way here, for she had moved straight to the drawer where the boxes of matches were.

She took one match out, and lighted it up, holding it to one of the journal's corners. I felt my heart sink.

"Carol, don't do it!" I warned. "Whatever happened to you – this isn't the way to make it better!"

"Ah, but Anya, this always has been fun! What changed?" her pouty face turned into a hateful scowl. "Just because you're going to that boarding school, it doesn't mean you have stopped being Freaky Anne. Now, stay still. The show's about to start."

I gritted my teeth, willing myself to walk up to her and punch Carol's pretty face. But the flame kept me back. I saw Quirrell and Harry, the fire around us.

I held my wand behind my back. I stepped forward –

The journal lit. Slowly, the fire began to spread up the pages, the black easily turning into shades of orange and yellow and red. It turned into a wild mess, and Carol could not stand its heat; she dropped the journal, which fell open on the floor with a loud thud. I watched as every drawing, every word – everything I lived the past year – melted away in sickly beads of spent colours.

No. No no no no no no –

"Well, well – what've got here?"

The photo. It had survived. Carol picked up the small piece of black and white paper. For once, the photograph was frozen; my parents' smiles became fixed; baby me had stopped moving.

"Who are they?" I didn't answer. "Who are they, Anya?!"

"Do it and I'll hurt you," I whispered.

Carol laughed shortly. "You? You'll hurt me, you say? No, Anya Barton. Nothing can hurt me. Not after today."

"Carol – I will do anything –" I said thickly. "I will do everything you say, I will clean your room for you – I will let you do me anything and I won't answer back. Just – give it back."

Carol tilted her head thoughtfully, watching me. I was as still as she, not willing to give up that piece of paper.

I'd lied – I cared. I cared who they'd been. I cared who I was because of them. There was no peace, no relief – only the devastating knowledge that they'd been young and weren't remembered. That whatever their deaths had been for hadn't been worth it.

"Then beg for it – kneel if you really want it back. Show me how much this worthless piece of paper is worth the sacrifice."

I dropped on my right knee. The bruise would hurt a bitch, but that didn't matter.

Carol Davis had won a war that had lasted for almost seven years. All because of a goddamned photo.

"Please – I beg you."

The only sound I could hear was the clicking of her heels. Carol didn't talk for a while.

"You know what, Anya?" I finally heard her say. There was an edge in the way she spoke. "It really wasn't worth it."

I looked up, alarmed. Her hands – her hands were on fire. And so was the photo.

"NO!" I shouted, diving towards it. But I froze.

(Fire fire fire, I'm touching him, don't let him touch Harry—)

It was delicate. It didn't take much for normal paper to burn, but paper made for photographs took a little longer. It seared at the edges first, and then folded over as the fire ate the ink away.

I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. From the corner of my eye, I spotted Carol staring. Her hands weren't on fire.

I was angry. At her for burning it, at the person who sent it, at me for not appreciating it sooner—it didn't matter. I was so, so angry that I couldn't help but scream and scream and scream —

Carol began to scream too.

(Drawers flew open with loud snaps and the silverware began to fall around them. Plates and glasses broke in their places. And the windows around us began to crack, leaving paths that looked like spider webs.

Anya Barton stood up with the slowness of a newborn gazelle, legs shaking but firm at the same time. Her hands trembled in rage, as did the rest of her body, the table next to her and its plates and silverware —

But it wasn't only those. Carol Davis also trembled, but it wasn't in her power to stop it. In fact, it wasn't in anyone's power at all, except maybe in Anya's, who'd started it.

An earthquake was taking place.

For the first time, Carol Davis was speechless. The fire had died, leaving her free to escape. But in an incredible display of foolishness, she ran to the nearest doorway and turned to face Anya, whose expression of rage matched the ground's violent shaking. The girl took advantage of Carol's surprise and seized her shirt.

She shook her, backing her into the wall. With every pull, Carol's head hit the wall, until she found the strength to push Anya back –

Expecting it, Anya simply held onto her shirt and shoved her to the floor, where she kicked the blonde girl. She dropped over Carol, then drew back her fist and punched her.

Once, twice. As many times as she could.

Carol screamed. "It's all your fault, you freak! Stop it! STOP IT!"

But Anya was long gone. She had grasped Carol by her front again, seething in silence. Wishing, wishing the older girl would just drop dead and go away –

Die, you bitch, die —)

My head hurt. But it was a different kind of hurt. The pain was sharper, instant, and its strength made me lose my hold on Carol to cradle my head. Carol rolled away, leaving behind a thin trail of blood.

I drew back my fingers, expecting to see blood too.

Instead, the burns inside my palm caught my attention. The skin around was red but the scars had turned whiter than normal.

I wiped them on my skirt to no avail. Then I finally looked up.

Marie was in front of Carol Davis holding a broom upside-down, her expression fierce.

"What did you do that for?" I screamed.

Her lips trembled. "Are you really asking me that?" she yelled. "Look around you!"

"No! Tell me why you did it?!" I demanded angrily, bringing out my wand and pointing it at her. She staggered back.

"Look!" Marie repeated. "It stopped!"

I stood still, my eyes darting to every part of the kitchen. A few things like the frying pans and some tablespoons were still wagging on their perches, but other than that, everything was calm.

The shaking had stopped.

There was a loud POP, followed by a shriek.

Hair as red as blood, eyes as dark as the sea, Natasha Rosenberg took one look around us and decided she did not like what was happening. Jaw tight, she pulled her own wand out and pointed it at Carol.

"What the —"

"Obliviate."

And Carol was no more. She stilled, voice dying; her eyes became vacant, eyebrows almost touching her hairline as her brow furrowed. Natasha muttered another spell, and with a snap, Carol's nose suddenly looked pointy. The blood over her disappeared with another word.

"Go to your room," ordered Natasha. "You never walked out of it—and wash yourself. You look ridiculous. Don't come out until you're back to yourself."

Stiff at first, Carol struggled to move. Her face remained tight as she left. The soft clinking of her shoes signalled her closeness.

Natasha rounded on us, her wand forward—

It clashed against mine.

She glared at me and I glared at her. If it came to it, I wouldn't hesitate.

The thought was sudden and clinical. It startled me into relaxing my grip, which in turn allowed the woman to seize my wand. She held mine and hers together in her fist while her other arm pointed at the ceiling.

"Go. To the attic. Now! And don't speak, don't breathe if you can."

I ran out of the kitchen.

•••◘◘◘•••

The door to The Attic opened and closed by itself: I entered first, Marie a few feet behind and Natasha almost towering over her. The redhead turned to Marie, ignoring me.

"You know what to do. Do not say anything about you saw today, understood?"

"She made the floor tremble!" she snapped. "You think anyone won't notice? If I hadn't –"

"Understood?"

Wide eyed, Marie nodded. It was my turn, then.

"And you –"

"Swallow it!" I snapped. "Whatever it is you want to tell me, swallow it and choke on it if you can! What gives you a right to come here, out of nowhere, just to yell at me?"

"Get your head out of your ass! Do you know what you just did?" Natasha exclaimed. She slammed her heel down as if to prove a point. "You made an entire building tremble! For Dane's sake, you almost caused an earthquake! Do you know how many wizards can do that – and without a wand? None! The things they'd do to you if they found out –"

In that moment, the window opened and a tawny barn owl swooped in, carrying a letter with a purple M seal. Natasha paled. She reached for it, but the letter was now floating in front of me. It began to talk.

"Dear Miss Barton,

We have received intelligence that dangerous, wandless magic was performed at your place of public residence at ten minutes past five this evening in the presence of Muggles.

As you know, underage wizards are not permitted to perform spells outside school, and further spellwork on your part may lead to expulsion from said school (Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, 1875, Paragraph C).

The use of wandless magic is unknown on a child of twelve years of age, meaning that there was probably an illegal usage of dark magic, therefore, your presence is required at a disciplinary hearing at the Ministry of Magic at ten a.m. the twentieth of July to clarify the issue at hand.

Until then, the Ministry of Magic has agreed to suspend you from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Yours sincerely,
Mafalda Hopkirk

Improper Use of Magic Office

Ministry of Magic."

The paper ripped itself apart.

"How?" Natasha breathed. "They shouldn't..." she closed her eyes. "Okay. Okay... listen. If someone from the Ministry comes, this is what you'll say: Marie, you didn't see anything but just a mad girl and a crazy one fighting each other; Anya, you will say that you don't know what happened –"

"I still don't know what's happening!" I yelled, but Natasha pretended to not hear me. Running a hand through her hair, she paced before us in loud strides.

"Shut it, Anne!" she snapped. "Just—stick to the story. I'm going to try and meddle with the Ministry of Magic and see if I can convince them that it had been just an accident, where you weren't aware of your actions – it's not like you damaged the place or something."

"Yes, you tell them that," Marie muttered, gazing at the only window in The Attic. Like most of the things downstairs, the glass and the furniture had cracks in them.

•••◘◘◘•••

We watched as Natasha repaired everything on sight. Then she went downstairs, wandered around for a while, and left.

I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe her. What right did she have? What gave her the right to come and go as she pleased? How could she have just left? How could she have abandoned me when I was facing a suspension?

I wasn't stupid. I knew suspended was a nice word for 'we're looking for a plausible excuse to expel you.' This inquiry of theirs was only so they could verify it was me who used magic in front of a non-magical human.

How stupid. Of course it had been me. Of course I made it happen. Making things happen was my specialty. But I thought I had it under control. I didn't.

I wanted to keep screaming, to kick everything in my way, anything to not think – but I didn't have the energy. I had expressed everything I'd wanted to say downstairs. What a cold comfort was that in some twisted way, I had had the upper hand on Carol Davis.

I hid in the darkest side of The Attic. Ignoring Marie was all I could do at the moment, the only thing I had control over. In one lousy moment, the Ministry and Natasha had taken my life in their hands.

Hermione was going to be so angry. I could picture her crying as she ranted at me, then would recite all the law books she had read in order to find a solution. Ron would be shocked, with him probably asking someone about the case itself, of what could be done.

And Harry would be inscrutable.

I counted the facts again.

If I was expelled, I wouldn't see my friends anymore. The Ministry could forbid me from trying to contact them. My magic would be pretty much useless without training, without a wand to work as my crutch. I would have to adapt to a Muggle life – unless I chose to live in a Wizarding community.

But was I willing to become the talk of the town? It was one thing to be whispered in St. Louise's as a hoodlum, it was another to be the laughing stock of magical strangers.

No, I would have to adapt to a Muggle life. I would have to learn to control my magic the old-fashioned way.

"– I need a hero! I'm holding for a hero 'til the end of the night!"

I blinked. Bonnie Tyler's "Holding Out for a Hero" was not something I had been thinking about. Several blinks later, it hit me that I was really hearing her voice and not some distorted version of it in my head.

"What the hell?" I stood up. The floor creaked slightly.

The floor creaked again, this time abruptly. The sound came from the other end of the room.

I didn't move.

"Music helps," came Marie's voice. She cleared her throat. "People don't think much about it, but it does help one's mood. It was the only record I could find, though..."

It was the only one I allowed myself to have. I never played it, but the song was always there on the back of my mind, alive.

I heard a shuffle, the sound of footsteps going farther and farther until all I could hear was Bonnie's plea for a hero.

Indeed, I needed a hero. One who had the power to change minds with a snap of their fingers.

"Up where the mountains meet the heavens above
Out where the lightning splits the sea
I would swear that there's someone somewhere
Watching me...!"