I felt a strong hand on my shoulder, shaking me awake—I had fallen asleep then. I glanced at the hand touching, followed the arm and up to the concerned face of the only person to show civility towards me. As soon as he noticed I was awake he stepped away and left me alone. I glanced at the clock on the farthest wall; I had thirty minutes left before my first lesson.

I stretched before climbing out of bed and changing into my uniform. My tailored trousers, my expensive shoes, the shirts that had my name embroidered on the underside of the collar—reminding me of exactly whose son I was. I grabbed my bag and made my way up to the Hall for breakfast. I walked slowly, hoping that by the time I arrived most students would've already have left.

I entered the open doors, the chattering quieted as I entered and made my way towards the end of the long table that marked my house. I could feel the harsh stares directed at me, each and every one a slow and painful death—if looks could kill that is. I knew I didn't belong here, in these halls, with these people. The whole hall went silent as one person entered the Hall.

Potter. The world revolved around him even more now that he had fulfilled his prophecy. His gaze was the only one on me not to wish harm, but his was far worse. His gaze was full of pity. I hated it. He was in debt to her and yet she's still gone. He's tried to speak to me—does he not realize I want to be left alone?

I did not need his hero complex to save me. I was beyond that notion. I didn't deserve it; even if he thinks I so adamantly do. I quickly finished my breakfast and headed to Arithmancy—Ravenclaw's and Granger, an easy period. I sat at the last table, to myself, as I watched my peers come in and talk amongst themselves as we all awaited the arrival of the professor.

I felt a presence next to me and I watched as someone unpacked their belongings on the table next to me. I knew those hands—I despised those hands. I merely glanced at her before turning towards the front of the room. I heard her take a small breath, but luck was on my side, our professor had just entered the room. He spared a glance at the pair of us sitting together—it rarely ever happened—and continued on with the lesson.

Class was dismissed slightly early and I knew, I knew she would try to speak to me. I felt that small hand place itself on that spot on my arm she always touched. I never looked at her, I couldn't. Of the three of them, she would be the one to break down my barrier that I had so craftily placed. Today though, today she said six words that caused me to look her in the eye; I've a letter from your mother.