Third year:

I stared out the train window watching the countryside fly by. Grass…more grass…ooh a tree! … wait, no, it was just a particularly dead-looking clump of grass. I snorted, 'Doesn't nature just go out of its way to be exciting?'

I was heading to the castle for the third time, but the journey had never really made much of an impression, not since the first. It's pretty hard to top a squid's eye view. It felt as if just yesterday I was swinging through the air half drowned and frozen.

I sat morosely, counting down the minutes until I could get off the dull train, not that there was much to look forward to in the castle, either: Potions class, the draughty halls, homework, the insanity-inducing giggle squad and too many days blessed with the presence of the Marauders, to name a few.

The summer had not been overtly peasant. My mother wasn't the same person I left at the beginning of my second year. She vanished periodically, but to where I could never guess, and even attempted to clean the house. She wasn't very successful of course, but I was impressed she remembered where the front door was. She probably had to shift twenty tonnes of junk to uncover it as well. I'm not sure she was aware that we had a back door that was actually accessible. Even more disturbingly, she tried to involve herself in my affairs, repeatedly saying she was sorry that she hadn't been the role model I needed. It was an act, but I didn't know what for.

I didn't want to think about how Mum had changed or why. It was my own little way of dealing with trouble, best described simply as the Avoid and Ignore tactic. Don't try this at home kids, so far I've uncovered no evidence that this actually helps any situation. As a recommended alternative; hide in a dark corner and wallow in denial.

A loud crash from the corridor caught my attention. I quietly slid open the compartment door and saw many people down the aisle do the same. There, blocking the walkway, were the Marauders.

My eyes narrowed and something unpleasant burned in my chest upon spotting the gang leaders. Potter's arms were crossed and he leant idly against the wall. His hair was typically dishevelled and his eyes scanning the heads of the bystanders, ego purring under the attention.

Beside him, Black –proficient jerk and professional bane of my existence– seemed equally relaxed, almost bored. His hands were in the pockets of his worn jeans and his dark jacket loosely hugged his frame. His long black hair causally hung down over his face, throwing his grey eyes and mischievous smirk in shadow. I'm sure he spent way too much time passionately sculpturing that effect each morning.

Remus stood slightly behind the two, looking a little uneasy. A large angry red scratch stretched from his ear to jaw; a recent addition to his collection. His injuries were nothing new.

Peter looked a little out of place beside the other three, he was pushed to the background simply because the others naturally commanded far more attention. He was at least a head shorter than the gangly Remus, bordering on the cubby side and perfectly average in his studies. There's usually no place for average amidst self-declared perfection. It was peculiar for certain.

They built a name for themselves, and entire school knew them as the Marauders by the end of the first year. They called themselves pranksters, while I called them professional trouble. Same difference really, but perspective has always been a wondrous thing.

Facing them, pale hand clutching his wand, was Severus Snape. He was usually the base of their little pranks. He was snarky and clad in shabby but well cared for robes. Black picked on him to fulfil his odd little sadistic needs, Remus usually only intervened to corral the Black Beast when it got too out of control, Peter provided the vocal support and Potter mainly harassed him to show off.

"All right Snivellus?" Black called, casually fiddling with his wand. His sleet grey eyes seemed to gleam when Snape's eyes flicked to the weapon.

Snape sneered, his dark gaze flashing maliciously, "Shove off Black, go run to mummy. If she'll take you, that is."

Black hissed, levelling his wand with Snape's pale face. I winced with a cross between experienced sympathy and frustration. Hitting the most volatile of the Marauders where it hurt most while outnumbered four to one was stupidity bordering on suicide. I only prodded that wound once, and received a surprisingly nasty curse in return.

As any halfwit could have predicted, all four Marauders growled darkly. Pettigrew responded slightly later and was still fumbling around for his wand when the sparks began to fly. He hesitated a second before giving up and ducking behind his friends.

Snape was hit by the jelly-legs and bat-boogie curses, which did not make for a pleasant combination.

I pitied him, of course. For just a moment, I indulged my imagination. Anteoculatia, for some reason, can to mind. I pictured Black's hair, and smiled at the yelp that would have been summoned by his locks suddenly forming antlers. Perhaps he would have tried to dart into a compartment, maybe clobbered his friends along the way, only to discover his odd cranium edition was too large for the door and ended up sprawled in the corridor.

If only, right?

It would be satisfying, poetic justice at its finest. But I knew I wouldn't.

Black's eyes roved the crowd, basking on the approval on those eager faces. I met his eyes with carefully crafted detachment, and when his gaze moved on, I just turned and walked away.

Some Gryffindors we turned out to be.

I was a shadow, less substantial and interesting than the ghosts. I didn't conform to the whole 'friends' thing. Didn't know how, to be perfectly honest. Lily's prophesised alliance equated to exactly naught. Sometimes I'd watch others and wonder how they did it, and other times I'd just wonder how they put up with the inevitable pain.

The quiet was my solace, attention was deadly uncomfortable. Attention usually took the form of the test dummy for the Marauders. So yes, I pitied Snape, I'd been there, done that.

...

I needed pineapple, but even the comfort food of the gods wouldn't have been able to totally diminish my anger. Really, sometimes I find people judge Grindelwald and that new Dark Lord too harshly; sometimes in life you meet people that just need a good killing. Sure, they may have taken the art a bit far, but they're at least partially human, and humans make mistakes.

I sat at the far end of the Gryffindor table viciously stabbing my eggs while I tried to ignore the hundreds of stares I could feel scorching my back. My cheeks flared red upon remembering that and my fork bent in my grip. The innocent egg I had been venting against rocketed of my plate as if it had been shot out of a cannon. Deciding to take it as a sign, I abandoned to fork only to grab my knife and proceed to my next victim. I sniffed delicately as the second egg soon followed the first.

The staring wasn't relenting. Mustering any dignity I had left, I gathered my bag, snatched an apple from the fruit bowl and causally sprinted from the hall. Laughter and whispers followed me and my cheeks turned an even deeper shade of scarlet. Upon exiting the hall I slowed to a walk, closed my ears to the world around me, and trudged to my first class. Smooth.

I silently made my way to the desk at the back corner of the empty Transfiguration room. Unbidden, images of that morning sprang to mind. Before I could stubbornly push them away, I remembered hanging from the ceiling covered in owl treats the moment the post arrived. I shivered, finally succeeding in banishing the memories to where they could be repressed under lock and key.

I ran a hand through my hair, trying fruitlessly to flatten it. My fingers came across another feather and worked clumsily to detangle it. It was a pretty thing; a light speckled brown with downy white edges. It was a stark contrast to the uninteresting and frayed texture of the wooden desk I placed it on. I pulled out my wand, muttered a few choice words, and beamed at my handy work. The desk had a fresh scorch mark and not even ashes remained of the feather.

I laid my Transfiguration book on the improved desk and leafed through the pages. Transfiguration had been the first thing to really fascinate me. Ever since I'd successfully turned a match in to a shiny needle and gotten detention for throwing it at Black, it had never really stopped being awesome. I was one of the best in my class, which was saying something considering the annoying concentration of natural geniuses.

I found I was good at the subjects that relied heavily on spell work. My good grades in Defence and Charms almost made up for the others. I took advantage of History of Magic to catch up on sleep, I'd managed to melt no less than seventeen cauldrons in potions, and I swear the plants in the Herbology greenhouses were out to get me. I had yet to take a Divination or Care of Magical Creatures lesson, but they could prove interesting.

For the first time that morning, as I buried myself in the comforting familiarity of the pages, I found myself forgetting about my problems. The distraction posed by Starling's theory of relative characteristic conversions in animagi was a fascinating one, and I didn't look up when my classmates began to trickle in. His arguments for the controversial and probably not very viable theory were particularly captivating.

I found myself at the mercy of avid curiosity. Transforming into a slug wouldn't be much fun, but a dragon on the other hand; now that would be cool. I figured myself as more of a slug person, although I did wonder…

The easiest way to determine your inner animal was to cast a patronus, which were usually a close representation. I hadn't tried that, but spells were my specialty, and maybe I was good enough to manage it.

Closing the book with a sigh, I listened as McGonagall begin lecturing about basic animal transfiguration while trying to ignore the lounging Marauders I could see from the corner of my eye.

I couldn't focus much that lesson and I left the classroom in a positively foul mood. You'd think that four thirteenish year old boys would understand that jinxing a chair to slide out from under its occupant was only funny the first few hundred times, but you'd be wrong.

...

I shuffled up to the library and hid myself behind the last bookshelf at the table in the darkest corner. That was my spot. It was the part of the library reserved for the dust old books that no one had used in years. It was very rare for anyone to stumble across me.

I'd already flicked through my charms book, and the patronus was mentioned but not in any detail, just as an example of a particularly difficult spell. This was looking brilliant already.

I dumped my bag, headed over to the shelf and pulled out the first book on Defence Against the Dark Arts I saw. '101 Ways to Counteract the Common Jinx'.

One way was usually enough, but it wasn't what I was looking for anyway.

The next book was devoted entirely to curing a victim of the entrail-expelling curse, which upset my own digestive system. It screamed at me when I hurriedly put it back.

Sometime after shutting up the distraught book and shaking off the annoyed librarian, I stumbled across a worn book titled 'Fending Off Dark Creatures and Other Things That May Want to Eat Your Brains.' There was plenty on zombies and wrackspurts, whatever they were, but thankfully there was also information on Dementors.

'Dementors are one of the darkest creatures our world has known and they rank somewhere below pygmy puffs on such a scale. They thrive on suffering and despair, and coming close to one will have the effect of draining all the happiness from a person. One of the only advantages of the foul creatures is that they're not interested in the brain as they prefer the soul. Having your soul sucked out won't kill you, but side effects include losing all will, personality and adopting a tendency to drool.'

One eyebrow steadily rose throughout the paragraph. I reread it twice more, shaking my head slowly. Then I rallied myself and continued down the page, wondering if the book contained anything saner.

'The most effective way to repel a Dementor is the highly thrilling and difficult patronus charm.' I smiled, glad to have finally uncovered some sense, '… but a blended puree of blue mushrooms, snot, dragon claw and two and a half nargles may also have the same effect, although this method is only recommended if the patronus fails as the theory has been proven but it has yet to be tested.'

… And that previous acknowledgment of sense was revoked.

'For all intents and purposes, the patronus acts as a shield between the Dementor and the caster. It is built of happy memories and if cast properly it creates a corporal form of an animal reflecting the caster. To summon a patronus the caster needs to think of a powerful and happy memory which will be moulded by the incantation 'expecto patronum'.'

Bingo. The rest of the page was filled with examples of slightly disturbing memories, all of which I knew I definitely would not be using. I placed the book back on the shelf, ignoring the loud grumbling of the nasty book, and began pacing down the aisle.

"A happy memory, hey? Oh there's just so many it's impossible to choose," I muttered sarcastically. I paused at the large window and stared out over the grounds, not really seeing anything, but just thinking.

Drawing my wand, head tilted slightly to the side, I thought of being accepted into school, the new chance, and muttered the incantation. Nothing remotely interesting happened.

'Right, we'll just call that a practice.' I checked my pronunciation, remembered back to the train and how I'd felt, and let it fill me up.

"Expecto patronum." Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

I scowled, wondering what I was doing wrong. I tried again and again, with all sorts of recollections, some of them weren't even real. I was fed up and frustrated, all I wanted was for something to happen.

Then something did. The bell rang. Shit. That wasn't really what I had in mind, but ask and you shall receive, right? A glance at my watch confirmed it; I had to be at Potions, in pretty much the furthest point from where I was, eight seconds ago.

Snatching my bag I sped away. The outraged librarian screeched something about not running in the library. I called a quick "Yeah, will do," over my shoulder and started sprinting.

Damn wizard logic! Instead of installing, say, apparition points around the place to get you to class on time, they enchant the stairs to run off on you just when you really need them.

Mentally cursing, I ducked behind a tapestry and sprinted down a dark passage way that should've taken me down two levels. Before I could get very far I ploughed straight into some other poor soul. He gave a stunned yelp and crashed into the wall behind him, the lucky bloke; I fell flat on my ass.

I fumbled around for my wand, grumbling all the while. I heard the boy mutter, "Lumos," and suddenly the passage was lit by an eerie white light. I blinked, throwing my hand up to block the beam. I spotted my wand against the wall and hurried to scoop it up then busily gathered the rest of my books. I avoided looking up at the boy, fighting the embarrassed blush that was burning my cheeks.

"In a hurry, Night?" The boy asked, with an amused note in his voice. I knew that voice, but still avoided his gaze. Why did it have to be someone I knew, why couldn't it have been some stranger that would be content with hexing me and strolling off? At least then I'd have an excuse to run off and hide.

"Yeah, sorry about that, Lupin," I said, slowly getting to my feet. The small matter of the Potions problem had been momentarily dismissed, instead replaced by the higher priority of how to get away as quickly as possible. I briefly contemplated just running off, but that didn't work out too well last time.

"Late for Potions?" Lupin asked. I nodded in response, allowing myself to finally meet his gaze. His face was lit up strangely by the unnatural light, throwing shadows over his gaunt features and making him look even paler and sicklier than normal.

He didn't act half as sick as he looked, sadly. Remus planted his hands in his pockets and grinned slightly, "Well, what are you doing down this passage? This comes out on the fifth floor behind the portrait of the drunken priests."

I cocked my head to the side in confusion, then realised my mistake and slapped my palm into my forehead. "I must've gone in into the passage on the right end of the stairwell, rather than the left. It wouldn't be a problem through if the stairs would sit still for more than five seconds."

Remus nodded in understanding, "An easy mistake to make. But come on, let's get going before Sirius and James can blow up the classroom for us."

I groaned reluctantly. "As if Slughorn could hate me much more." I thought my muttering was quite enough for only my own ears but Lupin heard and grinned again. I resolved from then on that all talking to myself would be done in the relative safety of my head.

"He can't hate you more than he hates me," He said in a singsong voice, seeming quite satisfied with that. Either Lupin's vendetta against Slughorn went deeper than I'd realised, or Black and Potter were a worse influence than I'd feared.

After that we fell into a tense and awkward silence. I wasn't one to encourage conversation, so naturally Lupin didn't seem to know what to say. We only spoke once more when Lupin mentioned the he had some sort of get-into-class-late free card. I wasn't really listening so I just grunted. It was a shame though; maybe if we had some excuse to hurry, the plod down to the dungeons may not have seemed like an eon.

Lupin and I didn't have much in common. He was friendly and almost as popular as Potter and Black while I avoided all possible human contact. He always appeared relatively carefree and happy, with a small smile usually gracing his lips. He played pranks, topped classes, enjoyed Quidditch and had three close mates to watch his back. I had none of that, but neither did I need it. When all else failed I had Scrap; the cat with way too much personality. The one thing Lupin and I had in common was that we were both especially dreadful at potions. I think our combined presence actually made Slughorn nervous.

Many years later, or so it seemed, Lupin pushed open the dungeon door and immediately every head in the classroom turned towards us. I dropped my gaze and stared at the floor but Remus didn't even flinch. I guess he would've gotten used to attention while carrying the title of a Marauder.

The first thing I saw was Professor Slughorn's protruding stomach. It was easily the largest thing in the room and not a particularly pleasant sight. Only slightly higher and resting on his stomach like a growth, his pudgy face did not look impressed. "Ah yes, Mr Luis and Ms Nita, how kind of you to join us. You are aware that class started fifteen minutes ago, yes?"

'Fifteen minutes! That's how long I was with him? No wonder it was so painful.'

"Yes Sir, Jenna was just escorting me down from the hospital wing. I have a note from Madam Pomfrey if you'd like to see it."

'Huh,' I mussed, successfully zoning out completely, 'Lupin knows my name. Well, he's doing better than the Slug.'

You think that, being a Potions Professor, he'd at least have the presence of mind to bother learning the names to the two biggest hazards in his dungeon.

"No, no," Slughorn said waving an irritated hand, "Just sit down and pretend you didn't just interrupt my lesson. Oh, and you can sit together, we won't be making potions today so it should be safe to have you two in the same half of the classroom."

Slughorn roughly gestured to the last free table right at the front of the class. I dragged my feet over there, dropped my books on the floor with a thud, plonked myself on the chair and spun it to face the front while glaring daggers at the Slug's huge back. Childish? Perhaps. Necessary? Probably not. Satisfying? … In an odd way it sort of was.

Lupin was slightly more graceful in his entrance but upon sitting down he subtly dragged his chair further away from mine, apparently uncomfortable in my presence. This caused my lips to twist into a small grin.

That lesson was almost physically painful. In addition to the breakfast ordeal, my late entrance with one of the Marauders was drawing even more stares. I hated being in the spotlight almost as much as I hated Black. Actually, when I think about it, I still hated Black more, I could always trace my troubles back to him somehow. On top of the attention, Slughorn spent over twenty minutes talking about some rock. I really have no idea what he was yapping about. When I wasn't getting frustrated over my lack of patronus, I was drifting between states of drowsy inattentiveness and sleep.

The bell finally rang, signalling the end of the torture for the moment. I waited for the mad rush for the door before making my own bid for freedom. At the bottom of the main staircase I paused. There was less than no chance of me being allowed back in the library so soon. Instead, I turned on my heel and strode out the front doors.