I awoke to a heavy weight on my chest. Groggily, I rolled over and felt the weight fall onto my mattress. Slight footsteps made their way towards my pillow before the weight plonked itself down on my face. Finding my source of oxygen cut off, I forced open my eyes through the sea of dark fur and heaved the cat off my face.

With a rumbling purr, Scrap, apparently having forgiven my recent lack of attention, leapt back onto the bed and settled down on my lap. Unfortunately for him, there were those of us who couldn't sleep for nineteen hours a day.

I sat up quickly, startled, and dislodged the cat once again. Sluggish, semi-active thoughts did their best to rush around my head. At such an hour in the morning, or any time at all really, my brain was in a state where it almost seemed to want to try and accomplish something, but then all systems packed it in and went home. Finally, after a lot of time wasted staring at a wall later, I finally pinpointed what was bothering me. Nothing. Simply… nothing.

This time of morning I should have been looking forward to the coming day. There were things to do, subjects to fail, new and original ways to be humiliated. Sure, I was fairly certain I would do my best at accomplishing all three before 9 am, but today the prospect didn't bother me as much as usual. A night in the kitchens with the Marauders must've done weird things to my head, but I didn't remember anything particularly unusual happening.

Struggling to free myself from my tangled blankets, I lunged for the bathroom but only succeeded in tripping quite ungracefully and slamming onto the cold floorboards. The reappearance of the usual mundane bad luck reassured me a little. Maybe the day wouldn't be quite so different after all.

After absentmindedly trying to pull the wrong shoe on my foot twice, I managed to make it down to the common room with a better than average appearance. McGonagall's mouth would undoubtedly still press into a firm line just at the sight of my hair, but I had bigger problems on my mind.

There was a commotion in the common room. It had been reversed, much like Filch's office, but on a larger scale. They hadn't managed to move the fireplace from its usual position, though. The end result was less than and predictable.

Some younger students were gathered in the wide, empty space with amusingly bewildered expressions on their faces. My lips quirked upwards just watching them. Then I remembered I was in the middle of a confusion endorsed metal freak-out, and my attention reverted appropriately.

The walk through the common room was quicker than normal with no obstacles to traverse. I made it down the first flight of stairs without stumbling, I remembered to jump the trick step, and the Great Wolfhound wasn't in his portrait, so he didn't end up following me down three floors. I almost missed his company.

Something was seriously wrong.

It was time for drastic measures. The hospital wing and I had never really been overly simpatico, Madam Pomfrey and I had an accordance to agree to disagree. She hated me, and I –for the record I was in no way afraid of her– but I simply acknowledged the fact that the lady was completely insane. I didn't particularly want to break my clean record of avoidance for the year, but someone experienced with insanity was undoubtedly what I needed.

I made the long detour to the hospital wing and quickly entered before the instinctive need to survive could convince me otherwise. Vivid recollections of my last visit were keen on my mind. She'd scolded me for being far too reckless and not having enough self-preservation drive, as if I got myself a concussion on purpose.

The wing was almost empty. The curtains were drawn around the far hospital bed, suggesting only one patient. As my footsteps –which most definitely could not be described as timid– notified her of my presence, the Madam of all Evilness herself appeared.

The first thing I noted was that her brows dropped quite an alarming amount in the space of less than a second. Next, her nostrils flared, much like I imagine a dragon's would do as it prepares to roast its unfortunate victim. Really, school nurses should be nice ladies practically oozing kindness and reassurance. Ours was far too strict and cared far too fiercely for my liking.

"Ms Night, back again I see. To what imaginary ailment do I owe this pleasure?"

I took a step back, half expecting her skin to become green and scaly. When it didn't, and I didn't have an excuse to run screaming, I braced myself for my inevitable doom and tried the 'nice Jenna' approach. She should've felt privileged; not many people ever witness much effort on that front.

"Hello, Madam Pomfrey," I said, trying my best smile, "How are you this fine morning?"

She wasn't buying it.

"This is the hospital wing, Ms Night, not a playground. I do not tolerate nonsense here. What do you want?"

Ah, ok, right to the point then, "I'm dying!" I exclaimed, drawing my hand across my brow for the dramatic effect, "Something has happened, I suspect poisoning, but maybe my brain has just imploded under the weight of all the new knowledge dumped on me this term."

She sighed heavily, "Go to breakfast. Despite your apparent belief to the contrary, I do have injured patients to attend to."

Clearly that line of fire wasn't working, so I abandoned my pride and decided on a different approach: the Puppy Face. Guaranteed to obtain sympathy from even the coldest heart, the Puppy Face embraces innocence and helplessness to mercilessly obtain sympathy and otherwise slavish compliance. The theory is simple: look sorry, guilty and stupid and you get out scotch free. Big eyes, large paws and a goofy tail also helps, but I've been assured they aren't completely necessary.

I'd never actually applied the Puppy Face to any situation, but I'd seen it in action loads of times. That accursed creature, Black, somehow managed to wriggle his way out of trouble just as easily as he got into it. His Puppy Face could level mountains. Not even McGonagall was completely immune.

Pomfrey's reaction to my slightly modified version of the Puppy Face wasn't very inspiring. Her scowl deepened and her arms crossed tightly. I figured that lady's heart must be soaked in liquid nitrogen but, admittedly, my version of a cute pleading look was a little sketchy at best.

So I gave up.

"Come on, I just need a quick brain scan or something to confirm my suspicions that I'm in dire need of mental assistance."

Her glare redouble before, "Sit."

I smiled cheerfully, if a little falsely, "Thanks Madam Pomfrey, you won't regret it!"

She made certain that the look on her face clearly said she already had.

Let it be said that Madam Pomfrey is not a patient person. Also, let it never be mentioned to her that I said that. On the off chance that she asks; I was delusional and mentally retarded at the time of offense. She knows me well enough, she'll believe it.

She didn't waste any time with spells and such, and went right on through to the diagnosis, listing every mental problem known to wizard fork, "A strong case of ADHD; anxiety and the tendency to over exaggerate; Trauma, yes that's obvious; possibly an entire colony of wrackspurts living in there-"

"What in Merlin's trousers is a wrackspurt?" I was getting more concerned by the second, but for her sanity, not mine.

"Why, they're invisible make-believe creatures that fly around in your head, of course!"

Oh yes, of course, how silly of me. I barely refrained from rolling my eyes.

Instead, I figured her usually flick-of-the-wand detection was probably more reliable; "Shouldn't you magically diagnose me?"

She seemed amused by the very idea. "You? No need. You're poor mind is very obviously unstable, it will require months of therapy, possible brain transfusions, and of course plenty of potions."

I paled at the two separate terror inducing words, 'months' and 'potions', contained in the same sentence. "You know what? I'm suddenly feeling much better. It's a miracle!"

"That's what I thought." She said, gesturing to the door.

Bloody nurses.

I made it down to breakfast with plenty of time to spare. There were even two different dishes of pineapple on the table. The sight of the platters made my mouth water, and I felt my spirits lift into the range of Cautiously-Mildly-Optimistic. What day where they serve that much pineapple could possible go wrong?

But no morning would be complete without a little ominous stuff. That particular morning's foreboding was mainly due to the optimism, strangely enough.

I didn't like structure. I hated following time tables. I was more of a 'spur of the moment' person. But there was a certain chaos to my life that wasn't part of a routine, it was more of a mandatory force. Things wouldn't be right without my mandatory force, i.e. not optional. It would be very inconsiderate and highly unlikely for it to just take leave without warning.

'Maybe today would be different.' I wasn't quite sure how I felt about that, and that was what concerned me.

...

"I can sense three people within this room possessing powerful auras, powerful enough, perhaps, to see into the future. One of those gifted people being myself, of course, but two of you standing before me will also accomplish great things. I will help you nurture and access your gift, as I am Professor Axis."

The Divination professor and self-proclaimed Gift of the Universe was quite a sight to behold. He was unique, that was for sure. His head was encased in a black turban, and he was garbed in exotic robes of royal purple and silver. The colours stood out against his unusually pale skin and I was startled to see his eyes were a murky white. He looked blind. Maybe he even was.

I'd heard one of the girls tell her friend he looked like a prince. Personally, my first instinct had been medieval corpse.

He was the epicentre of the circular room. There were dark curtains drawn across the windows behind him and a weird glowy orb thingy at his feet. I assumed he was aiming for some sort of dramatic effect. It seemed to be working on some people, but that could have just been his charming smile.

After a pause he evidently deemed sufficiently theatrical, he continued, the smile instantly whipped from his face. "As for the rest of you who do not possess The Sight, you may be able to complete the basics to an adequate level, if the desire finds you, however do not allow that to stroke your egos; you are not in the same league as two of your classmates."

"Not that particular weakness is any of your fault, of course," he added almost as an afterthought. Nice bloke, that.

Approximately two seconds later –maybe less– I was utterly bored and seriously regretting having ever chosen Divination. I guess the endless possibilities of the future made it impossible to predict or too vague to be of use, even with the aid of magic. That was a shame, I wouldn't have minded knowing what I was going to have for breakfast on the 22th of May.

A detached part of my mind was vaguely aware of the teacher talking, doubtlessly about something boring, but it was in the background, just white noise. I began drawing idly on my parchment. The quill rose and fell, inscribing startlingly defined black lines on the paper. My imagination ran wild, hundreds of images appeared, most lasting no more than a second, as my mind browsed through the files, instantly dismissing most. Occasionally I noted something that caught my fancy; just a feature here, the shape of something there. Gradually, the favourable features came together, though I slightly altered some.

"Hey." A strange voice interrupted.

I jumped so violently I almost fell out of my chair.

"What?" Yeah, elegant, I know.

The boy I was sharing the table with was average in every way, the exception being that he was speaking to me. Willingly, even, and perhaps even without ulterior motives. I hadn't taken any particular notice of him when I'd taken my seat. I'd just noticed the empty chair in a favourable position at the back of the room, though I now, rather unsurprisingly, took the time to give him the ol' once over.

Frankly, he didn't have any distinguishable features to mention. The only remarkable thing about him was the fact that someone could manage to look so incredibly ordinary. He had flat grey eyes, rusty brown hair cropped back from his face, slightly wrinkled Hufflepuff robes, and he was smiling slightly.

"You got a problem with something?" This was not a polite enquiry or offer to do homework, rather, as I hoped my tone conveyed, it was a slightly more subtle way of saying: 'bugger off and leave me alone'.

He just went on smiling.

On second thoughts, maybe he did need something blunt to chisel through his thick skull, "Buzz off."

I'd never been one for subtlety anyway.

Unfortunately my natural person repellent seemed to be malfunctioning.

"That's really good," he said, ignoring my charms and nodding his exceptionally ordinary head at my parchment. To say I was merely 'taken aback' would be a grossly understating it. For the second time in the course of a few seconds I was startled into almost falling out of my chair. I really had to stop doing that.

I followed his gaze, I observed my drawing of the eye. The pupil was dilated and the lids narrowed. It was encased in multiple layers of coarse scales but I frowned critically at the shading. It was a dragon eye. Sort of. It was shaped in such a way that it looked pained. I quickly amended that by tracing over the top of the eyelid and changing the overall angle slightly. The changes made it look mad, but that was alright; anger was a much easier emotion to deal with.

Not to be dissuaded by my lack of response, the boy ranted on, "I like the way it all flows together, it looks determined."

I considered it again, trying to see what he saw. I guess it could be described as determined.

'Drat. Even my own drawings rebel against me.'

"I'm Reece," he said, offering a hand, "Reece Ottoman."

I stared at his hand for a long while (which was suspiciously ordinary mind you). Then, giving myself a hefty mental kick into action, I took it.

After I'd muttered something vaguely similar to my name he fell silent, watching the teacher half-heatedly. For the remainder of the seemingly endless lesson, I watched him discreetly from the corner of my eye.

Amended assessment: not an ordinary guy, appearance is deceiving and puts one off guard. Treat with suspicion until further notice.

I'd thought the exchange would end there and be forgotten. But when the class was finally dismissed I only made it as far as the Great Hall before the next instalment in the soon to become series of encounters. He drew a few curious looks as he sat down beside me at the Gryffindor table, casually asking the nearest first year to pass the sauce. Who has sauce on (upon close inspection) a jam and cheese sandwich anyway?

"Are you excited about the first Quidditch game? You team is going up against Slytherin after all." The topic came out of the blue, taking me completely unaware.

"Is that what people refer to as a 'conversation starter'?" I asked after a long pause.

Who me, socially clueless? Perish the thought!

"Sure, I guess so. But usually when one person wishes to know the personal preferences of another person he or she simply asks. In this context, we call this inquiry a question."

His tone was light, indicating that the sentence that could have easily been mocking was intended to be friendly. That the kid spoke a language I could understand.

"Well, no, I'm not that excited." The boy puzzled me. He was definitely a mystery. People didn't just sit down to lunch with Gryffindor's self-designated loner. I'll admit I was curious. With nothing better to do, I decided to make an effort with this conversation, hoping that I'd find answers. "When is it?"

"The season hasn't even started yet, the houses have only just picked the teams. The first game won't be for a while."

"They why bring it up?"

"Why not?"

'Why would he answer a question with a question, especially a question he knows I can't answer? Stupid infuriatingly confusing boy.'

"My oldest brother plays for Ravenclaw," he continued while applying another layer of sauce to his disgusting sandwich. Finally it made sense.

"That's what you want! You expect me to give up secrets about our team so you can feed it back to your brother!" I was delighted by my discovery and at solving the mystery. The prospect of someone expecting me to betray my house didn't really bother me, I was obviously far below house loyalty.

He snorted, "Hardly. I'm a Hufflepuff, I was just asking."

He couldn't possibly know how confused this made me. Mystery case re-opened. "Then why are you talking to me?"

He shrugged, "I was bored. You looked equally as bored. Besides, you're good at drawing and you're interesting."

I always tried to avoid believing blatant lies. "Me? As if. Why don't you talk to your friends?"

A shadow fell across his face, "My friends and I had a… disagreement," he muttered bitterly, "I don't want to talk to them."

I blanched in alarm; if he expected me to listen with open ears about the woes of life he was mistaken. Thankfully, he seemed eager to change the topic.

"Anyway, you play Quidditch?" There was something about that game that just drew wizards to it, and no matter their age they reverted to metal stage of ten years old at the mere mention of the word. I liked the way his face lit up, I had to restrain my lips from twitching into a smile. I drew the conclusion that he was just a strange lonely boy with no one to annoy. It was a better assessment than my first Quidditch related suspicions. Probably.

"You're strange."

The stupid boy's grin spread even wider, "Thank you!"

"It wasn't a complement."

"I know."

"You're confusing me."

"Yes, I know that too."

"I just… I don't understand you."

"Is it bothering you?"

My instinctive affirmative answer couldn't form into words. His earnest face was getting the better of my traitorous better nature. The strangest thing was I don't really think I minded.

"… No," I said so softly I was half afraid and half hoping that he hadn't heard, but he did, and it caused him to smile.

He took a bite out of his sandwich large enough to intimidate a shark, "Wahtz'rnecksnlas?" Something about necks and masts, and perhaps waltzing? Then again, probably not. It was no dialect I was familiar with, a fact he gathered by my raised eyebrow.

He swallowed at least half his sandwich with a huge gulp, "What's your next class?"

"Defence Against the Dark Arts. Yours?"

He just shrugged, "Haven't a clue." Then, stuffing the remaining mass of bread and goo into his mouth, he stood and started towards the door.

"Where are you going?" I demanded. I was a little disappointed, but not surprised, that he'd ditched me just when I'd finally decided to progress past only talking to inanimate objects, animals and any split personalities that I will not confirm the existence of.

"Defence class room, somewhere on the third floor, I think. You comin'?"

I managed a bewildered nod, then watched as he grinned and raced out of the hall. That time I couldn't resist the small smile, and I gave into it. I hurriedly detangled myself from the bench and jogged after him, ignoring McGonagall's yelling and the curious stares of the students that followed us.

Further evaluation: very odd, slightly amusing. Study until further notice.