Author's Note: So… yeah just a random one-shot I thought of while reading Past's Player, by The Fictionist. –It's really good, by the way, as is its sequel/prequel? Fate's Favorite is finished but Past's Player is not; Past's Player happened before Fate's Favorite, though… if that makes sense. :D Confusing; yay, Alexa would be happy! Anyways… should I bother continuing it? If I did, it would be long in between updates… they would all be random one-shots in this realm of plot bunny, though, because I'm not really a stick-to-it writer that much… never finished a story in my entire life… D: though I'm getting close, with my pokemon fanfic, only about 10 more chappies to go on that one, yays! Anyways… what'cha think?

Outrageous Obsessions

Blackstorm crept forward, keeping his body low; his ears pricked forward, picking up the softest sounds, his nose scenting the faintest smells. He waited for the wind to change, and when it did, he burst into a run, leaping forward and landing on his prey, fangs bared and bloodlust up –

Chrystine's quill sped across her spare parchment, unable to stop herself from pouring out the plot bunnies that just wouldn't give up. "Miss Roane!" it was the sharp voice of Professor Dumbledore, the Transfiguration teacher. She scowled. Dumbledore only took that tone with Slytherins, the biased bastard. She raised her head.

"Yes, Professor?" she answered, keeping her voice calm despite the scorn running through her.

"Have you already completed the Transfiguration of a mouse into a flower?" He asked, sweeping over. Chrystine flushed.

"Yes, sir," she said tightly, gesturing to the flower on her desk. Dumbledore canceled the transfiguration and ordered her to perform the charm for him. She could sense the whole class' eyes on her, and she gritted her teeth. He knew she hated attention!

"Mutare a flour!" she intoned, focusing, shaping her magic to her will. The mouse squeaked in fright as it changed tail-first, the tail becoming the stem of a rose. She smirked as she listened to its frightened squeals, which only died when the rose was complete.

"Five points from Slytherin," Dumbledore stated coldly. Chrystine's head shot up, rage filling her eyes.

"What?!" she spat. "You asked me to do the transformation and I did!"

Dumbledore's eyes flashed. "For not paying attention in my class, Miss Roane, and for being purposefully cruel to a living creature. Don't make me add a detention to it, as well."

He walked away, and her eyes followed him, filled with righteous anger and, strangely, desperation. She gave a slight shudder at the gazes of the other Slytherins, filled with contempt and scorn. When the bell had at last rung, she was the first out of the door, books in her arms and her face flushing.

Why was I Sorted into Slytherin? She moaned to herself, slipping into an empty corridor and leaning her back to the wall, eyes closed and breathing harsh. Five years ago, she had started at Hogwarts, eager to learn everything she could, be the top Ravenclaw at the school, just as her parents expected of her –but then Fate had decided to screw with her, and had placed her into Slytherin.

Her parents dismissed her from their minds, now; she was the family disgrace, the only one not smart enough to get into Ravenclaw, and of course, Slytherins were Dark Wizards, and evil. All her family felt for her was contempt, and no one outside of Slytherin would ever accept her because of the fact that she was a Slytherin.

Even in Slytherin, she was an outcast, because though she was a pureblood, her parents rejected normal pureblood life, and looked down on other purebloods, making her a mockery in Slytherin. They labled her family, and thus her, as blood-traitors. Besides, cunning and slippery she may be, she was not prepared for the level of politics within the Slytherin House.

So she had no one, and would certainly receive nothing from her parents. Everything she had was a product of her own work, her own doing –but she was no genius, only a good student because of her obsessive studying, and her head was constantly in the clouds. She wanted to be a writer –but that simply wasn't something wizards did. All books were written by squibs or extremely low-power wizards, which she was not.

But it was the only thing that made her life tolerable –the writing. She could not simply stop writing, it was her only escape, because anything else, people could find and mock her for. But she burned anything she wrote immediately after writing it, so no one could find out her secret. Which reminded her –she took out the paper she had been writing on, and with a flick of her wand, set it on fire. She watched in silent fascination as the flames curled up the parchment, a myriad of orange and red and yellow, and in the center, a light blue. The edges of the parchment curled, browning and blackening until everything had gone up into smoke and ashes.

"Pyromaniac, are you, Roane?" A quiet voice asked from the entrance of the corridor. Chrystine turned to see the last person she wanted to see –Tom Riddle.

"Yes, because that's the only reason a person has to set a piece of paper on fire," She replied sarcastically, narrowing her eyes at him. "I thought I made it clear to you that I wanted nothing to do with you and your little circle of sycophants."

"Oh yes, you made it crystal clear," the other returned, ice in his gaze. "I chose to ignore it."

"OH you did, did you?" Chrystine snarled. "Leave me alone, Riddle, I don't want to deal with your oh-so exalted presence today!" She made to sweep past him, only to have her arm grabbed in a vice-grip. "Let go of my arm," she hissed dangerously, her magic beginning to rise.

"Not if you're just going to walk away from me," Riddle refused, amusement dancing in his dark eyes. "In case you hadn't noticed in the five years you've known me, Chrystine, I do not like being dismissed." His voice had gone dangerously soft.

"And in case you hadn't noticed in the five years you've known me, I don't like being touched!" Chrystine growled, jerking her arm away from him and sending a jolt of magic down her arm. Riddle let go before the magic reached his hand, looking furious.

"You dare-?" he began, but Chrystine was gone, fleeing so fast she might as well have aparated. He cursed, disappointed to lose his toy, again. She had been pulling that disappearing act as long as he'd known her, never allowing him close enough long enough to be able to talk to her longer than ten minutes. She had something to hide; and he was going to find out what it was.