Walkers With the Dawn

1. Nox

[Nocks] Turns off the light produced by Lumos.

Hermione Granger

Of all the things I expected in my final year of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, this was not one of them.

I grit my teeth as, with a flick of my wand, clothes begin to fly from the trunk and fold themselves neatly into the chests at the end of the bed. I am painfully aware that he is doing the same a mere door away. Honestly, I should have expected something like this to happen, what with the way my luck has been going lately.

First, I find out that Neville Longbottom, the Boy-Who-Lived and the object of an enduring crush that I cannot seem to rid myself of, is in love with Ginny Weasley, the sister of my other best friend, Ron Weasley. What's worse is the way I found out; stumbling upon the pair of them snogging like the morrow would not come in a compartment on the Hogwarts Express. It was absolutely horrid; witnessing their embrace and watching them hastily pull away from one another. Seeing the bare trace of Ginny's lipstick on Neville's mouth and the happiness and slight gleam of triumph in Ginny's eyes felt like being hit with a particularly nasty curse. My heart made an extremely painful and speedy descent to my belly. I'm pretty sure it's still on the train, so quickly did it drop.

Then, I discover that Draco Malfoy has not been expelled for his horrible deeds of last year and is free to the roam the castle as though he hadn't led Neville into a trap that had almost gotten him—and me—killed. Then, to top off an already horrible day, I discover that Harry Potter has been named Head Boy!

I honestly don't understand. How, exactly, does Hogwarts justify making someone like Harry Potter Head Boy? Isn't the Head Boy and Head Girl chosen based on academic achievement, one's reputation as a student, and the possession of a sound personality? There must be another criteria for selection because Potter's ranking in all such categories are abysmal. In all my life, I've striven to give everyone I've ever met a chance. Knowing that, I can honestly say that Harry James Potter is the bane of my existence. He is a Slytherin, one of its rulers, and a walking stereotype of everything one has come to expect from that House.

Our 'relationship' started the first time I stepped into Diagon Alley, my very first foray into the Wizarding World. I can still remember how I felt when I beheld that magical place for the first time. I was filled with so much wonder and excitement that I could've exploded. I can still see the sea of wizards and witches bustling in cloaks of every color. I can still smell the mouth watering aroma of fresh food wafting from the shops. I can still hear the screech of animals I had only seen in books add their voices to the clutter and liveliness that was Diagon Alley.

I was so eager, happy and exhilarated to enter this strange world of which I was now apart. It's hard to convey how thrilling it was to learn that I was a witch, that I had the power to use magic. It seemed like a whole new world had opened up to me, one that I could never have dreamt of. Suddenly the possibilities were endless.

But everything changed when I ran into one Hadrian James Potter at Ollivander's. It was my introduction to the dark and not-so-hidden side of my new world. It was a mere glimpse into the horrifying prejudices of the world to which I now belonged.

Ollivander's was wondrous to me. Upon entering, I stood and gawked at the incredible surreality of it all. It looked like a trainer's shop, which was amusing in and of itself. Of all the things I expected, seeing wands tucked into cylindrical cardboard boxes was not it. But it didn't stop my amazement. Finally, I was going to get a wand! I read about them; they were the conductors through which wizards and witches used their magic. The acquisition of a wand would mark my official entrance into the wizarding world and I could not be more excited. If only my parents weren't delaying Ollivander! In truth, I was more than a little impatient. My parents were merrily drilling Ollivander about the sheer mechanics of using a piece of wood to control powerful forces such as magic, which was typical of them and would be quite acceptable if it were not delaying the choosing of my wand! But I could do nothing more than bear it. I knew that we would not be moving forward until my parents were good and satisfied. I am like them in that respect, so I forced myself to remain calm. Once I attained my wand, that would be it. I would never be without it, so I could wait a few moments more.

I continued to wander around, soaking in every sight possible until I crossed something. I paused and looked back with wide eyes; had I walked through an invisible barrier? There was a passage about it in the eighth chapter of Hogwarts, A History, but I never thought I'd experience it so soon! Blinking, I forcibly pulled my mind back to the present which was easy when I realized where I was. It was Ollivander's workshop. It was an incredibly massive room, painted blue and bronze with the symbol of a raven in the middle of the wall; the symbol of Ravenclaw House from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, according to what I've read.

On the far wall were tables stacked with various different logs of wood, all of which emitted energy. It was a strange and pulsing sensation that fascinated and alarmed me in turn. There were strange ribbons, feathers, and other items that I had no name for floating about, literally floating about everywhere. Yet after a moment's observation, I realized that they weren't just floating, they were surrounded by invisible bubbles of something. Were they being soaked? One section of the room housed what looked to be organs. Some were in jars, some hung from hooks as though being dried. Yet more were locked into glass chests. Even more amazing were the wands sitting on the table in the middle of the room. They were glowing. The strange pulsing coming from the raw wood was nothing like as strong as what was coming from the completed wands. They almost felt alive. More than anything else, it was the heavy presence of magic hanging over the room that awed me more than anything. It was as though events of great magical significance were occurring right in this room.

I stood there for a moment, staring, my heart nearly flying at what I was seeing. I wanted, no needed, to know more. In front of me were the pieces to creating wands, I just needed a little more knowledge to thread it together. I absorbed the sight in front of me for a moment longer before leaving. I was pretty sure I wasn't supposed to be in this place and I didn't want to cause trouble for my parents. Besides, I had seen enough to imprint the sight in my mind forever. Returning the way I came, I smiled as I crossed the barrier again. Soon, I returned to the front of the shop and contented myself with exploring there.

I was near the wand displays when I saw it. Displayed near a shelf was a book sitting on a pedestal and covered in a thick layer of dust. My interest immediately piqued, I made a beeline for it. Wrinkling my nose at the absolutely abhorrent state that book was in, I delicately wiped the dust off with my hand before opening it gingerly. The Magicke of Wands, it proclaimed proudly on the front page, and I smiled at the luck of it all. Now, I could connect the pieces. As I begin to read, I was disappointed to discover that it was truly the basics in wandmaking. Fortunately, it was still quite informational. The secrets of wandmaking was just that, a secret, and I'd have to take any number of oaths, as well as apprentice under a wandmaker, before discovering all the wonderful knowledge that I was seeking.

Drat.

That's when he entered. I didn't notice him at first, so absorbed was I with The Magicke of Wands.

"Excuse me, do you know where Ollivander is?"

Startled by the sudden interrupted, I nearly jumped at the sound of the voice. I turned to see a boy standing there. He was short with black hair and beautiful green eyes. He wore long black robes, and had angular glasses perched on his nose. But what was odd was the lightning shaped scar on his forehead. My eyes narrowed on it for a moment. There weren't many types of scars that remained on a wizard's body, simply because our magic rid us of most of them. The only ones that remained were usually those gotten before our first magical incident. But this scar was clearly different. It was deep and angry looking ... dark magic?

Steeling myself not to stare, I smiled at him and shrugged lightly. "He's somewhere around here with my parents. They shan't be too much longer, I hope."

His eyes narrowed on me and I was taken aback by the look there. It was sharp and unflinching.

"You're Muggleborn," he said slowly, his striking green eyes boring into me as he spoke. It wasn't a question.

My eyes widened.

"Muggleborn?" I repeated, more than a little unnerved by his behavior. He was so intense. At the time, I remember thinking that I had never met anyone quite as piercing as this boy and it piqued my insatiable curiosity; who was he?

He studied me, eyes unblinking. "It means that you have non-magical parents," he answered, eyes running over me briefly. I frowned as he quickly took in my messy hair, dark skin and brand new robes ... and just as quickly dismissed them.

"What does that have to do with anything?" I asked cautiously, a sinking feeling in my stomach, like I already knew that I wasn't going to like what he said, "and how in the world were you able to tell that just by looking at me?"

"There's a hierarchy here in the wizarding world," he responded, ignoring my question, "and you are at the bottom of it."

I frown in confusion and growing upset at his words. What is he on about?

He shook his head at my reaction. "I suggest you educate yourself, Muggleborn," he said turning away. "It'll be harder for you if you don't. Better that you know your place now."

He looked at me and sniffed. "I think I'll come back later, when it's less crowded."

We were the only two people there.

He swept out of the door, making nary a sound as he disappeared, uncaring of the wreckage he left in his wake.

I was absolutely floored. Had that just happened? Did that really just happen? And a hierarchy? What did that mean? And what did he mean when he said I was at the bottom? I didn't read about any of this in my school books or in Hogwarts, A History. What in the world was he talking about? The next moments passed in a blur. To this day, I scarcely remember receiving my wand, a moment that I had been so passionate about before. All I remember was that suddenly, it was in my hand and I was staring into the smiling faces of my parents and Ollivander.

At my insistence, our very next stop was Flourish & Blotts. My parents were exasperated that I wanted to go to a bookshop when I'd already read and memorized my books. But as always, they allowed me. They had no inkling of the fear burning in my heart, of the hope that faltered with each step I took toward the shop.

The trip to Flourish & Blotts yielded more fruit on the subject than I was ready to handle. It was a very rude and very heartbreaking wake-up call. There were scores and scores of manuscripts and scrolls on the horrors of blood prejudices in the wizarding world. There were tales of wars that wiped out entire generations of people, tales of conflicts that spanned the whole of the wizarding world. Wizarding World Wars One and Two saw the end of not only millions of lives, but many different ancient branches of magic, all casualties in the fight to decide who had the right to practice magic.

It was beyond horrifying.

It changed me and little did I know that my interaction with the boy at the wand shop would shape my entire experience at Hogwarts. It was as though that moment in Ollivanders sealed my fate. It wasn't enough that Potter had, in a way, shattered the innocence of my childhood, no, he wanted me to suffer. From the moment I stepped foot into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Harry Potter made every effort to make my life a living hell. It hadn't been any overt attacks like the wholly unimaginative Draco Malfoy, no, his ridicule was much more subtle, the effects infinitely longer lasting. It was the quiet remark about my teeth here, the offhanded comment about my hair there, or the snide aside about my penchant to know the answer to every question under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear.

I have asked myself more times than I can count why Harry Potter's words hurt me. I easily dismiss Malfoy's words as hateful and unreasonable and I successfully ignore other students who regard me coolly because I'm Muggleborn, so why does his words sting? Maybe it's because of his focused and intense mannerism, a gift, some would call it, but one that he uses to cut me down. Maybe it's because a part of me realizes that there is the smallest grain of truth in his words, that I do have large teeth and untamable hair; that I am a well-known know-it-all. Maybe it's because he says it so seriously, so calmly, as though he truly believes every word. Maybe it's because he looks me in the eyes and says it, that he speaks the words as boldly as any Gryffindor would. I'll probably never know the answer, but it doesn't matter anymore. I will not allow Harry Potter to bring me down, not this year. This is my final year at Hogwarts and I'm determined that it will be different from all the other years. There will be no trolls, no lunatic Dark Lords and no embarrassing romantic episodes. Despite the absolutely horrid way it has started, this is going to be a normal year at Hogwarts. Well, as normal as can possibly be had in this school.

This will be my best year at Hogwarts School Witchcraft of Wizardry yet. I know it.

#*#*#*#*#*#

Well, this is it, the beginning of the end.

I nibble on a piece of sweet bread as I watch my fellow Gryffindors joke and interact jovially as though they haven't a care in the world. All I have are cares and one of them is wondering where the time has gone. It seems like it was just yesterday that I was where the first years are now, taking that first, seemingly endless walk to the front of the Great hall, getting sorted into Gryffindor, meeting new friends and creating relationships that would only strengthen over the next six years.

Now, as I enter my seventh and final year of Hogwarts, the very things that used to be a comfort to me now elicit pangs of bittersweet sadness. While I'm excited about graduating and making my mark on the world, I'm sad that this is the last time we'll all be together like this. Graduation is the true marker of childhood's end. After this year each of us will be entering the adult world and going our separate ways. It's enough to make me cry. I'll miss all of my friends and the times we've spent in this castle. Nothing will ever quite compare to all the experiences I've had in this school and I will treasure every memory that I've created here for the rest of my life.

"A knut for your thoughts?"

Looking up, I meet the steady gaze of my best friend, Neville Longbottom, as he and my other best friend, Ronald Weasley, slide onto the bench on either side of me. I gaze at Neville with slightly narrowed eyes as the vision of Neville snogging Ginny on the Hogwarts Express appears before my vision, but I quickly and firmly put it away with a bit of Occulmency. Now is not the time to be bombarded with those negative emotions. They will be wrestled with in the comfort of my room, not in the Great Hall where I'm sharing the first meal of the year with my two best friends.

"Where have you two been?" I ask with a frown, knowing that their tardiness can only mean that they've been up to no good.

"Just picking on Malfoy," Neville answers with an easy smile. "Now, tell me. Why the long face?"

Sighing, I respond. "Well, this is our last year and I was just thinking about how much I'll miss everyone."

Ron rolls his eyes. "That's so you, Hermione," he says as he begins to pile his plate high. "We've barely started our last year and you're already thinking about the end. Just because we're leaving this place doesn't mean we won't be together again."

"Wow, Ronald," I reply, eyebrows rising. "That's surprisingly wise of you."

"Always the tone of surprise," he responds with a grin.

I return his smile before moving to place a much more sensible amount of food on my plate.

Ron is right, perhaps it's a bit too early to be gloomy about graduation. We still have a whole year to go through, not to mention survive N.E.W.T.S. which will be the focus of this year. It will serve me better to focus on all the studying that I'll be doing—and forcing Neville and Ron to do—before even considering graduation. I grimace at the thought and suddenly, the end of the year seems a very long way away.

"So," Neville begins, after taking a particularly large bite of shepherd's pie, "N.E.W.T.S.s are this year and I am completely unprepared for them, what with being worried about the Dark Lunatic and all. They say they get harder every year and I have to get at least an 'Exceeds Expectation' in Charms, Potions and Herbology if I want to become an Herbologist. Herbology won't be a problem, of course, but I barely passed Potions with a good enough grade in my O.W.L.s to take the N.E.W.T.s at all! How am I ever going to get an 'E' in Potions?" he moans, slumping in his seat.

"I know it's been a rough go for you, mate," Ron says sympathetically, "but we have one thing that other people don't have …"

"Hermione," Neville and Ron exclaim in unison, both of them beaming at me, teeth showing.

"You'll help us, won't you Hermione?" Ron asks, eyes wide with hope.

Rolling my eyes, I nod. "Yes, I'll help you, but you two must promise to make an actual effort this time."

"We will," Neville agrees immediately, throwing me a dazzling grin and I hate the way my stupid stomach flips at his smile. Merlin, but it's not like Neville is the most handsome guy in school! Why does my treacherous heart care for him so? Because he's smart, brave, loyal and caring, my darned heart whispers. I ignore it as I huff to cover up my reaction to his smile. I know I've promised myself to tell him how I feel this year-well, at least I did before finding out that he was with Ginny-but that doesn't mean that I have to give him any hints beforehand.

"Absolutely," Ron seconds, offering me a smile as well.

I send him a glare. I want to be angry with both of them because I know their promises won't hold up, but I can't and after a moment I deflate and return their smiles. I've known these two much too long to be fooled by their words. They'll work hard for a week and then Ron'll go to back to thinking about nothing but Quidditch, and Neville'll think about nothing but his precious plants. However, I want to give them a chance to change. Perhaps they'll surprise me this year.

Or perhaps not, I sigh in exasperation, as I watch Neville and Ron dig into their food like beasts.

"Look," Neville says, nodding toward the professor's table, "Dumbledore's speaking again. I thought we missed the opening speech …?"

"You did," I reply, slowly taking a bite of my food, "I guess he wasn't finished." It's not unusual for Dumbledore to speak again after the official welcoming speech. Last year, he stood and rattled off a long speech that sounded like a bunch of gibberish, until I realized he was saying all the words backwards. I expected everyone to give Dumbledore the same look I did, like the man had finally gone completely mad. Instead, everyone cheered and went back to eating, as though everything he said made perfect sense. I suppose, I shouldn't be surprised that Dumbledore's special brand of barminess is contagious. Ron has a flowered nap cap that looks suspiciously like Dumbledore's flowered bonnet while Neville has taken a strange liking to sherbet lemons. It strikes an irrational fear into my heart. Will I suddenly develop an irresistible urge to knit?

Dumbledore raises his hand for silence and waits until the hall quiets down before speaking. "I know that all of you are comfortably—even uncomfortably—full," the Headmaster says, his twinkling eyes glancing knowingly in the direction of Ron's now miserable form, "but the night is not yet over. At this time, I am pleased to inform you that Hogwarts has recently accepted a transfer student from the incredibly prestigious An-Ki Institute of Alchemy and Enchantments."

The Headmaster pauses at the sudden outbreak of murmuring, immediately raising his hand for silence once again. "I understand your excitement and confusion. It is not often that Hogwarts has such transfers, but I trust you will make her feel welcome and aid her as she seeks to adjust to this institution. As with all students who enter Hogwarts, she will now be sorted and placed into a house. Now, Hagrid, if you will?"

The doors of the Great Hall open and many stand, even as others lean over to see who enters. She's short with dark skin and wide, dark brown eyes. Her hair is shaved on both sides, framing a mass of braids that can only be sitting atop her head through magical means. She has medium sized gauges in her ears, through which large hoop earrings swing. Completing the fascinating picture is a small septum ring peeking through her nostrils. She's quite striking in her appearance, all of it serving to give her a unique beauty.

I'm not the only one who notices; the whispers increases as she walks down the isle. Her steps are unhurried, her posture straight, as she arrives at the front of the hall where Professor McGonagall stands with the Sorting Hat.

"Zola Keita," Professor McGonagall announces before indicating that she sit.

The hall is quiet as the hat is placed on her head. It immediately comes to life. "Oh," it says in delight, "it's been quite some time since I've sorted a Keita …" It trails off and falls into silence, even as I contemplate its words. So, Zola Keita is pureblood. What's interesting is that she is from a different school, which must be in a different country, but her line is known by the Sorting Hat. It's a mystery that elicits more questions: What does being a Keita mean and what is the An-Ki Institute of Alchemy and Enchantments? I thought I knew all the magical schools that existed; I researched them. So, why haven't I ever heard of Zola Keita's school? I can't help but be suspicious: New people never did spell good things for us.

Everyone is silent as we wait for the sorting hat's decision, until finally, it screams, "Hufflepuff!"

"She's a Hufflepuff," Ron says, immediately dismissing her, and I quell the urge to tell him that Hufflepuff is as good as any other house, but the professors catch my attention. Their expressions are neutral, but there seems to be an air of excitement about them, one that only appeared after introducing Zola Keita. Indeed, Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and even Snape look disappointed about the House designation even as Professor Sprout very nearly preens. Like all things at Hogwarts, there is more to this than meets the eye.

"You don't reckon she's here to kill me, do you?" Neville asks, only half jokingly, as we watch her make her way to the Hufflepuff table. Neville and I exchange a glance, mine being more sympathetic than anything because sadly, that certainly seems to be the trend.

"There are worse ways to go," Ron says with a distinctive male grin that makes me roll my eyes. Of course Ron would notice how pretty Zola is, even though his girlfriend, Luna Lovegood, is at the next table. I don't take it too seriously though. Ron is loony over Luna. I've actually never seen a more perfect couple. I summarily ignore the image of Neville and Ginny that pops up in my mind.

I stand just as Dumbledore finishes his closing remarks. Time to be Head Girl. I am moving toward the entrance when Neville pulls me to the side. He moves close and lowers his voice as students began to flow around us.

"Look, Hermione," Neville begins, his body tense, his face showing his discomfort, "I'm sorry about earlier, with Ginny."

I swallow hard, lips pressing together as I try to hide my trepidation. I had hoped that he would just pretend it hadn't happened, but of course, Neville would never do that. He's the absolute opposite of coward. Now, however, is one of the few instances when I wished he was the type to simply let things alone.

I force a smile onto my face. "Don't let Potter catch you doing that. He's liable to take points away." Somehow, I can't fix my mouth to tell him that seeing him practically devour Ginny was okay. He doesn't notice the omission, of course.

He grimaces, his mind immediately zeroing in on the bane of his existence. "Damn, I forgot that prick was Head Boy. What was Dumbledore thinking?"

A fine question and this time, I allow a frown to blossom across my face. "I have no clue, Neville," I respond, "perhaps you could ask him when you see him next?"

Neville nods, troubled. "I think I'll do just that."

An awkward silence follows. Although Neville apologized for his interaction with Ginny and we neatly changed the subject, it is like a hippogriff standing between us. I honestly don't know what's different. Neville's had girlfriends in the past, all of whom I've been civil, if not warm, to. And it's not like Ginny is a stranger. I've never been particularly close to the youngest and only female Weasley, but we are at least friendly towards one another. So, why does this feel so incredibly uncomfortable?

Choosing to end our suffering, I paste a smile on my face and bid Neville farewell before quickly moving out of the Great Hall. I am acutely aware that his eyes follow me every step of the way, but I resolutely ignore it. I have to fulfill my duties as Head Girl and I'm already late. Shaking off my encounter with Neville, I smile as reach the foyer where the first years are waiting.

The Slytherin and Ravenclaw first years, as well as the Slytherin and Ravenclaw Prefects are gone, taken by Potter no doubt. Of course he wouldn't wait for me to show up so we could present a unified front. But then again, I shouldn't have been late. With a sigh, I take quick note of where Zola Keita is before moving to stand between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff prefects to begin my spiel.

So far, this has been a horrendous start to the year. Hopefully, it'll only get better.

#*#*#*#*#*#

It is in the quiet of the library that I bend over my textbooks, Advanced Runes for the Overachieving Scholar, Artful Arithmancy, and Alchemy for the Studiously Inclined.

It's not any class assignment that I'm working on, but a private project that I decided to pursue after reading a particularly interesting passage in my Ancient Runes book.

I haven't bothered to tell Neville or Ron about my extracurricular research. Merlin knows how they would react. The thought makes me smile. The notion of willingly studying for no reason other than my own knowledge and curiosity would absolutely horrify both of them. They already think I'm nutters for my decision to take eleven N.E.W.T.s but I've stood firm despite their protests. And it's not easy, definitely not. It's actually the hardest I've ever studied in my life, on the strictest schedule I've ever adhered to. But compared to facing all manner of magical enemies trying to kill Neville, flying a hippogriff to save Neville's father in third year, and enduring constant harassment for being Muggleborn; spending a year merely studying for the many N.E.W.T.s I'm taking seems like a walk around the lake.

I am actually looking forward to spending my year simply learning, of absorbing the vast amounts of knowledge sitting between the pages of the books, tomes and scrolls that surround me. I revel in learning for its own sake, and not just because I have to find some way to keep Neville alive. To be able to do that is important to me and the change in reasons to study is more than welcome.

I am deeply entrenched in a chapter regarding the significance of numbers in nature, particularly Fibonacci's series and the Golden Ratio, in relation to elemental magic in alchemy, when I sense him settle in front of me. I stiffen. Slowly, deliberately, I look around. There are at least seven long, unoccupied tables in just the isolated area in which I'm sitting. Why, then, did Harry Potter choose to sit at my table? Gritting my teeth, I hunch further over my book, determined to ignore him. I'm not going to say anything to him. He isn't here.

Harry Potter is not invading my sanctuary.

The next ten minutes are nearly unbearable. To say that I'm aware of him would be the understatement of the century. The slightest rustle of his clothes, the most minute movement in my peripheral, catches my attention. It's around the twelfth minute that I realize that I've turned several pages without nary an idea about what I've read. But I'll be damned before I turn back to where I started. I'll not give Potter the satisfaction.

Another minute in and I can't stand it anymore. I stare at the page unseeingly, wondering if I should risk it. Is Potter looking at me? Or has he given up on his staring and is looking elsewhere? Finally, finally, I sneak a quick peek at him.

Emerald eyes meet brown eyes, and he holds my gaze for a moment before allowing a slow smirk to stretch his features.

I fume, feeling as though I've lost somehow. Of course Harry Potter would make something like this a contest of who's better!

"What do you want, Hadrian?" I ask him, not bothering to hide my irritation.

A frown crosses his face before his face returns to its usual passiveness. This time I smirk, happy to have evened the score. He hates, absolutely hates when I call him Hadrian. It's why doing it is so damn satisfying.

"I just wanted to talk," he replies, undaunted, refusing to rise to my baiting. "Since we're partners and all. I think it would be beneficial to both of us to smooth things over; bury the hatchet so-to-speak."

I stare at him incredulously. The only hatchet I'm burying is right in Potter's thick skull! After years of tormenting me, now he wants a truce? I don't realize I've said it aloud until he cocks his head at me.

"Torment is a strong word, Granger," he says smoothly, running slender fingers through artfully messy, raven locks. "Surely our little spats over the years have been mere footnotes in the epic saga of the Brightest Witch of Our Age."

It's in that moment that I remember why I hate Harry Potter so, as if I can ever forget. He is so manipulative, so Slytherin that it makes me want to send a well-placed Bombarda to his expressionless face. He does it artfully; using words, charm, and charisma to shape a situation however he wishes. I've seen him employ these tactics with teachers, and students alike. It's why he's able to control Slytherin with so little political bloodshed, even Slytherins from legacy households like Malfoy. He's truly a master at his craft. But I'm not that little girl he used to pick on anymore. Thankfully, our interaction during our sixth year was much less than the previous years. The much needed reprieve was more than enough time for me to come to terms with who I was both as a witch and the daughter of Muggles. It also helped me to determine what I will and won't tolerate from the Wizarding world and being treated like a second class citizen is not one of them. I've grown and it's time to show Harry Potter that.

Instead of his comments flustering me like they did in years past, I cross my arms and meet his gaze.

"Mere blips indeed," I agree flippantly, "but what can I say, 'boys will be boys'.

His eyes narrow on me, but I smile at him candidly. "You want to a truce but I wonder if you're able," I continue, musing aloud, "you've shown a remarkable lack of self-control where I'm concerned."

It's something I realized over the summer. Potter has never pointedly plagued anyone like he has me. The question is why. It's something that I've pondered but found no solution to. Why is it me? Why am I always Potter's target?

He stares at me for a moment before smiling and surprisingly enough, it looks genuine.

"You've grown," he says, matter-of-factly. I ignore the implications of his words although inside I fume. I'm not his subordinate, we're equals. Yet a part of me can't fault him for his words. I've hardly been acting like his equal. It's almost as though I never recovered from the world-shattering revelations of blood prejudice during my entrance into the Wizarding World. Upon learning my 'place', I wilted and accepted whatever blood purists threw at me in silence, almost as though attempting to avoid any situation that even faintly resembled the multitude of conflicts that have plagued the Wizarding world throughout history. I forced myself to ignore the unjust treatment to maintain the peace. But it wasn't my peace, it was their peace. I allowed myself to be treated like a second-class citizen in order to maintain a status quo that never should have been. But I swore to myself that I would not hold myself back any longer. I will turn the Wizarding World on its head before I continue to allow myself to be treated like trash.

I return the smile, although it's much less genuine. "You haven't," I respond cheerfully. I ignore the fact that if Potter becomes any more proficient in his Slytherin-ness, Neville, Ron and I may be trying to defeat him as the next Dark Lord. The thought is terrifying.

Potter smiles and nods approvingly. His appreciation chaffs, but I ignore it. The sooner we get this discussion over with, the sooner he'll be gone.

"I know you don't want to make nice, but we don't have much of a choice, Granger," he answers cheerfully, getting to the point. "We have to uphold the expectations of the office and that means being civil to one another."

I frown, because it's true. The male and female seventh year students chosen to the Head position are lauded for their ability to work well together and be the leaders of the student body. They are expected to quell minor inter-house disputes objectively, serve on a disciplinary committee, make exemplary grades and even continue the bequest of Head post-Hogwarts success by earning laudable careers. Even if Voldemort and I were the respective heads for our year, we'd be expected to act courteously toward one another. Such is the legacy and importance of being Head Boy and Head Girl. Out of the whole year, in the most prestigious school of magic in Britain, only two students are chosen and they are mandated to lead extraordinary lives. The mantle is much heavier than people think and I'm feeling the pressure of it already.

"Then the burden is on you, isn't it?" I ask stonily.

"I suppose it is," he says wryly, sitting back lazily in the chair. I take a moment to study him. Truly he has grown from the boy he was six years ago. Now, despite his behavior, a man sits before me. He is nearly two meters tall with incredibly messy hair that would look horrible on anyone else, but somehow looks right on him. His green eyes are staggering. They are bright, vivid emeralds placed into a handsome face. As I study him, I am reminded that he is not just the ruler of Slytherin because of his political prowess, but also because he is so darned attractive. At least he is to the majority of the female population at Hogwarts. His behavior has made it very easy to ignore his startling looks.

He doesn't ignore my perusal. "Like what you see?" he asks, voice neutral.

"You're a very attractive devil, but I'm sure you know that," I say with a smile. "Too bad the inside is so rotten."

He laughs and I blink at him. I don't think that I've ever heard Harry Potter laugh before. Ever. And I don't appreciate how it affects me. A warm, and uncomfortable feeling shoots through my body at the heavy, but somehow light, sound.

"That is an extremely Granger thing to say, you know," he says, amusement still lingering in his voice. "Most girls don't care about my character as long as my face remains attractive."

"Well, I'm not 'most girls'," I reply, somewhat snootily.

He smiles again, "Obviously."

I shrug and fall silent as I realize that this is the first time that we are being truly civil to one another and not talking civil while saying horrible things to one another. It's strange and suspicious. Is this another one of Potter's acts? I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if it were. He's a chameleon. One thing Potter has never done is make himself look anything less than perfect. Even our dislike of one another is limited to the knowledge of the student body. The teachers, with the exception of perhaps, Dumbledore, has no clue that we have been feuding since first year. Potter likes to keep it that way.

I restrain a sigh. If only I didn't have to work with Potter. This year would be like the last; we would have minimal contact. Now, I'm going to see him everyday. For the fourth time this year, I question Dumbledore's choice.

"Wondering why your precious Boy-Who-Lived wasn't named Head Boy?" he taunts quietly, tilting his head at me.

I grit my teeth. I will eat my own hair before I admit it to him, but in truth, I am. I'm more than curious about it and I know for a fact that Neville and Ron are also. Why didn't Dumbledore make Neville Head Boy? After all Neville's amazing deeds over the years, he'd be the obvious choice. So, why Potter?

"It's not my place to question Dumbledore's decision," I reply shortly. "As Headmaster of Hogwarts, it's his choice." No matter how little sense it makes.

"Like usual, you Gryffindors are extremely self-absorbed," Potter says with a shake of his head, "do you really think Neville is the only person Dumbledore has taken under his very strange wing? Do you think Neville is the only student who has done anything of note in these last seven years? Why are you so sure your precious Boy-Who-Lived is the best choice?"

I frown at his words. I've never considered that Dumbledore may be mentoring anyone besides Neville. After all, who could be more important than the prophesied savior of Wizarding Britain? It may be an arrogant thought, but not untrue. And surely Potter isn't implying that Dumbledore is mentoring him. If he is, then why? Does Neville know? And if what Potter is implying is true, what in the world could Potter have done that could top defeating the Dark Lord three times before turning seventeen?

I simply stare at him. In no way do I think that Dumbledore has put all his cards on Neville, he's too practical for that, but surely plan B isn't sitting in the same Potions class? It's too big a jump from the little information Potter gave me. Dumbledore could be mentoring Potter for any number of reasons, and there's no guarantee that any of them have anything to do with the Dark Lord.

Shaking my head, I push the thought from my mind to ponder later. I do take note of the fact that Potter calls Neville by his first name as opposed to calling him Longbottom. It's a very telling action that brings to mind another conundrum. Neville and Potter have a strange relationship, one that the Hogwarts student body have given up trying to figure out. Unlike the open, and oftentimes violent animosity between Neville and Malfoy, Potter and Neville's confrontations are much more civil. It confuses teachers and students alike. They're almost frenemies, but I know Neville would give Bellatrix Lestrange a lap dance before admitting such a thing.

Well, Potter and I are not frenemies. We're just plain, old-fashioned enemies and I've spent more than enough time in his company.

"You've made your point, Potter," I say, waving a hand at him. "Run along now. I promise to play nice with the troll."

He smiles, but stands, grabbing the books he carelessly tossed on the table earlier.

"That's all I ask," he says graciously, as though I were the problem. "Oh, and Granger?" he says, smirk firmly in place as his nods pointedly at me, "you might want to read that chapter again. We both know you have absolutely no idea what it says."

I glare at him as he turns to leave, but before he can, an impulse strikes me.

My Gryffindor courage roars.

I speak.

"Why me?"

He stills so suddenly that it's strange.

I'm not sure what I'm asking; if I'm asking why he hates me, or why he decided to make a target out of me, or something that's neither one of those. It hardly matters because any answer he gives me will be something; something to understand why he's treated me the way he has for all these years. It'll give answers to questions I've had since meeting him six years ago.

The air is heavy and we are silent for a long, tense moment. Then, he speaks.

"Because you don't belong," he says finally and there is such conviction in his voice that my eyes widen. I freeze, air trapped in my chest.

The silence following his words is nearly deafening. I stare at his back, but he doesn't turn around. Finally, air forces itself into my lungs. The spell is broken at my strangled inhale, and then he is gone; sweeping out of the area as quickly and quietly as he entered.

I sit there for a long time, all thoughts of studying extinguished.

You don't belong. I shake my head in a vain effort to dislodge the words from my head. It doesn't matter what Harry Potter thinks. I'm a witch and I will show him and every other racist knob that very fact until they have no choice but to acknowledge, even in their minds, that Muggleborns have a right to be in the Wizarding World.

Slowly, I gather my books to make my way to the Heads Common room, a space that I share with Harry Potter.

Taking another deep breath, I square my shoulders.

I won't let Potter get me down this year. I know that no matter how much I tell myself not to let the words hurt, the sting from such hateful words is inevitable. But it's okay. Every barb, every put-down, every muttered remark will be the fuel that launches me to new heights. And on the day that I achieve my goal, not only will I thank my friends and family, but I will thank every pure blood extremist there is for their support in making me a splendid witch.

End Chapter One

Chapter Two: Colloportus

Walkers With the Dawn

Being walkers with the dawn and morning,

Walkers with the sun and morning,

We are not afraid of night,

Nor days of gloom,

Nor darkness-

Being walkers with the sun and morning.

— Langston Hughes