It was unexpected, for sure. That's all that was really remembered. Like grasping at straws, trying to drag up anything at all that could claim to be…sane.

It was like unfiltered light that had fallen, crashing down upon broken knees; to stare longingly at the world around; to pick up a loose piece of parchment.

The light, for that's all that he could really remember it being, had looked up at him then, and all he saw was sky, and a glittering – apologetic- smile. "I'm collecting them today," and then it was gone. Scampering off somewhere, to collect more bits of written-upon parchment and startle other, faceless, students.

The dark corners had been calling to him, bathing in their spindly intrigue and eluding him with their searing flesh promises. The deception had him bubbling with anticipation, the promise of power, of fulfillment, of finally, finally, being able to just believe in something.

He had been taken upon by bouts of sleeplessness, tucked away within his bitter room, moth-eaten hangings draped around too-comfortable-for-his-type bed. And in the forever-moonless room, he could almost forget that they were the acidic color of scales and green. And he could almost forget that he shouldn't be comfortable in his bed, because that wasn't what Slytherins did.

He would stare at his abnormality, the dark stain upon his forearm that he fought too hard for, clawed his way to the top of the list for, the first of his friends to receive. He would think of the massive expanse of sky he had seen, and try to forget about how cold he was, and how the bubbles were slowly dying. He would try not to remember how many pieces of parchment he had dropped that day, and just savor his piece of victory.

Because that's what Slytherins did.

The distant flutter of pages had been her destiny, to become one with them, to live by them, to die by them. Their ideas, their ideals, it was what she strived for. What her type needed.

Two weeks ago she had begun collecting parchment, and it was fascinating, for a time. To look at what people felt unworthy enough to keep, to catch a glimpse into other's lives.

A week ago it had been her mission in life to ascertain the date that every painting in Hogwarts had been made.

Hum a tune, spin off to your left, skip classes on Thursday. It was so dull, lackluster, unintelligent, devoid of life. Say, that makes a good tune.

Loony, and her eyes snapped open. Shame, that, she was having a rather pleasant time, out here, in the cold, alone. Still, it was best to speak when spoken to, so she rolled her eyes in the direction of the voice.

She vaguely felt affronted, not so much that someone had thrown a snowball at her, but that she was used to it by now. A monotone day, with the same color as the week before.

The soft rustle of robes, a steady drip of cold, melted heart and liquid eyes, she was alone, save for the people surrounding her, playing a game of 'guess which of us has your wand?' And later, when she'd safely retrieved her possession, and classes were over, she'd calmly trudge out into the falling snow, and allow her tears to make up the mass of snow that steadily covered the field.

This week, she couldn't bring herself to do anything.