As a Ravenclaw I have always been ardent in my studies, and would dedicate my leisure time in expanding my knowledge of magic, particularly in Charms, which led to my fascination for the Dark Arts, a lust for knowledge that grew inside me like an insidious fungus that was determined to bring about my downfall; the ruinous events that I shall speak of later. In the practise of my magical studies I became enthralled, engulfed - no, completely and utterly involved in, oblivious to the world around me and segregated from my peers. My health often took decline with my neglect for it, as sleep was scarce, my brain always racking with ideas, mining away at the etches of my mind. With my obsession, I gained dexterity and knowledge which did not go unnoticed by my Professors, much to the jealousy of my peers to whom I was not acquainted with on a familiar basis. But despite the success, the praise, the adulation of my superiors, my thirst quickened, and my frustration grew violent as I failed to master certain spells, and I was sent home one October noon to 'vent out my frustrations' for several weeks, much to my chagrin. 

But despite again, the successes I enjoyed, one thing always eluded me. Parseltongue. How I both despised and idolised that One Slytherin who boasted such a gift. Why Slytherin? Why, of this rare gift, must it almost always be exclusive to Slytherin? Sure, that Boy Who Lived shared the gift, but it is said he was meant for Slytherin. What is it they have that I do not? Surely not wit, for mine is beyond measure. Why then, under my painstaking research, my spine almost twisting, fingers eroding, quills breaking, must I be so oblivious to this? Upon questioning my Professors, I am scorned like a child stealing a box of Bertie Botts' from his local shop. They say it is 'a gift'. What does that even mean? Surely, there are magical devices out there, some form; a path, an explanation that will help me uncover, or acquire this 'gift'. Surely there are answers...

This lust for an impossible accomplishment was the beginning of my downfall, and for the first many months I spent in its pursuit, the wearier and sicker I got, until I was sent to Madam Pomfrey to cure my ailments. It was only a mere day or two later that I had recovered, for there are certain plants out there that have seemingly miraculous powers (I had always held Herbologists with snobbish scorn, but after having witnessed their uses and how they have aided me, this is another branch of study I wish to indulge myself in at a later date) I was reformed, the metaphorical rebirth. My own personal Renaissance.

Under Pomfrey's orders I stayed away from my books on Parseltongue for several weeks. Indeed, I don't think I could have looked at another book of the kind without fainting at the moment. However, the universe had different plans for me. I was a mere string, plucked on the harp of fate, gravitating me towards my own inevitable doom.

It was at this time, in my desperation, that my irrational, unconventional seed began to take sprout. I would heckle Slytherin's about their symbol, and in my paranoia I had conjured a fantasy in my mind that they held a knowledge that was held secret to me. That they knew- they all knew, and mocked me for it. The shifting eyes on corridors, the clattering of cutlery in the Great Hall, the witches and wizards small and tall would avert their eyes from me. My once encouraging Professors turned their back on me, not wishing to speak. Their admiration turned certainly not to jealousy, for even I in my own conceit do not believe they could have been envious of my knowledge for they far exceeded me on that. But perhaps my curiosity, my perseverance, and my iron will. Or maybe Albus was right, perhaps they did just see 'the real me'.

But I digress. You Romantics are going to love this, aren't you? For it was a very bitter frosty Winter's night (almost have a poetic feel to it doesn't it? You Muggle-borns call it 'pathetic fallacy', I believe) and the fire in my dorm would do little to ease my discomfort, for to rest by its warm embrace meant to suffer the idle talk of my peers. The 'hello's' and the 'goodbyes', the 'he's cute' and the 'what did we do for this class and that class' and all that jibber-jabber nonsense. I felt like a prophet trapped in a sea of hypocrites, crashing against my shins, eroding my will and bringing me to my knees. So I left my dorm.

10pm that night it was reported by the Daily Prophet that a hysterical Slytherin girl was sent to Dumbledore's office to give testimony to what they exaggerated as a 'kidnapping'. Apparently an unknown assailant had taken the girl to question her about a certain gift, and he, being unsuccessful in extracting information of any use, brought about her release. Oh how fickle those journalists are.