[Intro] Books made sense. People rarely did. That was the first real difference. [Verse 1] First train north with a suitcase clasped, notes memorized till my fingers cramped. Every phrase rehearsed, every movement exact, trying earn my place through performance and facts. Top of the class with a tight-lipped grin, fear folded neat underneath my skin. Teachers loved how I answered fast— little muggle-born girl with a future attached. Then Mudblood hit like a snapped-off branch, whole hall froze up while the echo rang back. Some laughed awkward, some lowered their gaze, funny how silence humiliates worse ways. I worked twice harder, revised past dawn, while pureblood boys got praised half-awake and bored. Learned real quick how the system functions: blood gets worshipped. Brilliance gets questioned. [Hook] Too magic for home, too muggle for them, caught in the middle again and again. So I sharpened myself till the edges held shape, hoping excellence somehow could earn me a place. Page after page. Line after line. If I stayed useful enough, maybe I’d survive. maybe I’d survive. [Verse 2] Parents still smiling through Saturday chores, clean little kitchen, unopened doors. Meanwhile I’m learning defensive curses, watching first-years carried back hurt in hearses. How do you explain what a war feels like to people discussing the weather outside? How do you sit there politely at tea after seeing classmates hexed till they scream? Then Umbridge came with her poisonous grin, pink wool wrapped round authoritarianism. Soft little cough, sweet little lies, quills cutting words straight into children’s hands. And every time somebody whispered Mudblood I held eye contact till they got uncomfortable. Not because pain disappeared when ignored— because I refused to let them watch mine. [Bridge] And Ron— honestly, Ron was a complete disaster. Late homework. Burnt toast. Emotional range of a teaspoon. Absolutely infuriating. But he looked at me like intelligence wasn’t something I needed to apologize for. That mattered. [Verse 3] Wars don’t start loud. Mostly they start in silence. Packed-up bags and revised alliances. Hands shaking hard while the wand stayed still, rewriting memories against my will. Names rearranged. Photographs changed. Whole lives moved round for protection’s sake. My mother stared out the window glass, like part of herself had already passed. My father smiled while asking directions to countries existing through false recollection. And me— standing there sick from what I had done, knowing some lines can’t ever be undone. Obliviate. Such an elegant word for something monstrous. [Hook] Too magic for home, too muggle for them, split down the middle again and again. So I chose people instead of safety: Harry chasing death like it answered questions. Ron masking fear through jokes and tension. Three frightened children pretending somehow we knew what survival would ask of us now. [Outro] After the war they called me brilliant, like brilliance cancels grief. It doesn’t. You can know every spell in existence and still lie awake terrified— that somewhere your mother’s voice no longer remembers your name.
