You could never understand,

But young Moira never wanted pity. She didn't need it. Even the compassion that so many had tried to show her, was beneath her. Love, true friends, family. She shunned it all. Both worlds told her every day, every second of her life, that these things were important. They lied. They must be lying. She had made it this far, hadn't she? Intelligence. Cleverness. Knowledge would get her by in life. Since she could remember, Moira had always been consumed with blind ambition to make herself so much better than every one of her peers. She would understand everything, while others would go by throughout life unsure of their surroundings, constantly surprised by 'new magic' they had never bothered to read about. That is how you get trapped. She wanted to know everything there was to know in this world, and couldn't be bothered with the one she had left. As far as she was concerned, the Muggle world was no better than a third world country. They were pathetic, and made no effort to better themselves. Ignorant to everything that made life worth living.

Some misinterpret Moira. The Sorting Hat saw how she craved to be stronger. It thought that was bravery. It thought that little Molly Alice Peters just wanted to prove herself, despite her parenting, despite the odds against her. It saw courage, and a golden heart.

Never had it been more wrong.


Molly Peters was dead. Moira made sure of that. She would never again go by that name. She even denied her Muggle parents, trying her best to pass off as the one thing she idolized for so long, Purebloods. But, that did not last long. Half way through her first year, little Moira was revealed to be nothing but a mudblood. Any friends she had made that year left her in ridicule, then preceded to forget about her existence entirely. From then on she was almost nearly alone. Moaning Myrtle sometimes ranted at her. Nathaniel Flyte sometimes studied near her. Moira could have easily gone an entire day without speaking a word. Not even a sound. All she would do is study. But, as she read, the picture became so much more clear. Moira began with history, you see. That was the true way to understand a world. With no friends, she had no one to tell her what this really was. She followed what her Hogwarts' letter had said. Buy this, purchase that, be here at this time. But nothing offered an explanation. The best she had was the Old Witch's few and quick words. The woman who had knocked on Molly Peter's door. Her name was... Mortice? Yes. That strict woman that Molly had thoroughly frightened. She spoke too quickly, almost nervously around Molly. She didn't even look her in the eyes. Professor Mortice. She would know a Dark Lord in the making, wouldn't she?

In the end, Moira was left with what she read in Hogwarts: A History, which she had picked up, along with several other interesting books in the school library, the day after being sorted in Gryffindor. Before her first year reached its end, Moira had read more books than most of the Seventh Years, including the worn Text Books she clinged to every day. Her Teachers thought highly of her, but kept their distance. Many thought her troubled, but ignored it. How could she be troubled? She was adapting so well! If Nathaniel Flyte thought the same, he never said. He had always been more absorbed in his own studies anyways. Not that young Moira complained. Her second year was nearly the same. Her friendship with Flyte had been quite useful though, gaining her entrance to the Restricted Section late in her first year, she now used that privledge almost daily. Here, she found an interest in two subjects in particular. Animagi, and the History of the Dark Arts. Her first goal, from that point on, was to successfully become an animagus. Unregistered, of course. Because, if the Ministry knew, what would be the point? At only twelve years old, Moira wasn't even close to being able to go through with the process though. She spent that year just...studying. Everything. Transfiguration. Potions. Maybe even some mild Non-verbal magic. Nothing too extreme. She made it another year with hardly anyone questioning her, except for the occasional looks she got from her fellow students. They thought her creepy. There was definitely something different about her. Not yet a teenager, but Moira already looked like she had seen so much. Her gaze was unflinching. Her eyes were pretty, yet hallow. Her soul was old. Moira spent her third year collecting. The ingredients for the Animagus Potion were rare. Expensive, too. Money was something Moira never had, in either world. She saved two summer's worth of pay from the Leaky Cauldron to buy a patch of Werewolves fur from a strange old Witch in Knockturn Alley. The rest she found, or stole from Professor Fennes' cupboard. It took her the entire year though. Yet, Moira was surprised it hadn't taken longer. She began her potion during the first week of her fourth year.