To Whom It May Concern

To whom it may concern-

You don't know me. You probably have never heard my name. You don't know my favourite colour, my strengths, my weaknesses.

You wouldn't know that I have a cat named Shona, that I like horses, that my favourite author is Diana Wynne Jones.

None of you ever cared enough about me to find out that I have actually gotten an A on a Potions test, that my poetry has been published, that my mother died when I was eight.

None of you bothered to find out if I was good at Quidditch, if I liked to read, If I had any friends.

None of you looked at me, really looked at me, and saw who I was.

No one sat with me when I was crying by the lake, the day my dog, Archer, died.

No one cared enough to stop and help me when I dropped my books, when I was cursed by other Houses, when I was teased.

I was given hurtful nicknames, I was pushed, and I was hated for some obscure reason.

I never fought back, it had always seemed so pointless, and Mam had taught me not to fight.

I watched, invisible, from the sidelines as Harry Potter mourned for the deaths of friends and family.

In my heart I laughed derisively. You have friends! I wanted to scream. You have allies!

I knew what spell would kill Voldemort, I knew how to get rid of him.

I never told anyone though, and watched, silent, as Harry and his friends discovered it six months later.

I observed as the Dark Lord grew more vicious in his killings.

I was dry-eyed that day my father was killed.

When Hogwarts was attacked and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named vanquished, I grew even more invisible, a silver shadow compared to the Golden Boy's golden glow.

They ceased to see me, only noticing is they wanted someone to curse.

No one really seemed to care about me, until I faded from thought and mind.

I was never looked at anymore, no one ever saw me standing and looking lost.

The teachers never noticed when I stopped coming to class.

The house elves never mentioned the blood on my sheets, the knife under my mattress.

No one saw the thin scars cutting through my body, physically and mentally.

I stopped eating and sleeping, my only comfort the thin steel knife blade clutched in a bony hand.

That's why you're reading this. That's why I'm going into the woods, with only the clothes on my back and a small silver blade.

Maybe no one will ever find this letter. Maybe they will never notice that I am gone. Perhaps I died a long time ago.

But I can die again.

Sincerely,

Luna Argentum Lovegood

"In death, we find in ourselves what was sheltered from prying eyes. We see what was hidden; hear what was silent, feel what was not there, taste what never existed, and smell what was odourless."

-Sapphire Vitrum Lovegood