Prologue,             on the basis of becoming perfection
"Mavis Mayberry & the great, big need for fury!"

Mavis Mayberry was born to be up there with the greats.

At least, that was what she thought; what spurred her out of bed each morning, what drove her life entirely. She only cared about being the best—and being recognised for her work, of course. Striving for greatness was no easy task. But Merlin, Circe, Salazar—their titles weren't handed to them on silver platters. They, too, were cursed at birth with the same fork in the road that all young wizards soon face: To choose joy, or to choose greatness. Both wasn't an option. You can't have your cauldron cake and eat it, too.

For Mavis, this the first of many life lessons drilled into her memory; this paradoxical decision of one's mind, to escape this limbo of just being. She didn't want to just be someone; she wanted to be the best. Her greatest desire, the one she pined for above all else, was for generations of witches and wizards beyond hers to refer to the legends as Merlin, Circe, Mavis, and Salazar.

Rolls right off the tongue, doesn't it?

By her seventh birthday, Mavis Mayberry was an expert on the basis of becoming perfection. Every stray dandelion's seeds were strewn into the wind with the promise of stardom. Alone in her bedroom, too long after she was supposed to be asleep, she prayed to whichever greater being that was listening at the moment.

Practice makes perfect; and practice, she did. Sculpting a life that had been forecasted with boring and subdued into one of flawlessness, one where Mavis was a paragon and her name would be known. Her years at Hogwarts would be acknowledged as the catalyst for her greatness, and her classmates would look back and wish they could say they'd been best of friends with her. Finally, she would be celebrated. Hogwarts was the beginning.

Or it was supposed to be.

Then she boarded the train on the first of September to head off for the ceremonial beginning of her academic years, and every dream she had ever had of being exalted—or even popular—were squashed faster than the Blowfly that made itself home in Mavis's mother's plant pot.

Reality hit her to its fullest extent, because the first person she tried to sit next to on the train was Harry Potter.

The Blasted Chosen One, the Boy Who Bloody Lived, the eleven-year-old whose cursed name was known worldwide by the time he was one. He had exactly what Mavis had been striving for her entire life, and he had had it since he was in diapers. Literally.

Upon her first meeting with The Boy Who Lived, Mavis was filled with such deep resentment that she looked him in the eyes once and then had to switch train compartments to stifle the stream of eleven-year-old British curses that were readying themselves on the tip of her tongue. It had been her first time recalling the words that usually pour from her father's mouth when watching a losing Chudley Cannons match, and she was this close to replicating the vulgar behavior on Harry Potter's case.

Upon their second meeting—(regrettably) placed in seats just beside each other in their first Charms class—Harry tried introducing himself. Mavis's rage was all-consuming.

"As if I don't know who you are," she had snapped without so much as looking in his direction, and no further words were exchanged between the two young wizards. No further words were necessary.

Upon their third encounter (Mavis was beginning to grow sick and tired of these), Harry had thwacked her 'round the head with the tail end of his broomstick. As if it hadn't stunk enough that he was the only first-year in Hooch's class whose broom had made it a decent height from the ground, his little brandish of loftiness—a wee mid-air spin—took a respectable amount of distance, landing him a solid foot to his left and thumping the back of Mavis's head with the bushy end of his ride while he was at it.

She probably would have killed him, but Ron Weasley immediately burst into the loudest fit of howling laughter (possibly ever), and Mavis was torn between which boy she detested more. By the time she decided—obviously that her hatred of Harry Potter stood firm and unmoving—the flying lesson was over, and she had missed her chance.

The rest of the year was occupied by conspicuous glares and unabashed eye-rolls, under-the-breath mutterings how of daft one could possibly be, and stuck-out tongues and not-so-awful hexes (though, she swore, the moment she learned a jinx even an inch worse than the Tickling Hex, she'd be saving it to practice on Harry). By the end of the term, it was a shocker Mavis's lips hadn't permanently been stuck in the hearty sneer she so often adorned herself with for Potter's sake.

Second year was no better—Mavis's deep-flowing jealousy took many forms, especially since now it was becoming increasingly clear that Harry Potter had friends and Mavis did not; a fact that should not have bothered her possibly as much as it did. But it simply wasn't fair, and Mavis simply did not understand.

What was so pleasing about being friends with Potter? Mavis just didn't get it. He was rude and ill-tempered, out-spoken and arrogant, rule-defying and disrespectful—and his glasses were the most annoying thing Mavis had ever had the displeasure of indulging her eyes on. Anybody who could manage looking at those wiry old things all day was definitely not in their right mind.

(Though—and this didn't really make itself clear until a few years later—Mavis came to accept that this spout of jealousy came deep from within, worse than her hatred for Harry. She detested anyone with friends, simply for being. After all, she was supposed to be the one with the adoring fans. Her name was destined to be remembered. Not Harry Stinking Potter.)

Being perfect is difficult. Mavis had known this for a long time now.

But what was a puzzle so complex it took her years and years to discern—and what conflicted with her highest desire to be better—was the itching she had to overcome Harry Potter. He didn't work for what he had; it was handed to him on a silver platter, like he was Dionysus and the entire city of Athens was devoted to waiting on him, hand and foot. He was given his greatness.

Mavis's soul burned with envy. She was the one who read every required text for up to third year students at Hogwarts, just so not a lick of information would be out of place. She was the one who spent two hours on her broomstick every morning, in case the Slytherin team needed a stand-in. She was the one who had been waiting for her time at Hogwarts, because she knew so firmly that it would be her time to be recognised for her pure skill.

Harry? He hadn't even known he was a wizard until Hagrid hit him in the head with it.

Nonetheless, this was the way the cookie had crumbled—at least for the first five years of school. Harry went on with his perfect life, barely able to see past the tip of his own nose; Mavis, stuck in a battle between scorning him and hating herself for not being where he was.

But sixth year?

Godric. Sixth year was when everything flipped upside down, and not in a good way.

tldr:
harry potter is just so unimportant and mavis really couldn't care less about him 🤷‍♀️