Harry Potter Live and Uncut

CHAPTER THREE: THE ANCIENT ART OF NOSE-THUMBING

The hand quivered within Harry's grasp. It was clammy and cold, and felt as if blood had not rushed through it for weeks. It stroked its talons against Harry's palm, but he felt nothing. He continued to mumble to it mindlessly, consumed in his own grief, fear, or whatever it was he was feeling. Relief? Desperation? He had no idea. The Truth didn't feel like revealing itself right at that moment.

Her voice, like a rasping orchestra, emerged from the coffin. "Did you miss me, Harry?"

"Yes, he muttered, lowing his lips to her hand. His hot breath seemed to only chill the vampire's skin more. "Yes, I did."

She laughed. It was no human laugh. It was deep and dark, the lower tones masculine, the top notes grating at the roof of her mouth. It was the first time, Harry realised, that he'd heard her laugh. That is, before she had come to this.

"Why, Harry," she purred, slowly rising from her sleeping place, "I didn't know you cared." Her skin gleamed a ghostly white, her eyes held that skittish quality of a rabbit caught in a vehicle's headlights. Her dark hair, alight with a thousand shades, tumbled around her bare shoulders, curling at the arch of her back. She was naked, shaped like a boyish Renaissance sculpture, a fallen angel with a feral animal quality.

"You know I care...Hermione." He shuddered involuntarily at the sound of her name. He hated calling her that. To him, this alluring, repulsive creature before him held nothing of his former friend, and to call her that name was to dishonour the girl that she once was. She stretched one bare leg over the coffin, and then the other. Harry stepped back and she seemed to hurl herself from the white box, landing on her hands and feet like a cocksure cat. She grinned up at him, straightening her back, her little white fangs gleaming.

"I'm hungry," she said. "Did you bring me something to eat?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Hermione," said Harry dryly. "I'm not your waiter for the evening."

"But I'm starving," she complained, rubbing her flat belly in a frantic, maniac fashion.

"I would have thought you'd had plenty to eat last night," snapped Harry, "when you were out on the prowl."

Confusion crossed over Hermione's features as she registered his accusation. "Oh, darling," she sang lightly, "you are rather mixed up, aren't you? You see, I wasn't out last night. I was here."

The eternal fatigue, the weariness, the hardness of his heart and mind all seemed to come crashing down on Harry at this one moment. "Here? HERE? Don't you lie to me, you disgusting maneater!" He wrapped a hand around the vampire's neck, his eyes burning feverishly. Any heat left in her body seemed to surge up through his fingertips, and she struggled to breathe, her feline eyes remaining dead and expressionless.

"Do you think I do not know what it is you feed upon? That you would happily sacrifice me for the sake of your belly?" He was hissing now, his diction icy, his words slurred with the dark accent of the Parseltongue.

"Harry," she gasped, "do you love me?"

Seconds ticked by, slow and agonising. He came to his senses, releasing his grip, noting red and white weals where his fingertips had burnt into her flesh. He dropped his hand, and it fell into hers. She squeezed it reassuringly.

"Harry," she whispered. "I need to know if you do."

"You ask me that every day," said Harry, gently freeing his hand from hers, "and the answer is always the same."

"And what was the answer, Harry?"

"The answer," said Harry, dropping his eyes, "is no."

Silence reigned in the dusty chamber. Hermione soaked in his words, taking her time, as if absorbing them for the first time.

"Oh," said Hermione, "I see."

Harry looked at her apologetically, fidgeting with his hair, hating himself for what he was putting her through. But today, of all days, she seemed unfazed at his response.

"In that case," stated Hermione, "I shall keep asking until you say you do."

+++

Draco Malfoy was particularly fond of Nose-Thumbing. When stressed or aggravated to the point of screaming, Draco would press the pad of this thumb to his nose, squashing the cartilage into his face, releasing it so it sprang back into place. When repeated several times in succession, it rendered him thoughtless, its soothing action like a balm on his tortured mind and body. Granted, it would be considered extremely twattish to look upon, and this is why Draco relieved himself only in the privacy of his chamber, or a bathroom cubicle, if the desire was too rampant to contain.

Once, he had thoughtlessly begun to feverishly Nose-Thumb in Divination, when Professor Trelawney had suggested an Annual Slytherin/Gryffindor Bonding Hugging Session. From his seat at the rear of the classroom, he had noticed Harry Potter shooting him a decidedly frightened look, and Ron Weasley had bellowed at the top of his lungs, "Look everyone, Malfoy's picking his nose!"

As the whole class giggled and turned to Draco in delight, instinct told him to state scathingly, "If you had any brains at all, Weasley, you would remember I have an eager team of Slytherin's Servants Who Spot Snot-Soiled Snozzes for that."

Ron had turned bright red and lowered his head.

Draco had put the entire Nose-Thumbing obsession down to Malfoy tradition. It was a closely-guarded family secret that the Malfoy clan had a decidedly prominent fetish for noses, and Draco was no exception to the rule. In fact, a great-aunt of his had once married Britain's Travelling Freak Show's greatest exhibit, the Elephant Man. The marriage lasted several years, until the Elephant Man got all antsy and ran away with another member of a prominent wizarding family. Poor Great Aunt Alessandra took to raving heatedly about pineapples whenever shopping for Filibuster's Fireworks, which led to her prompt admission to St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.

A thought brought Draco's pleasurable Nose-Thumbing session to an abrupt halt. Merrick. He'd called for him, to which he was sure to be arriving any second. It simply wouldn't do to be caught ramming his thumb up his snoz by his Dark and Evil Advisor. There was a knock on the door.

"About frigging time," Draco muttered, throwing the door open.

A slender girl, with a head full of tight golden ringlets, stood at the door, tapping a small foot and sporting a knee-trembling scowl. "Not who you were expecting, Malfoy?" she hissed, cocking an eyebrow.

"Bloody bugger me dead," moaned Draco. "What the hell do you want, Lucretia?"

"I've heard some rather disturbing news on the wizarding grapevine," Lucretia snapped. "And that is, the Malfoys have gone bankrupt. I'm afraid," she sniffed, "that my father can no longer permit such an unbeneficial alliance. In small, more comprehensive words for the slower people in this room, I can't marry you after all."

+++

As the sunlight spread its rosy fingers along the pane of Ginny's bedroom window, she hurled herself back onto the bed in satisfaction. Her little chat with Harry the other night had gone rather well. He'd agreed to share his thoughts with her, and even though he had managed to worm his way out of actually revealing anything of any importance (discluding the "Puddlemere United sucks big time" discussion), she finally felt, well, special.

Ginny rubbed her eyes. She'd been up most of the night trying to pry information out of Ron, who'd insisted on changing the subject from gobbledegooks to gangrenous gillyweed, all the while insisting he'd something terribly important to tell her.

Ginny sighed. She already knew that he'd been trying to spit out the fact that he was gay. Well, why not, reasoned Ginny, the love of his life has just died and no other woman can take her place in his eyes. Her only wish was that Neville would treat him right.

Ginny flicked her hair and snuggled up into her pillows, preparing herself to relive a terribly momentous occasion in her life, A Moment that occurred precisely a fortnight ago. Her stomach dropped to her feet before being pulled up by little butterflies, a true sign that the Reliving was about to begin.

Ginny had sneaked up to the boys dormitory on an early Thursday morning, clutching a parcel of Ice Mice and Acid Pops, that Mrs Weasley had owled over urgently. (Her intuition had somehow told her that Ginny's body clock was in dire need of a sugar fix, a little something that used to cure her own pre-menstrual hormone condition quick smart.) Knowing Ron's famous sweet tooth, and the love of all things sugary first thing before breakfast, Ginny had thoughtfully placed the package under her arm, and sneaking by the shrieking floorboards and snoozing portraits, parted the curtains that surrounded her brother's canopy bed.

But he was no where in sight. The sheets were rumpled, a stream of wet saliva soaked through a pillowcase, and the mattress was still warm. Ginny unceremoniously dumped the package of the middle of his bed, and turned to leave.

A barely audible whispering distracted her. It was coming from the left of Ron's bed, through the red curtains, and straight from Harry's lips.

He was mumbling in his sleep, odd, musical phrases that seemed to be in some other language. Gingerly, Ginny peeped inside, sucking in her breath so as not to wake him. A sheet was flung half-heartedly across his shirtless body, one hand curved above his head. Long black hair fell over his face, concealing his translucent lids. The other arm was wrapped around himself, as if in protection from some night time assailant.

A little silver spider, the size of a galleon, crawled its way from Harry's outstretched elbow to its wrist. Ginny, alarmed that it might be poisonous, promptly shooed it away. Quite insulted, the spider drew itself up on its hind legs and bared long fangs, waving its ugly front appendages like a rather affronted octopus.

Not to be outdone by an insignificant arachnoid, Ginny was just about prepared to squish it when suddenly, it leapt onto her hand and bit her. Hard. Ginny could feel its fangs sink through her fingernail as she chewed through her bottom lip to stop herself screaming. The spider, smirking to itself, promptly jumped off her hand and swaggered away up the bed post, swaying its little behind in mocking victory.

She was staring at her finger in dismay when Harry's arm shot out and grabbed her wrist. Pulling her on top of him, Ginny struggled to stay on the bed from where Harry had flung her. She could feel her wrist begin to bruise from where he still clasped it in a vice-like grasp.

He sighed, the sigh of a deep sleeper, as he wriggled his nose, flaying his free arm about. Ginny watched entranced from where she lay, her legs twisted against each other, her chin buried in his chest. As if somehow sensing her discomfort, Harry promptly shifted beneath her, released her wrist, and flung her over onto her back. There he settled on top of her, entwining his bare legs with hers, one hand cupping the base of her neck, his face nuzzled into her shoulder. And there she lay, breathless with supporting his entire weight, feeling the thud of his heart against her breast. She felt odd, very odd indeed in a most inappropriate place...God, it was so unbearable, she couldn't take this anymore, she didn't know what to do...and she flinched.

Which woke Harry up immediately. "Oh," he said conversationally, looking down at her startled expression, "it's you."

Ginny hiccuped in reply.

"You have," he added helpfully, "blood all over your mouth."

"Do I?" Ginny spluttered, noting how Harry continued to press himself against her. For a very slight boy, he really was quite awfully heavy, with all sorts of sticky-outy bits...

"Yes," Harry muttered, "you most certainly do."

A bead of blood was seeping out of her swollen bottom lip, and gently, tenderly, Harry traced the outline of it, smearing the blood in a thin coating across it. The red substance had attached itself to his fingertips, and quivering, Harry brushed them down her cheekbones, staring at his work like a temperamental Impressionist painter. His breath was like burnt honey on her face, as slowly he drew the long fingers across her jaw line. Then, gazing in satisfaction at his masterpiece, Harry bent his head toward hers.

His lips had barely grazed hers when the curtain was suddenly flung back.

"Lucy!" Neville Longbottom squealed, gingerly cupping his hands as the silver spider leapt into them. Scratching the spider's hairy abdomen with the tip of a fingernail, Neville murmured soothing phrases to Lucy as she half closed her ten pairs of eyes in contentment. Neville shot Harry and Ginny and uppity look.

"Kinky," was his sardonic proclamation. "But next time, if you wish to include my pets in your sexual activities, a request for permission would be much appreciated!"

With that, Neville turned on his heel and marched away. Lucy jumped onto Neville's shoulder and gave Ginny a very nasty glare. Ginny rolled her eyes and looked up at Harry, beginning to giggle.

But Harry just stared at her with dead eyes.

"Would you," he grunted, "kindly get out of my bed."

+++

Draco regarded his ex-arranged-fiancée with a critical eye. "Since when," he drawled, "do you care about money?"

Lucretia Nightstar sighed impatiently. "I don't care about money, you delusional doofus," she huffed, "but Daddy does."

Norman Nightstar was one of the wealthiest wizards in the world. Originally hailing from Ireland, he was a short, balding, pompous little fellow who dealt in illegal wands. He had, being half-leprechaun, an uncanny ability for attracting fabulous luck. He had met Lucius Malfoy at an International Wizards Chess Tournament some twenty years ago, and over a drunken bonding session (which resulted in an illicit threesome with Rita Skeeter) the two had become fast friends. When Lucretia had been born to Norman and his trophy part-veela wife, Lucius had then proposed that somewhere down the line, their two families be joined permanently. Thus the betrothal of Lucretia to Draco.

Not that Draco really minded. Lucretia was bloody beautiful, bloody smart and really bloody sexy. Although she was practically perfect, Draco had just one teensy-weensy problem with her. He bloody hated her guts.

She was Hogwart's resident drama queen. Always floating around, flapping her hands about, flipping her hair, fidgeting with her robes. She had a tongue like a viper and a voice like a squawking maniac parrot. However, all of the above didn't seem to deter the bevy of boys that flopped about at her feet and administered to her every need.

Draco had hardly had a conversation with her before today. As children, they were forced to sit at the Malfoy's large pewter dining table together, rich foods served to them, as the heavy oak doors closed upon them with finality. Uncomfortable silence would usually reign while the children fiddled with their food, until Draco would spit the dummy, empty the contents of his wine goblet down Lucretia's front, savagely yank her ringlets, and waltz away. Lucretia, in retaliation, would chase after Draco, and punch him in the nose, often rendering him unconscious.

At Hogwarts, Lucretia was one year below Draco, and they would snub each other mercilessly in the hallways. With one exception. Two years ago, when Lucretia was making her grand debut at the Yule Ball, skipping about with a dozen or so boys, Draco had strode to the Great Hall from his dungeon, flung the doors open, and slapped Lucretia ruthlessly in the face.

Lucretia was stunned. "No one," he hissed, his eyes sparking with flammable anger, "no one touches my fiancée."

The students were aghast and one by one, the boys began to peel themselves away from Lucretia's side. Draco turned on his heel and left. He had an irritable condition when it came to People Touching His Things.

"Well, I don't give a rat's arse about Daddy!" Draco thundered. "He made an oath to my father. I'm sure you're well aware of the consequences of breaching such an oath!"

"Your father's dead, Malfoy!" Lucretia screeched. "The bond between them is broken! As far as Daddy's concerned, there was no oath!"

Draco clenched his fists. It wasn't beneath him to hit a woman. It was bad enough that the bankruptcy rumour had begun to penetrate the high circles of society, and after the announcement of the called-off engagement, he suspected no Christmas cards would arrive at the Malfoy Mansion again. How frigging humiliating.

"You will tell Daddy that if he does not honour his word, he will have me to deal with," Draco snarled.

Lucretia laughed. "You? You'd think he'd be frightened of a teenaged pansy-boy? Really, Draco, with your substance-lacking ego, don't you think you rather belong in Hufflepuff?"

Holy hell. Draco started to sweat under his collar. For the sake of his pride and his family name, this engagement simply must go forth as planned. If anyone was to call it off, it would be him, and hopefully after a long night banging Ginny Weasley. Time to pull out the big guns. "Lucretia, darling," he whispered, sailing over to her side, toying with a single ringlet that fell down her ear, "has anyone ever told you how much yellow becomes you?"

Lucretia looked at him full in the face. His eyes were assailing her, delving into every crevice and outline of her body, his fingers traced the goose pimples that were appearing over her arms, his breath warm gusts that blew over her face and neck. So this was what it was like to be made love to by Draco Malfoy, mused Lucretia, having heard her share of tales regarding his womanising ways. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he ran his lips over the base of her neck.

A magnificent goal scored by the talented Mr Malfoy! Draco applauded himself, all the while dreaming of clobbering Norman Nightstar with a sledgehammer.

As Draco reached to unbutton Lucretia's robes, she rubbed her silken cheek against his and whispered acidly, "I'd much rather shag the Giant Squid. At least he's rumoured to have a decent sized member..."

Incensed, Draco pushed Lucretia away from him, where she tumbled onto the hard stone floor. "Get out," he growled, "and never come back, Nightstar."

"Fine, Malfoy," she simpered, "have it your way." Hastening to readjust her clothing, she swung the door open. "By the way," she chimed, preparing to swing it shut so hard that it would have a very dramatic, resonating slam, "Daddy says he may consider renewing the vow if you get your fortune back."

Seeing the expression alter in Draco's face, she added hastily, "But I wouldn't bother if I were you. I'm in love with someone else, you see. You know Neville Longbottom? He's so incredibly dashing..."

Her voice trailed off as the door swung shut so hard that it had a very dramatic, resonating slam.

"Oh, I'll get my fortune back, you hallucinating hussy," murmured Draco to the emptiness, "but it won't be to win you back."

Longbottom indeed. Humph.

+++

Ginny Weasley was far too clever to presume herself in love with Harry Potter. It wasn't that she didn't believe in love - she did, and rather outspokenly at that - but her personal take on romance and whatnot was hardly that of an average sixteen year old. Love, Ginny often told herself (particularly when a new outfit was overlooked by Harry), was a commitment, a choice - and not something that just happened to you. Stomach-throttling butterflies, giddiness, and general fits of angsty hysteria were all symptoms of the Teenage Epidemic, infatuation. Thus, Ginny Weasley accepted she was infatuated with Harry Potter.

For starters, she was sodding sick and tired of half the school skipping about, advertising at the top of their lungs that Gregory Goyle was 'in love' with Professor McGonagall, and the next week, that Gregory Goyle was now 'in love' with Mrs Norris. She flinched whenever Lavender Brown doodled throbbing hearts with ever-changing initials over every spare parchment she owned, and when cow-eyed couples swanned about the school holding hands and swooning all over each other, only to swap partners the next day. Ginny was often known to wear a blindfold and ear plugs every Valentines Day, muttering something similar to Buggering Bullocks under her breath every time she barged into a pubescent pair.

Therefore, Ginny had no faith whatsoever in the 'falling in love' concept. It was a load of tripe concocted by the team at Witch Weekly to sell their highly inflated stack of rubbish to bored and lonely housewives. "Serves them right," Ginny muttered savagely to herself, "bunch of losers."

However, she was doing herself an enormous favour by adopting her Love and Infatuation Separation Technique. She never pined over an unrequited interest, never plucked petals off a daisy, hardly ever floated around the corridors bellowing out In the Name of Love at the top of her lungs, and best of all, she could be infatuated with anybody she wanted whenever she wanted. No monogamy issues for Ginny Weasley, thank you very much. She could be a right tart and pull four - no, five - boys on a string every day for all she wanted. Guilt-free, obligation-free, and all the budding adolescents a girl could want. After all, variety was the spice of life.

Ginny sniggered. She'd had several liaisons with the opposite sex over the past few years, all completely without ties or duty. An innocent snog with Neville Longbottom in the third year (before he'd turned out quite so dashing), a grope or two with Michael Corner, a giggling hustle in the broom closet with both Seamus Finnegan and Dean Thomas (she couldn't remember precisely which one had slobbered all over her ear), and her not-so-innocent seduction of Remus Lupin over the Christmas holidays (he'd been looking so goddamned woebegone that she'd jumped on him and pashed him senseless just to cheer him up, to which he'd later pretended to be rather affronted and taken advantage of). Ginny had even attempted to engage in pointless foreplay with the Bloody Baron (she'd mistaken him for Professor Snape after a tipsy trip to the Leaky Cauldron), and had a stranger than fiction dalliance with Draco Malfoy after the nefarious Nose-Thumbing Incident.

Love, she reasoned, was a choice she'd make when it was time to pop out the babies. Until that day, she figured she'd have another good thirty years or so of being tarty trollop.

+++

Harry was not present at the breakfast table that morning, and Ginny wasn't surprised. He'd failed to show up most of the mornings in the past fortnight, preferring to scoff himself sick at lunchtime. Ron, however, was already there when she arrived, shoving eggs and kippers into his mouth, crumbs flying out and splattering Dean Thomas with a thick, grainy gravy. He looked rested, content and ridiculously well groomed.

"Ron," Ginny gasped, "whatever have you done to your freckles?"

Ron swallowed a large lump of food, before grinning up at her with straight white teeth. "What freckles?" he inquired impishly.

"The freckles that have covered every inch of our family's bodies for generations, that's what freckles," replied Ginny blandly.

"Oh, those freckles," said Ron, "right. Well, they're gone. Why do you ask?"

"The Freckle Fading charm, right?" gloated Ginny. "Well, you're a bit slow on the uptake. I charmed mine off years ago, starting with the arms, then the kneecaps - though I missed a few - and the large ones on my forehead--"

"No," moaned Ron, exasperated. "I didn't use magic."

Ginny stared at Ron, whom she suspected had finally gone barmy.

"Can you keep a secret?" he hissed.

Ginny nodded.

"It's concealer. From the Muggle-lovers Makeup for Magical Men's Mugs range."

"Why on earth," mocked Ginny, "would anyone keep using makeup when they could charm them off permanently?"

Ron raised one eyebrow. "I would much prefer to use natural products on my skin thankyouverymuch and allow my God-given beauty spots to fade, if willing, in time." He laid a hand over his heart with great emphasis. "No pain," he whispered, staring as one possessed into her eyes, "no gain."

"And you," said Ginny with finality, "were adopted."

Ron waved his hand lazily in Ginny's direction, ignoring her. He continued to gorge himself, until right on queue, the doors of the Great Hall were flung open, and Draco Malfoy and his cronies arrived.

Today, Draco was handing out autographed photographs of himself snogging his own reflection in the mirror. The girls had begun to squeal and claw each other over the photos, pulling each other's pigtails and kicking each other in the shins. Crabbe and Goyle were flinging sparkling confetti over Draco as he waltzed to the Gryffindor table, like a blushing bride on her wedding day. He clasped one remaining photograph in his hand.

Lucretia Nightstar watched the spectacle unmoved. She raised an eyebrow, and continued filing her long pink nails, her little foot resting on the lap of a delighted Dennis Creevy. She hardly flinched when Draco leaned over her, casually flipping the photograph onto the table in front of her, to which Lavender Brown and Parvarti Patil screeched and promptly coated with drool. Draco's hands wound themselves around her shoulders and he pressed his lips to her ear.

"A little something to remember me by," he whispered acidly, "my love." He kissed her hair roughly before sauntering off to his breakfast.

"Squeeee!" said Lavender. "You're so lucky, Lucretia!"

"Good God, he's just to die for, darling!" Colin Creevy drawled.

Lucretia did not look up, but continued filing her nails absently. He was always making such a dithering dandy of himself. Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced coyly over at Neville, who was spooning porridge into Trevor's warty mouth.

"Which reminds me," spouted Ron cheerfully, "The weekly meeting of S.A.M.M will take place at eight tonight in the Room of Requirement, level seven."

"Right on!" cheered Dean Thomas.

"We'll be there, Ronny," soothed Neville, to which Trevor croaked heartily.

"Can I come?" asked Ginny.

Ron looked at her scornfully. "Have you a teacake to offer?"

"I'm sure I'll find one," said Ginny. "A nice cinammony one."

"With apple bits?' inquired Ron hopefully.

"With apple bits," confirmed Ginny.

"Done and done," said Ron. "Okay guys," he announced, looking around the table as heads popped up attentively. "Let's begin. Malfoy," he continued, glancing conspiratively at all cooperating students, "IS A WHOPPING GREAT TWAT!"

"HEAR HEAR!" bellowed the Gryffindors.

"I think I might check what's keeping Harry," muttered Ginny, sliding her seat back.

"Remember, level seven, eight o'clock," reminded Ron, gripping her wrist lightly. "With apple bits."

"Okay," laughed Ginny. "As long as I get to meet this inspirational President of S.A.M.M!"

"Well, that, said Ron, "is a secret."

"But who is he?" wondered Ginny.

"You'll find out," Ron said, a sly grin on his face.

+++

I couldn't stand to hear her lies. Where she goes at night, she keeps to herself. "I was here all along," she tells me, "I saw you come in, I saw you look for me, I saw you leave."

She can't seem to accept that I know what it is she does - everyone knows what her kind do. "I'm starving," she tells me. "I have not fed. Won't you bring me something to eat next time?"

But her belly seems full, and her face glows with health, and her energy in bed is unmatched. She also seems to have developed a fondness for flies. "They're crunchy," she tells me, "and full of vitamin E."

Trust Hermione to know that.

I wonder why I am so attracted to the vampire she has become. Why I feel the impulse to tear away inside her, to become for an instant the person I once believed I was. But the Truth has avoided me once more, and I feel it slipping away like a shadow in the blackness. To make love to a person I once wasn't remotely attracted to when human, and now that she is a vile, despicable thing, I wallow in her filth like a pig in the mud.

Last night she asked to see Professor Metikulus. She wanted answers, answers to questions she would not voice aloud. "The mysteries of the damned," she said, "are not your responsibility."

She also asked for Ron and Ginny.

I have not the heart to tell her that they do not know of her existence. Instead I feed her falsehoods that break her cracked heart open: that her friends and her parents despise her, that they wish she were dead. I do not tell her about the little marble gravestone that lies in Surry graveyard. Hermione Granger, it reads, Beloved Daughter and Cherished Friend. I do not tell her that Ron planted violets over the soil, and haunted her tombstone for days at a time. I do not tell her that Mrs Granger stares at me each time we meet and says, "You must miss her terribly."

What would she do if she knew it was I that dragged her away from Metikulus' clutches and into the chamber below Hogwarts? What would she say if she knew I belted her wrists and ankles to a post and watched as she writhed and transformed before my eyes? I know what she'd do. She'd kill me. The knife of hate and betrayal would cut through her love and she would suck the blood from my system and leave me a wizened corpse on the floor.

I know this terrible secret eats at me from the inside.

I know that someday soon, I will tell Dumbledore.