On The Corner of Capulet and Montegue

I've lived on the corner of Capulet and Montegue for the past four years now. I perch on the pavement, day and night, just watching. Though I'll tell you... it's only worth watching at night.

She was the first to arrive, all dolled up in her tight leather and high boots. She didn't recognize me; still I hadn't expected she would. But I knew her. Even with that horrid red dye covering her frizzy brown locks, I knew her. She worked this corner ever Friday night for years, and got more business than most of the whores around here. Maybe they could sense the magic on her. Isn't that's what they were looking for after all?

How did Gryffindor's Golden Girl some to work the corner of Capulet and Montegue? Well that's a foolish question. The same way I got here, and the same way he got here.

He passed her every Friday, with a wad of stolen cash hidden in his pockets. He was looking for something to put in his veins, because it just didn't feel like there was any blood left in him. He never noticed her there, but I knew she noticed him. He was hard to miss in a crowd like this. They hide in the shadows, but he stood out. Paler than the moon light they sold their souls by, those pretty gray eyes of his, sunken and bloodshot.

I knew all she wanted was to scream and yell for him to save her, but even if she did, he wouldn't have heard her. He hadn't the first time. He'd promised to save her from the war, from his father, from Harry Potter's mangled corpse. He left one day promising to save her, and never came back. But she had known better than to hope. She'd never known a promise kept.

Well one Friday night, by chance or design I'll never know, Draco Malfoy walked right into Hermione Granger, and his heroin clouded mind finally comprehended where that familiar magic was coming from. She ignored a few honks and he ignored his addiction long enough for them to discern just how horribly they had fucked each other up.

"I knew you'd come for me Draco," she whispered in his piercing brimmed ear. "Save me."

And I suppose he did after all, in the only way he knew how. The knife slipped through her flesh in one easy stroke. He pulled the red stained blade from her abdomen, and plucked the roll of cash from between her bloody breasts. He had a dealer to pay after all.

It's rather tragic, wouldn't you agree? He would die on the same corner that night. Draco never understood the concept of "too much of a good thing." He passed away with the needle still in his arm.

Now some people will call this a tale of "poetic justice." But I was never able to find the poetry in it. Then again I never was a man of words. Severus Snape, ever the realist.