Nick of Time

Nick of Time

A story by J. Morasca

Hermione Granger had turned out to be gorgeous. She wasn't just your average cute, brown hair, brown eyed girl next door. We're talking knock-out. In her prime, she made many men swoon and broke even more hearts. She was successful. She was intelligent and sagacious beyond her years. And she was dead. All the newspapers ran stories about it. How could a witch of such caliber be murdered in her own home so brutally? No one knows.

Ronald Weasley finally made a name for himself, instead of just another redheaded kid in a large, boisterous family. He had pushed himself to the breaking point and perhaps a little bit over. There wasn't a man in the Wizarding World who didn't envy him. He was wealthy. He was famous. And he was dead. All the newspapers ran stories about it. How could such a wizard with all of his security be murdered in his own home so brutally? No one knows.

There were no surprises in Draco Malfoy's life. He graduated, like planned, married a wealthy, pureblood witch, as planned and inherited Daddy's fortune when Malfoy Senior bit the dust, as planned. He was handsome. Every woman in the Wizarding World wanted to be his wife or bear his children. He was rich beyond wealthy. He was powerful. And he, too, was dead. All the newspapers ran stories about it. How could such a wizard with all of his power and wealth be murdered in his own home so brutally? No one knows.

The Second War had long since been over, good had prevailed as expected. Evil had been vanquished like dirt underneath our sneakers. Life resumed normalcy. I finally returned to a steady, consistent life where there would be no surprises. I honestly didn't think my heart could take another one.

I pursued what I always wanted to do; play with my broomstick, catch the evil ones, settle down with a beautiful woman whom I loved and then let the raft of life ride me through the waves. I don't know why this happened.

...Well, scratch that. I think I do know what happened, even if I don't want to admit it. See, admitting it would mean I have a problem, that there's something in me that goes off and I don't function right. Admitting equals truth equals branded for life. Admitting means death.

I don't have much to live for anyway, so I guess I'll just say it. It started with Her. Her being Hermione of course. I never really saw in her any other way except friendship, but then I thought I'd reconsidered. I reconsidered when I saw her sparkling eyes and luscious lips. I reconsidered when I saw her full, supple breasts and curvy legs. She wouldn't hear me out. No matter how much I tried to explain to her, it was like she'd stuffed her fingers in her ears perpetually and couldn't ear me. A special kind of tone-deafness, see. Why would she need me? I then wondered. She didn't need me anymore. She was something on her own. It kept hitting me like hot irons or hot, steaming coals, all over my body: SHE DOESN'T NEED ME ANYMORE.

I eliminated her.

At first, I felt guilty, but only for a second. It was a logical way of thinking. If she didn't need me, she didn't need anyone else either. So, in turn, I was actually doing her a favor. But then He came on the scene.

He being Ron, of course. Loyal, always-there-for-me Ron. He could be a little pigheaded at times, but then again, couldn't we all? I decided to pay him a little visit. Catch up on old times, reminisce. I thought he'd be elated that I hadn't forgotten about him. I was wrong.

He seemed distant and irritated--Like I'd wasted his time by visiting. Very preoccupied, he said he was. Preoccupied my ass. He didn't want me around. Didn't need me anymore now that he was his own person, what a big shot he was. Somehow, I think he knew it was me who murdered Hermione. If he knew it, he didn't let on, but there was something in his eyes that just screamed "murderer."

I acted as nonchalantly as possible, suave and sophisticated as I was all those years ago, but he wasn't buying it. When he very politely insinuated that I leave, I became extremely offended. I yelled at him and I cursed at him but he didn't even flinch. "I don't need you anymore," he said. He didn't need me anymore. He was something on his own. It kept hitting me like hot irons or hot, steaming coals, all over my body: HE DOESN'T NEED ME ANYMORE.

I eliminated him.

Damn. I was on a roll. You think they'd be suspicious, the authorities, but no. I found that I didn't much care. I didn't care if I was caught. I'd stand in the front of the Ministry of Magic and yell out that I was a bona fide serial killer. I swear to God I would have. But there was something I had to do first.

Why I hadn't gone to him first, I'll know. It made too much sense, is all. He, however, was going to be tricky. I couldn't invite myself in, so I had to Apparate at night into the Malfoy Manor. I Apparated into his foyer, where I could his baby son crying upstairs. It was a soft, sob that seemed to maintain a rhythm. It soothed me.

He whispered curses. Didn't want to wake his wife or the baby. I took his curses and when he pushed me, I stood rooted to the spot. "What do you want, you freak?" he hissed. "Still need to come back to me for a little discipline? Well, guess what. I don't need you anymore." He didn't need me anymore. He was something on his own. It kept hitting me like hot irons or hot, steaming coals, all over my body: HE DOESN'T NEED ME ANYMORE.

I eliminated him.

Sure, the most logical explanation is to eliminate myself now. But I won't. What's the point? I still need me. I'm the only person that I can depend on. It was good timing I had to, that I killed them. Otherwise they would have gone right off of the deep end.

I, Harry Potter, killed them just in the nick of time.