The Devil Who Sits On My Shoulder

I wish I could show you this photo. I think it would help explain. I'm the one on the left. Crabbe's the one on the right, and Draco in the middle. Not that you'd ever confuse me with Draco. But I know you could never tell Vincent and me apart, so if I sent you the picture I'd be sure to include that helpful hint.

Not that I'm sending the picture either. I'm sure you've had enough of looking at my ugly face.

Do you know how Vincent, Draco and me met? At my tenth birthday party, none of my friends were invited. Father decided it was time for me to make appropriate friends, and so invited the scions of the highest Death Eaters and the best-pedigreed little girls. Ironically, I met Vincent as he bullied my poor sister.

Draco sidled up beside me, the most graceful nine-year-old in the world, and told me to punch Vincent. I did. At the next gathering, he got Vincent to punch me in revenge. Then he got his father to buy us all brooms. Not the little toy brooms that didn't go higher than three feet, but real Cleansweeps. Well, a Nimbus 1000 for him, but still, a hefty gift.

I spent the next seven years as Draco's bodyguard, audience, and friend. He still got me and Vincent to punch each other out occasionally. The thing with Draco is that he sidles up behind you, like the devil on your shoulder, and whispers something special, that only the two of you will ever hear, and from his icy mouth it seems like a good idea at the time.

Well, I suppose you'd know all about that now. Maybe more than me. How is the baby, anyway?

I'm sorry, that was mean. But what more would you expect from me, after all?

So let's talk about something you don't know. Did you know Vincent is gay? Maybe Draco told you. I doubt you'd remember. Maybe you mixed me and Vincent up again. And that's why for seven years you never gave me the time of day?

God, I love self-delusion, don't you?

Between Draco and Vincent, it was like having a devil on both shoulders. Draco is the one that whispers seductive blasphemy in your ear. Vincent was the one that threw you against a wall and screams that you'll always be his.

I'm sorry, am I scaring you? I would imagine not a lot of throwing and yelling goes on in Gryffindor Tower. We have a dungeon, with loving gaolers. I'm sure Draco says you'll always be his, and you think it's such a romantic Gryffindorish thing to say. It's the most Slytherin thing there is, really. We all want to possess the one we love. We want to possess them until they love us back. Until they think of nobody but us, nothing but us. We want to know where they are, where they're going, and then we don't want them to go. We want to possess them until they know us, understand us, become us. I want to annihilate you and cannibalize you so I never have to be alone with myself.

I'm sorry. I seem to have shifted persons. That's the irritating thing about writing in ink. I heard the muggles have dry grey sticks whose marks can be wiped away. More things you'd know about. Now I'm not entirely sure if I'll send this. I think it might scare you.

Or maybe you'll have to ask Draco which one am I again?

I don't think I will send it. I've got a boxful of love letters from Vincent, and I can't help being scared by how pitiful and possessive they are. I'm sure that you'd think the same of me.

But while you thought that, you'd be thinking of me.

Anyway. In between Draco's manipulations and Vincent's love, there was you. At first you seemed supernatural, to an ugly clod like me. When I first saw you, I thought you were pureblood. You had the look of one. An exquisite face, hidden under a cloud of hair and self-importance, like the carefully-bred pureblood girls left alone in mansions by their distant parents. I thought you might understand the pressure and superficiality of the pureblood world.

I was disappointed, of course, to learn of your inferior heritage. But you proved yourself a thousand times over. You glided through the wizarding world on a cloud of brilliance and heroism. I stumbled, feeling like I'd never live up to the stern portraits of my ancestors. I was a hulking boy. The lessons slipped from my hands as if I were a drunk man fumbling with a Portkey. My tongue tripped too, so I could only chuckle dully when I wanted to scream, grunt when I wanted to describe to you exactly how beautiful you are.

And you were always there. You pulled me along when I felt like I would fall. When I saw no reason for waking, for walking, for breathing, I would think that perhaps today I would catch a glimpse of your hair.

You chose Draco.

You chose the icy seraph, the devil on my shoulder. The boy who taught me how to fade into the darkness when he didn't need me, the boy who taught Vincent to associate friendships with punching people.

But his bone structure is so incredibly aristocratic!

In the picture, Draco is forcing Vincent to smile at wandpoint. I stare into the distance, like a zombie with nobody ordering me around. I'm dumbfounded by you.

You're looking covertly at Draco's eyes.

My Mudblood, my angel who never sat on my shoulder, my Hermione.

All my love and bruises and gaolers,

Gregory Goyle