Disclaimer: Harry Potter and Characters belong to J.K. Rowling.

Chapter 1: Untitled

Harry glanced at the handsome mahogany clock chiming above the common room fireplace, and to his great dismay, saw the two hands aligned at 12.

Heaving a great sigh, he put down his quill and began massaging his fingers. He had hardly made a dent in his History of Magic essay: three parchment rolls discussing the employment of dementors at Azkaban and its effects on the 19th century.

Ron was scribbling furiously, and from what Harry could make out, randomly as well. His parchment was full of unrecognizable names like "Useff the Wise" and "Hongleis the Terrible."

When Harry asked Ron about them, he answered, "I figured if I wrote enough, he wouldn't fret over the details. All wizard names are the same, you know. Look, I added the 'terrible' and stuff for authenticity! Pretty smart, huh?"

Seeing Ron so delighted by his own genius, Harry decided it wouldn't be a good time to point out those "details" were probably important parts of history. He smiled to himself when he realized that was probably what Hermione would say.

Hermione had refused to let him or Ron copy hers, and now that he was getting desperate, his irritation was intensifying. He looked over at her, sitting comfortably on a couch at the other end of the room, nose buried in a book.

Hoping to catch her off guard and in a generous mood, he crept towards her. But right when he was about to ask if he could borrow her essay, the illustration on Hermione's book cover caught his eye. Like all pictures in the wizarding world, the figures moved.

A beautiful girl with bright skin was standing in the center with her eyes closed, surrounded by a starkly black shadow enveloped in a thick mist. The darkness swirled around the girl in mad flurries, and as though affected, she cringed and shuddered.

Her long dark hair fluttered like pages in the wind, and suddenly everything was still. Then slowly and gradually, a thin, elongated, hideously distorted hand, covered in a scabby, graying hide emerged from the shadow and placed itself on the girl's white arm. Harry's eyes widened with horror; the girl winced in pain. The hand slid unto her cold shoulders…hovering, as though unable to touch… or was it unwillingness?

And just as another deathly hand erupted from the background, the book snapped shut, and Harry found himself a foot away from Hermione's glaring, brown eyes. He was shocked to see they were overflowing with thick tears.

"What do you want?" she demanded as she began dabbing her eyes with the hem of her sleeves.

"Are you alright?" Harry asked dumbfounded.

"Yes," she sniffed indignantly, "I'm fine." She pulled out a handkerchief from her robe pocket and began blowing unashamedly into it. "What do you want?" she asked again.

"Er…is that a dementor on the cover?" he asked. Hermione flipped the cover toward her with a swift movement, stared at the figures with a sad expression, and nodded slowly.

"Is that why you came over here?" she asked incredulously as she snapped the novel closed and set it aside. She began tossing her scattered supplies into her book bag.

"Er- no," Harry began, "Er - actually- wait a minute - can I see that Hermione?"

"What, the book?" She asked. Hermione looked almost reluctant, but she handed it to him anyway in a business-like manner. "Fine, but don't lose or damage it. It's extremely rare, you know. There are only three copies in the world. I had to place a special order with Professor Dumbledore's approval."

"Sure" Harry replied mechanically, "Do you mind if I borrow this?" He slid his had over the smooth binding.

On the cover, the girl was silently crying – her tears, molten glass. Harry was curious, why was she suffering so?

"I don't know Harry," Hermione cut into his reverie, her eyebrows raised skeptically, "you don't seem to be much of a romance person."

"Romance?" Harry questioned in surprise. "But, a dementor-"

"Ugh, that's exactly like people," Hermione interrupted heatedly, a hint of strain seeping into her tone, "judging without understanding!"

"Excuse me?" Harry began defensively, astounded by her reaction, "The last time I checked, they didn't hire dementors in Azkaban because they made people cookies and pot roast."

"On second thought," came Hermione's shrill voice, "you should read this." She pointed madly at the book and grabbed her bag before disappearing up the stairs of the girl's dormitory.

Knowing it would be useless trying to call her back, Harry turned his attention to the book. It was not very thick but its weight was tremendous; his arms were almost buckling under the pressure. He set it on the ground and began to examine the pages.

He realized there was no title or author so he flipped to the first page, on which two lines of curly script greeted his hungry eyes. It was dedicated to someone, Harry mused, like Muggle novels.

It read:

To my Greatest Happiness

And Sorrow…

I only pray that Hell will take me

Before Eternity

So I may suffer for No One

But thee

And without a second thought, Harry began to read.