its so cold…cold like only so many layers of ice and snow and love and lies and tears and hate can be…the thoughts of the damned keep pelting the windows and they say "tat tat tat love him tat tat tat hate him tat tat tat bring him back tata tat tata tat tata fucking tat …" and she is the only one who seems to notice. the quill is no longer mightier than the magic and the magic is more terrifying than ever before. its all in her hands and she dont know if she is scared or relieved or glad. she knocked down her idols and became Satan in their place. She can barely fucking think...fingers like ice and sandpaper skin...sand...sandman...bring her a dream. just one fucking dream, sandman, it wouldn't take much of your time. just one small oasis in this frozen tundra of hatred and fear and oh, she can feel him breathing down her neck...then she turns around and he's gone and she cant feel anything any more or ever again. She know he is close, and this is her last chance. She hopes she can finish it for posterity or prosperity or insincerity, the more she thinks the less it matters. it has to be known and the covers been blown and this poetry is a worthless bundle of prose and foes and icicles clinging to the end of her nose...if you find this, you must read it. if you read it, you must pass it along. it will come to him eventually and he will know... it all started as some kind of sick game... no before that... begin with the beginning, the true beginning for her and him and everyone else. the beginning of life and the change and the sequence of events and here we are now... you don't understand her yet but don't fret... you will...because only someone like Hermione Granger would risk everything to bring some one like Draco Malfoy back to life.