The body pushed beside me in my bed, she whispered in my ear, "I've missed you so." Silent tears spilled down my cheeks. I wish she never came.

It had been six years since it began. Six years since my sister died. I missed her like hell when she first passed away, I couldn't see a life without her, and she was my twin after all. Twins are supposed to stay together until they become old enough to stay apart, and then when they get too old they come back together again and spend the last of their lives in childhood memories. They tell each other everything and nothing. I told her a whisper of what my feelings were like in exchange for a hollow account of hers. We dreamt together, holding hands over the narrow gap between our beds. I never let go of her sweaty palm, even in the mornings, you would've been able to see our limp hands still entwined.

After she died we didn't tell anyone. We just said she had gone to boarding school. For years I convinced myself that she had just gone away and that she would be back soon, I was ten back then. She vanished gradually; the mantle piece became filled with Hermione not Madeline. Pieces of her sold at jumble sales, old toys carrying musty reminders that a happy girl once played with them, the bed, sitting sole fully in the garage, braving wintry nights without a warm figure peacefully resting, clothes donated to other children, in a greedy state, not quite understanding what those items once meant to a family. And slowly, the gap between us widened, until our clasped hands broke away and shied back into our sleeves. Now she was dead, truly.

When I was eleven I received the letter, amazingly so, I could swear that the glossy wax seal imprisoning the letter was still warm, red, like blood. And the way the seal cracked underneath my fingers, suffocating the room with echoes. And the thick letter, that smelt of sharp paper and the woozy smell of ink. And the neat handwriting informing me of my position at Hogwarts. Fresh memories.

It'd be a good idea to tell you now that we were twins, identical twins. Only my face was always a little slimmer than Madeline's, my eyes a little darker than Madeline's, my frown a little deeper than Madeline's. I was smaller and paler than Madeline, my face scowled stronger than that of hers and my mind was quicker, smarter, more alert. She was cheerful, eccentric Madeline but no one really paid much attention to Hermione. Little, thoughtful Hermione. But of course, I loved her more than the world. And she loved me too, possibly more than I even loved her.

I remember her slender fingers endlessly plaiting my hair over and over. The brush stroking through the thick locks hundreds of times. The comforting way she would stroke my cheek, telling me how beautiful I was. She was so modest about her appearance; her hair was softer, shinier, thicker. Her eyelashes were longer, darker, slicker. Her skin was smoother, plumper, warmer. Her body was leaner, taller, more evenly proportioned. And her voice was charming, a little husky but not too squeaky or too low, just perfect.