Whilst war betrays the human race

And abandonment will sadden the pretty face

The betrayal of lover alike with friend

Will lead us all to an embittered end

--Sybil Trelawney January of 2000

Betrayal. Disloyalty. Unfaithfulness. Treachery. Duplicity. Infidelity. Perfidy.

Hermione Granger.

All synonyms in Ginny Weasley's mind. She no longer wept. She no longer raged into the long hours. She simply sat in her tower of stone, staring out on the Forbidden Forest, drinking in the darkness like her soul.

She refused to eat. She refused to sleep. She refused Harry's attempts to coerce her into copulation.

Instead she thought. And thought. And with a bemused look on her face, she wondered where Hermione Granger was.

Does she fuck Draco Malfoy? Does she fuck him and Lucius at the same time? she wondered savagely, her hands tearing the piece of paper that listed the members of the Alliance that had gone over to the Dark Lord. Does she let You-Know-Who's "snake" nip at her? she wondered, more cruelly still.

Harry crept in to look after the deathly ill girl. For all he loved her, he still came to Astronomy Tower of old, inquiring as to whether Ginny needed something. She slept in there, and she looked into the morning and afternoons. She watched the thestrals moving across the grounds, and her responses towards Harry varied between grunts and screaming fits.

Harry thought that she would be able to accept Hermione's betrayal a little better. After Ron died, Ginny had become colder and more resigned to the course of the war. But never had she been so…dead.

Today he just watched, knowing that she would come down and ask if she wanted something. By now, it was enough just to watch her sip at the bottle of water she conjured each day. It was the sixth day. Harry suspected that she was getting food from an owl, because she didn't look any thinner. He thought she probably wanted to seem like she fasted, just to scare them all. In fact, every day she seemed to look more healthy. Her skin glowed, her cheeks a pleasant blush, her lips the colors of ripe apples. The curves that had once been angles were driving him to bitter lust, but he knew he must keep to himself.

She's drawing her physical well-being from her mental well-being. She's dying on the inside and getting healthier on the outside.

Today he turned and crept down the stairs. Her harsh voice stopped him on the second step. "I'm going to kill her, Harry. I'm going to kill her. But I'm going to make her suffer first."

"Ginny, she made a decision. She hasn't done anything—yet."

"Wrong!" she hissed, standing and turning to face him. "She turned her back on your friendship, my friendship. She's betraying our secrets to Voldemort right now. She's copulating with those sons of whores. She's—she's—she's making a fool of us!"

"And Voldemort will probably kill her before you do," Harry replied dryly. "She's a Muggleborn. She's useless to him."

"Not unless she proves useful. Whether politically, physically, or intellectually. Voldemort is a half-blood, and he probably knows that she knows that. On top of that, if she even remotely reminds him of himself, he'll adore her. He'll probably marry her," she sneered.

Harry scowled at Ginny, not looking at her anymore. "Ginny, you need to let it go. If we ever win this war, you are going to be bitter and alone if you push me away now."

He left Ginny blinking in surprise.

She sat, crying. He was right.

Two days later

Harry hadn't come up since that day.

She had her ears trained for his steps, but none came.

Around noon, she guessed, she heard steps on the stairs, and she turned, kneeling on the floor, prostrating herself, moaning, "Harry, I'm so sorry. I love you, I didn't mean any of that—"

"Touching," said a scathing woman's voice.

She looked up in time for a flash of red light.

She didn't know how long it was until she came to. It was dark in the tower. The door was closed, and so was the window. She crawled along the walls, searching for the door. She couldn't find it, couldn't find it, then ah! There!

She found it, reaching for the handle, praying it was open. It wasn't. She reached for her wand, already knowing that it was not there. She ran to the opposite side of the room in the approximate direction of the window. She found it with much less ado than the door, beating upon it hopelessly, screaming her voice hoarse for help. But she knew no one could hear her from up here. It was helpless.

A voice floated across the room, and for the first time, a light could be seen. She walked towards it, realizing it was a reflection. Peering into a basin, she saw that it was a Pensieve. Someone obviously wanted to show her something. She realized that it couldn't hurt, and therefore stuck her nose to the water, allowing herself to be sucked into the memory of god-knew-who.

She landed with careless grace onto the floor of what was, undoubtedly, Harry's chamber. She knew because she had seen it numerous times, though remembering little detail. She was too busy attending to…other…business.

There was an ominous clenching in her stomach, and she looked around. Harry was sitting by the fireplace, looking into the flames, thinking. The door opened and who should appear there but Hermione.

Ginny was appalled, because she was dressed in very little. Nothing but a lacy black bra and what appeared to be a scandalously tiny g-string.

Instead of the look of repulsion that Ginny expected, she saw a kind of lusty admiration as Harry appraised Hermione, and noted with disgust that he had an erection.

She couldn't bear to watch, but she couldn't look away as Hermione slipped up to him, straddling him, stroking him, whispering in his ears. His hands moved over her body, holding the perfect curves, the large breasts, the perfect ass. He couldn't keep his hands to himself, and his mouth was on hers, sucking at her face, and Ginny looked on in horror.

It wasn't long before Harry removed the bra, and had his mouth to her breasts, sucking at them like some kind of candy. She moved her groin into his, moaning, causing friction. Probably to reduce the pain of lust she's feeling right now, the skank, Ginny thought, almost amusedly, at her ex-friends whorish movements.

Her hand slid down Harry's pants, and began working her hands, allowing Harry to continue. He was so beside him with lust…Ginny silently cursed herself.

Harry pulled her hands out of his pants, pulled her up, kissed her hard on the mouth. He pushed her backward, and Hermione's eyes flew open in alarm. He had her at the wall, pushing her butt against the wall, and then undid his zipper, pulled off his pants, and was about to enter her when she choked, "The bed."

He pushed her roughly to the bed, where she slunk backwards, eyes on his erect member. He pushed both of her hands above her head, then pushed himself inside of her. She surrounded him with her legs, and he began to push. She moaned, and Ginny mused at how much like a dog Harry seemed. He began to pant, and she, too, panted. A bitch in heat, that's what she is, Ginny thought.

Then Harry began to call a name. It wasn't Hermione's.

"Ginny! Ginny!"

And Ginny froze.

Hermione smiled, her eyes looking straight up. That was when Ginny saw the mirror behind Hermione.

That wasn't Hermione's reflection. It was her own.

It all made sense, now. Hermione's memory would allow Ginny to see Hermione on the bed, because it was her perspective. But mirrors…those are everyone's truth. Harry thought he was banging Ginny.

Harry continued on this stream for a few minutes, then slunk into Hermione's arms, who turned her face to the mirror, smiling horribly. Ginny began to scream, beating at the two of them in bed. Harry hadn't even pulled out.

"Get off me, Harry," Hermione ordered. Harry did as he was told, and then Hermione slunk her mouth down to Harry's member.

"NO!" Ginny screamed. She had promised Harry a long time ago that she would never become his blow-job bitch, and she had said this to Hermione, too. "My hands or my mouth or nothing. I'm not going to put anyone's cock in my mouth."

Harry looked surprised but pleased at this, and Hermione smiled, her eyes flickering around the room, as if she was expecting someone to watch her. Ginny started to beat at Harry, but her hands slipped through as if they were mere wisps of mist. She screamed, tore at her hair, her throat, her cheeks. Her fingernails ripped as she clawed at everything she could touch. Blood was everywhere, but she was forced to watch Hermione to do this to man she loved.

Harry smiled as she finished, and then she went to lie by his side. Ginny screamed at them, though to no avail. How could he! This wasn't her! She didn't do this! They groped each other senseless. Harry began to pant as he climaxed.

He didn't see the hand beneath that bed—that horribly white hand—that curled around the knife. Hermione suddenly looked like Hermione—no more disguise. Only after she revealed her identity, Harry ejaculated, and the hand plunged the knife deep into his side, spurting blood everywhere.

Ginny screamed with anguish, with pain, with hate, with hurt, with a thousand knives ripping at her throat.

And then she was sucked…sucked out of the thoughts of another.

And then a cruel feminine voice was saying, "Did you enjoy that Ginny?"

Ginny lay in a pitiful heap on the floor, a mass of her own blood. "How could you?" sobbed Ginny, rocking back and forth. "Everything…all of that…those years…"

She sank deep into unconsciousness.

She awoke to find herself in a room.

It was empty.

It was actually more like a jail cell.

But propped against the wall stood a mirror. The inscription said, "Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi."

Ginny pondered the inscription. It sounded like no language she knew, and it clicked as she read it once again, her face flickering back and forth. "Ishow no tyo urfac ebu tyo urhe arts desire."

She read it slower, making the words out to be, "I show not your face but your hearts desire."

She peered anxiously into the mirror. There were two people in the mirror. It was a younger version of herself--gangly and tall, freckles, and every bit of red hair misplaced—with her arm slung over the shoulder of none other than a very young Hermione Granger.

No food or water came to that cell. It was left alone for a month.

Other prisoners of war in the house of the Dark Lord muttered to themselves as the screaming grew worse over the days, and then sobered down into a sad gibbering, and finally, one day, two Death Eaters came and collected the starving body of the mad young woman who had died not of starvation or thirst…but of insanity.

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters that J.K.Rowling has created in her Harry Potter series.