It had been five long years. Every night she had faced him, every night she had to bury more of herself so as not to lose who she really was. Cowering by the bed posts became normal, while anything nice and comforting was the special things she looked forward to. What was worse was the fact that it was Harry Potter that committed these acts, well, his body anyway. Everyone knew that Harry was dead. Voldemort had pushed Harry's mind, his spirit, into Tom Riddles twisted frame while taking over the young man's body. She had seen the piercing green eyes fade into the blank stare of death, and the red, glowing orbs of the Dark Lord take over in the gentle face of Harry Potter. She shuddered every time that Harry's strong hands touched her, hated the lips that caressed hers every night. Something had to change, and something was about too.