Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling has a life. Someone who has a life wouldn't be writing this story. I am writing this story. Therefore, I am not J.K. and I have no right to claim her characters, places, or laws in her world.

For Her…

I had watched her many times before…

I remember her laughing and talking in the Great Hall with Pothead and the Weasel, all the while thinking to myself how golden she looked. But now, now all I see is a shade of what once was so magnificent. The same thought runs through my head over and over, how could anyone destroy the radiance, and defile the pure aura that surrounded the brightest witch of her age?

And then I remember that my very own father, my very own flesh and blood was partly responsible for this tragedy. Not the first deed, as that was the honor of the Dark Lord. The prize of seeing Potters face, as he watched as his beloved mudblood whore being raped by the very man that he hated most in the world. And though this was the breaking point for one Harry Potter, the Dark Lord was, as he had claimed so many times, merciful.

And though most would view this claim as a mockery, I knew that Voldemort had spoken the truth. The Boy-Who-Lived was shown great mercy at the hands of Lord Voldemort by the simple fact that he was not made to witness the many abuses to come, of his beloved Granger. Another luxury Potter received was that he was only killed, but she, Hermione Granger was the one who had to stay behind.

The great pleasure of watching this eternal defiling was bestowed on me.

I had gotten to share in many a night of torture before this, but nothing was like what happened to Granger. And forevermore, when I close my eyes I will see the look of sheer agony on her face. I see her gaunt cheeks from weeks of near starvation, and I even see her eyes pleading with me to help her. I see these things throughout each hour of each day. And again the images are replayed when my head touches the pillow.

And I still stood there. Disgusted as my father and so many of my friends raped those just like her over and over, and yet I did nothing except hide behind the mask of the madman's design.

No more. For her, for Hermione, I have set those held captive free. I now wait in my rooms for them to come. I wait for the other death eaters to realize what I have done. Waiting for Voldemort to arrive at my chambers, and look into my mind. I can barely wait until the Dark Lord sees how I have killed the father who thought me weak, and have set free the mudbloods. But most of all, I want Lord Voldemort to see why I have done these things.

Soon everyone will know my actions were for the memory of Hermione Granger laying in her grave, and the defiant look that was splayed across her face long after her death.

AN: Thoughts?