Disclaimer: The characters belong to Ms.Rowling. Although rather different, I owe many terms in this fic to Vladimir Nabokov.

A/N (MUST READ):I chose to use Penelope Clearwater as the "Lolita" character, seeing how her name is the only one that can actually be shortened to "Lo". Along with that, she is just a very intriguing little character that not much is known about, but yet she possesses an air of mystery. Therefore, I find her perfect to take on the "Nymphet" role. I use Lupin as the "Humbert" because, well, just read it.

Madamoiselle Deauclaire. My sin, my heart. Yes, her last name was "Clearwater" in the plain English form that it had been translated to when she had been moved to London from Versailles at age eight, in order to escape the Civil War which was breaking-out there. She was Penelope on the dotted line of my class roster, a name which I passed-over quickly without much thought aside from what it read of :

Name: Clearwater, Penelope
Year: 6
House: Ravenclaw

She was called Penny by her schoolmates. It was a perfect name for the innocent little girl-child that she appeared to be with her long red curls held back in two braids, and her sweet little schoolgirl uniform with a shining Prefect pin upon her newly developed breast. Little Penny liked to giggle with the girls and tease the boys. The boys all liked her very much. She would always kiss those pubescent fellows, making them unable to control the tightening of their trousers - - a sensation that I reckon, was still quite new to them. None of Penny's little boyfriends were past the age of seventeen. That meant, of course, that they still had yet to master how to unhook a bra.

By some, she was called Lola. That, I should have taken as a warning in itself as to the character of this child. I had read Nabokov back a short while before I had gotten-up the gumption to apply for the teaching job at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Therefore, when I came-upon a fifteen year old girl who people tended to call "Lola", I knew to put-up a red flag.

But maybe it was because of that factor, that I could not keep my eyes off of her. There was something almost Veelaesque about the child in the way that she would waltz into my classroom, often giggling carelessly with some of her classmates, and then stop when she saw me. She would always do this odd movement where she would look down at the ground, and then slowly move only her emerald eyes up to look at me in almost a secretive fashion. More than often, she was popping some bubble-gum. When I would tell the students to sit down, my Lolita would take her seat, and proceed to stick her gum under the desk. Now, I knew that as her teacher, I ought to have chided her for doing so, but Lolita had a certain way of getting away with anything without getting in the least bit of trouble.

Lolita. That is what I eventually started calling her as I found myself eagerly awaiting ,my fifth period class so that I could observe my little nymphet. Yes, she was in fact, a nymphet. Now, nymphets are rather rare in number and even harder to spot. They are not the little girls who try too had to act older than they are, those such girls come off as looking foolish and are often cause of mistake. Nymphets do, indeed, look and act their age.

Now, there would not have been a Lolita if there had not been a Lily. It had started the year that I was the age of my Lolita, ironically in the same year that she was born. The things that happen when you are sixteen, tend to determine the rest of your life. Sixteen was the age that I fell in love with Lily Evans. Like Lolita, Lily was the girl who was popular amongst the students, looked at as 'ideal' by the teachers, and the fire of my heart and loins. Then it was not a crime for me to look upon such young girl, as I was a mere child, myself. Funny how just sixteen years between two people can change relationships from "innocent" to "sinful". When I shut my eyes, I remember Lily in such general terms as: "ivory skin", "shapely hips", "large emerald eyes", "long red curls"...and so on.

Those are the pictures that the mind paints in order to preserve memories long since gone. Those memories are what you feed on at night in order to fall asleep. You close you eyes and wrap your arms around yourself, envisioning that you are reliving those fleeting moments once again. You know that you never shall, but it is consol enough to remember that at one time, you were in such a love. That is how you know if the love is real - - if you return to it in the loneliest hours of the night.

I remember Penelope in such a way. At least now, I do. Back before I had touched her soft skin, or pressed my lips against her hot little mouth, I always imagined what it would be like - - how I would be able to get her in the right time and place in order to act upon my feelings. Then, when we were together, I imagined what the next day would bring - - it was all good then, as nothing was impossible. Now I am at the same state with her that I am with Lily. I thrive off the memories.

That is what this testimonial is - - my recollection of my taboo relationship with Penelope Clearwater: My nymphet. My Lolita.