This was highly inspired by The Tracey Fragments starring Ellen Page. You should watch it- AMAZING! It's also a book. Well, here you go, hope you like it. :D

Also, this is in one unnamed girl's point of view. It's called The Gryffinwhore Fragments because you only get a peep into small sections of her life. The story she's telling is in fragments; it's broken and jumbled just like her mind. I just thought I'd clear that up, since there had been some confusion about the weird writing style. Anyway, enjoy! :)

Those girls, the desirable ones, walk around Hogwarts halls with their tits stuck out like two platinum metals underneath those plain blouses, barely hidden by their robes. The two top buttons popped off the shirt completely, gone missing, fallen from how many times those prized tits have been shown.

Guys love that shit.

The sunlight in between the pillars shine on those bouncing flesh-metals like a shrine. Come here, boys they say. I wish for once my tits would whisper those things. But here they lie, stuck in my chest like their afraid of the sunlight, afraid of being seen. Seventeen long years and I'm still an A cup and have jock shoulders and can't get past the cover of a book.

I swerve past Draco Malfoy —doesn't the name give you goosebumps?

He's all snowy, shimmery hair and perfect, permanent sneer. I watch him in Potions class, his elegant, long fingers so still and precise. I sometimes close my eyes and picture those fingers jamming inside me like a drill, destroying me from the inside out.

Fucking take it.

My hair's greasy.

I can feel in in my fingertips, can feel it pushing down my scalp, suffocating me.

Hermione Granger is across the room, talking to a Weasley. I don't know his first name but his inflamed hair gives him away. Her hair is poofy. She's almost suffocating her Weasley friend. But it's not greasy.

Grease, slime, sludge. Seventeen years old and I still haven't figured out the proper number of times to bathe a week.

Apparently, either has Professor Snape.

The cauldron in front of me bubbles like a pissed-off dragon and instantly I know I've messed up the potion. What was it again? I don't even know the bloody name. That's what I hate about Snape, he always drawls his sentences impossibly slow and by the time he gets to his fourth syllable in whatever word he's saying, my mind wonders off onto something else I find more important. Like Malfoy and his fingers.

It looks like a fetus of a baby pig I saw on TV last summer. One large sac of blood and mucus and other shit that doesn't even look normal. It spits out liquid and screams and sputters like rotten bacon meat, reaching up the sides of the black cauldron. My stomach churns and I avert my eyes, feeling nauseous.

Vincent Crabbe wobbles up beside me with his dumb pumpkin face. "You're more useless than Longbottom! Worthless Carpet-muncher." His hand slithers up my thigh and rests on my arse.

"Come back when you actually know what that means." I grunt, shoving him to the side. His fat ass aids himself in the long, hard fall to the ground.

Professor Snape catches my eye, his lip curls higher. Suddenly, he's so close I can see the stubble on his chin. He reminds me of that one Sesame Street character with the large sausage nose. "Five points from Gryffindor."

"Devastating." I whisper, getting pinched by a fellow Gryffindor girl beside me. She's some blonde that has massive tits but hides them within the folds of her robes. I want to make her eat my fist 'cause I would kill to have 20 percent of those frigging globes.

Snape quirks a bushy eyebrow. I think I saw a bug squirming around in there once. He turns and quickly stalks away, his robes like a million black ravens fluttering about.

My eyes fall on him with my meaning them too. The sleeve of his robe slips up those fine, platinum gold hairs over his forearms and the cords of muscle underneath strain like he's jerking himself off. His long fingers curl over the metal handle of the ladle as he stirs the pot, stirs the pot, stirs the pot.

Round and round and round. I can feel something behind my stomach pull and push and swirl and cower and die and rebirth and pull and push and swirl and— fuck.

He's looking at me. Those distant, mean grey eyes are looking at me, right now! I'd like, slay a thousand kittens to know what he's thinking at this precise moment.

Smack!

I get a face-full of gravel in my mouth. It slices at my gums and makes them bleed and its fucking delicious. I lick at my lips as his weight covers me. I can see Harry Potter practising on the Quidditch field, whipping his broom around, chasing something invisible I can't see.

"My Gryffinwhore..." He whispers. "Good girl. Fucking take it."

"I don't know what to believe anymore!" She screams.

We're silent for a long moment. "Fuck, either do I."

There's a couple making out in the middle of the room, like they're in the privacy of their own home. She's sliding her tongue down his throat and his hand moves under her skirt with determination. Her thighs slide open from under the table and she grips at his hair. Are they even aloud to do that?

Hermione Granger laughs at something the Weasley boy says. What a pretty face she has. She's not like those desirable tit-popping girls. She's intelligent and brave and everything I envy. Especially when Harry Potter's knee is pressing against hers oh-so-lightly.

The Three Broomsticks is alive with adolescence. I have two empty Butterbeer glasses in front of me and I'm sipping on a Firewhisky shot. It burns holes in my stomach as it touches my insides. Limbs are overlapping smiles and hair is falling over laps. I get looked over like I'm invisible. Beauty gets everything in the world and I'm left in the empty 'verse, alone and sipping on Firewhisky.

I look at Harry Potter, gaze at him from over the brim of one of the Butterbeer glasses. He's smiling like a child, his lips pulled over a glass —Butterbeer— and smiling. Smiling. His eyes are like two bright, polished Emeralds hidden behind a layer of glass, protected like a shrine, a pricy artifact that even the Malfoy's couldn't ever afford.

I wonder if he's ever got his dick sucked.

I remember the first time I ever fell on my knees for a boy. I can recall a bunch of hair on my lips and something acidic burning the back of my throat. I knew he liked it because he was whimpering, whimpering like a child. He begged me, said my name over and over like a prayer. I was God to him for those few minutes and then I choked. He shot his spunk down my throat and I choked, coughing it up and strands of cum fell over my lips. Without missing a beat, he knocked me over and ran.

He's still smiling like a child.

I get up and get two more Firewhiskies. Down them, pound them back. One. Two. It burns the back of my throat.

"You can't just do that! Look at what you're wearing! And get that shit off your face, you look like a prostitute." She screams.

"Good, maybe I wanna look like one. Fuck, get off my back."

She flings the milk carton at me, it spills down my face and into my cropped shirt. I can see tears in her eyes. "You think I want a phone call—" She huffs and puffs on her smoke. A tear drops down to her monster boobs. "You think I want a call from the police saying that they've found you naked in a ditch?"

The milk is sour, I can smell it now. I wonder if there's a spell for that. There's a slimy clump sliding over my ribs. "Maybe you do."

"What am I going to do with you? Do you want to be raped? Killed? Stolen?" She's still yelling. The baby in the crib wakes up, I'm not even sure if it's hers.

"Yes." I say, not knowing why I say it.

"Yes?" She repeats, not trusting her ears. She puts out her smoke, lights another. The baby starts crying and she ignores it.

I shrug casually. "Yes to rape and murder and stealing. It's so rock 'n' roll."

One day your gonna see this boy, or girl, whatever you're into, and this one boy with light something in you. You'll feel it down to your toes and you'll dream about him even when your eyes are open. And then, if you're lucky enough, that boy will touch you. He'll creep up your spine and drown you with his lips and bury his touch in your skin. You'll feel him when your asleep and think about him while you eat and everything you do and everyone you see will remind you of him. And you'll never feel unbeautiful while he's right there, looking at you with his distant, mean grey eyes.

He told me he loved me. He put his cock in me, and he told me he loved me. And it honestly sounded like he really meant it. He was desperate as his hips snapped into mine and his hair fell in my eyes and his sweaty chest hurt my throbbing nipples but he told me that he love me, and it honestly sounded like he really meant it.

"I love you, baby." He said, his breath hot against my moist cheek. "My little Gryffinwhore."

"You're fucking insane." He told me.

I laughed and screamed and laughed again.

He stared.

I giggled. "Yeah, I think I'm starting to believe it too."

The common room was quiet, as it usually was. The fire crackled and flickered. Almost everyone was off in their rooms, doing whatever.

Harry Potter sat in front of it with his arms wrapped around his knees, his back to me. He was wearing a woolly sweat shirt with a giant, messy H on front of it, I remember seeing it before. The jumper looked incredibly itchy.

Then he does something that surprises me.

He cries.

Short, soft, and nearly silent.

"What you crying over?" I ask him. He jumps at my voice and spins around, his wild green eyes seeking me. His eyelashes are damp and his cheeks glisten where the wet trails fall. He takes my question to offence and turns around silently, showing me his back again.

I am not filth, I am not worthless. I'm not the gum on the side of the road or the spell that refuses to work. I am not a nobody and I'm not someone to step on and I'm not someone to ignore and I'm not someone to turn your back to.

I shuffle over to him, my bare knees burning against the rug as I drag them. I sit beside him, he knee touches mine lightly. It's still burning but the cotton fabric feels nice.

"Everyone's a bastard. The world isn't fair. Once you accept that, it becomes a lot easier to live."

He looks at me like I'm insane.

If I could, like, wake up every morning with a smile, I would. I'd wish the days to never end and get lost in those eyes (what colour are they? Grey or green?) and speak in pretend tongues and laugh at his stupid jokes and want to marry him (who is he?) and get old and grey and happy.

I'd run over the empty halls with him in hand and we'd hide under the moon and our fingers would be entwined so much that it'd hurt to rip them apart. (Are those finger's long or stubby?)

No, I can see it now.

The eyes are grey and he is Draco and his fingers are long.

She's so pretty with her bushy hair. She looks so free. She's a real girl.

Real, real, real.

Not a desirable titty girl and not the kind of girl that sits alone, sipping Firewhisky.

I ran away from home once. Apparated the best I could, got splinched. Didn't know a healing charm.

Ha! I know right? I apparated but didn't know a single healing charm.

Anyway, it got infected. I almost lost my leg. To make matters worse, I had no idea where the hell I was. Some coffee shop bathroom with piss stains on the ground. In the guy's washroom I soon noticed when a frail teen stalked in with a hand between his legs, doing the pee-pee dance.

"Shit man! What happened t' ya?" The black-haired skeleton said.

Using the counter, I pulled myself up. There was no pain I could feel. "I kicked him. He didn't like that too much."

When the kid left, I hopped into a stall and used my wand to call my mother.

It rang once. My hand began to shake. Pick up, pick up!

It rang twice. My toes began to twitch. Pick the fuck up!

It rang three times and someone picked up.

"Mom?"

Silence greeted me.

"I'm hurt..."

More silence.

"Mommy?" My voice cracked.

There was a long pause. "Don't come home, I can't deal with you anymore."

.

I was so good at ruining my own life.

"Gryffinwhore! Gryffinwhore!" They chanted like a million buzzing bees, stinging me with their words. They crowded over me, breathed in my air, stealing it.

I collided with the wall, my spine cried.

"Hey! What's going on here?" I heard someone say, it was a guy that spun around into this tiny, abandoned corridor.

Their prized tits fell away. I could breathe.

"Are you alright?" He said, his circular glasses shining and his scar a fiery red.

I leaned into him and he backed away. "Of course I'm alright. I've accepted the world. I know I'll never be more than this." I smiled at him and steered away from him.

His hair looks especially good today. I wonder if he's used something different like Sleek Wonder! by Markus Geovani or whatever Italian name that sounds important and rich. He's walking out onto the Quidditch pitch with his expensive newest limited edition Firebolt X.

The sun seeks out his hair and give all its attention to those silvery-blond strands. The crowd cheers and I clap hastily, shouting "Go, Malfoy!" before getting almost-slugged by a Gryffindor and her Hufflepuff friend.

"Get lost queer, no one wants one here."

I spin around, smiling. "Look at that, that rhymes! You should be damn proud of yourself."

The wind blows fiercely and I chant for Malfoy again. He mounts his broom and takes off, shooting up towards the sky. He is my hero.

"Guys, leave her alone." A voice says, and I recognize it as Lavender Brown. This girl who's always drooling over that Weasley boy.

I give her a quick smile before giving my undivided attention to Draco.

He's hovering in one spot, sneering at Harry Potter who glares at him back.

It's moments like these that I don't care that my father tried to sell me to his Pimp friends when I was fifteen. I mean, it didn't mess me up or anything... Okay, okay, so I'm not like this fucking hippy-do gooder who dreams of unicorns and hippogriffs, so what?

In worlds that I get to see Draco Malfoy, I don't care what happened in them. Ultimately they can't be that unbearable if they created such beauty to be held in this realm. Where he exists is where I wanna exist.

A couple minutes later, Harry Potter shoots like a bullet, down near the grass, quickly followed by Draco Malfoy who appears to be muttering at himself. They thrash and smash against each other and soon enough their robes somehow entwine, sending them both crashing down to the earth.

I expected them to dash apart— or how far apart they can get— but they don't. They're rolling around on the ground together, red blurring with green, blond hair falling over black, all four hands clamped together.

Everyone stands to get a better view. I grip the side of the wooden bar and lean over.

Harry's leg is hooked around Draco's and Draco's elbow is crushing Harry's throat.

They're fighting over the snitch!

"Common Draco!" I yell as the majority rages over Harry.

"Potter! Potter! Potter! Potter!" They chant.

I don't know why, but I run.

I'm the joke that one one gets. I'm the plane that always gets delayed. I'm the bubbling pot of pig-fetus and rotten bacon meat. I only feel alright about one day a year, and that's usually the day (lucky me!) I eat something bad or pass out from a Mandrake or get detention by pushing down a pumpkin-face guy that tried to feel me up.

I feel purple. I feel like a plum, all squishy and fat and bruised.

I see a shadow of someone running by the lake. It does a cartwheel before falling to the ground. It doesn't get up. It stares at the stars, and noticing that, I then look up too.

Millions of bright dots shine together like a holy grail. It looks so peaceful and serene up there. For a moment, I pretend I'm a star.

We —the mystery person and I— stare up at the same sky, the same stars, the same moon, and we share the moment and for the first time in a long time, I feel connected to someone.

I begrudgingly stare at the doorknob with distrust.

A Hogwarts student kisses his girlfriend. He gets excited and starts touching her. They hear the bell from inside the washroom stall, signalling classes. She stops his wandering hands and pushes him away. She leaves him in the stall alone, hard and horny. He'll be late for class, but he pushes that thought to the back of his mind. The student takes advantage of the privacy and shoves his trousers down his thighs. He sticks his hand in, grips himself, and wanks, shooting his load in the toilet. He's late for class, so he pulls up his pants and darts out of the stall and into the thinning hallway. He grips the doorknob with unwashed hands.

Am I the only girl who thinks of these things?

Madam Pomfrey and Doctor Toevell (Doctor Oh-Well, as I like to call her), gave me all these misty potions and pills that a horse couldn't even swallow. They usually tasted like warm dragon's piss and owl pellets.

Madame Pomfrey was always nice. She'd smooth back my hair whenever I looked particularity crazed with ruffled hair and wide, bloodshot eyes. I'd push her hands away as she drove the foaming cup to my lips. "Drink, honey."

Every night, after I watched Hermione tuck herself in (I unsure as to why, but I always had to make sure she was safe before I'd close my eyes), I'd take three pills- one blue, one green, one red with white stripes, and swallow them all. I could feel them bursting in my stomach, putting Merlin-knows-what in my system. It crashed through my veins and licked at my skin. Made me feel jittery and paranoid.

In the morning, I'd go to Madame Pomfrey and drink my potions like a good little girl. Doctor Oh-Well was always smiling, like she was happy of the mess I was. She unnerved me.

After a few months, when nothing changed, the potions and pills eventually stopped.

I guess they gave up.

Oh Well.

Hurry! Close your eyes! I know you don't want to see this.

God, she's screaming so loud.

I'm outside again. It's around midnight and the trees are blowing in the wind. The light of the moon skids over the lake and I curl myself around the stone seat, wondering if It'll come.

It. That's what I call the mysterious person. I don't know what other name to give.

After a few minutes of waiting It comes, and my stomach spins into a million different knots. It's like, I don't know this person, but I do y'know?

We share these moments and I like watching It spin around with its arms out with its face toward the orange moon. Sometimes It sings, but really low that I can't distinguish if It's a boy or a girl, but I know that voice sounds really nice on the ears.

I shut my eyes and a thousand lights spark from the stage. This figure goes on, dressed in all black, and the stage is so bright I can only see a shadow. The person picks up a guitar and grabs the microphone and it's voice vibrates through me and it lasts forever. It's vibrato tingles my toes and I think I'm going to pass out.

He rips through me like a jagged piece of glass, but he loves me, so it's okay. I'm his Gryffinwhore.

"Draco, hold me tighter."

Harry Potter's staring at me. He's only like, a foot away, and he's not blinking. Doesn't he know that's rude? Do I have another zit on my face? Some leftover mashed potato on my lip? Or am I really that interesting to look at?

I resist the urge to wave like Queen Elizabeth.

Small beads of sweat gather at the bottom rims of his circular glasses that lay on his cheeks. The flames from the fire play in his specs, raging. It's like a demon inside him is fighting to get out.

I push the knife deeper. I can feel the point digging into the roof of my mouth and I lick at the dull edges, flirting with danger with my tongue. I take it out of my mouth slowly, feeling a nice sting on my top lip. Once it's out of my mouth he snatches it. A drop of blood falls onto my bottom lip and I lick at it. It reminds me of the time Draco took me from behind near the Quidditch pitch while Harry zoomed around on his broom.

I watch his lips. Thin but juicy and ruby red. It makes me horny. I'm always horny. They have a term for that— nymphomaniac. Makes me wanna fuck like a jack-rabbit. All the time. Everywhere. Over table tops and on brooms and over someone else's lap.

It started with this guy. I didn't even know his name but he had this orange beard and his breath tasted like licorice. His eyes were fat and watery and he kept on looking over his shoulder. His thumb pressed into my collar and he called me beautiful. He asked my age.

Fourteen, I told him the truth. His smile got bigger and I noticed the black stains in between his teeth. He called me a good girl and brushed at my hair. It was greasy, but he didn't mind. He took out this magazine. There was a girl, blonde, with the biggest boobs I've ever seen. I squirmed around in my training bra.

She had her legs spread and only had a thin trail of hair on her crotch. He told me to look. And I did. I looked real hard and real long until my eyes started to hurt.

You can be like that, he said. I got a photographer that'd like a pretty girl like you.

I told him thanks, but wasn't stupid enough to agree. I retched myself free from his spider-hold and sprinted home with those girl's boobs forever a vision in my mind's eye and I couldn't—

Hejustlickedhislips.

He's looking really stressed these days. His mind's off in another world, his eyes are glazed, he ignored his friends and he looks more breathtaking than ever. He's always clawing at his forearm like he has some unnatural growth. His hair is like a fucking halo. He's so devastatingly beautiful I think it might actually be a sin.

I love you, Gryffinwhore. Baby, I love you.

It's like a fucking record playing over and over and it hurts to hear it but I need it to keep playing.

You make me hurt so good, I told him. He smiled at that. It was real and my heart sputtered with glee.

I'm hanging upside down. My greasy hair tangling with the bugs in the grass and my feet are up on the stone wall. My shoes and socks are off and the rough stone is nice on my feet.

It's out here tonight again, laughing this time. It is waving its wand around making pictures of flying broomsticks and dashing bunnies and words I can't understand. It's a conductor of its wild imagination, giving me an eyeful of its dreams. This feels dirtier than having my panties past my ankles.

I relish in it.

Wanna know the best part?

It caught me.

Once upon a time, this girl went to the local lingerie shop at the Mall. It was summertime and she was almost outgrowing her 12+ beginner's sports bra. Her heart was thumping through her chest. She was finally going to be like those girls in those magazines she liked. They all had dancer's legs and boobs bigger than her hands. She was going to be sexy, finally a woman.

The shop's keeper, pretty prized tits underneath her flowery dress, laughed and said they doesn't sell bras to little boys.

That's okay, it's not like she wanted a bra anyway.

I couldn't ask for a better life. I'm so happy and everyone loves me.

Who are you? I hope you don't think I'm some attention-seeking whore who's sobbing and whining about her life. I don't care— I don't! Please— don't look at me like that.

Naw, it's alright.

I wish I could talk to you, maybe get some advice. What would you do in my position? If you were in my shoes, could you hold your chin up? Could you brush off their insults?

I bet you could, you seem strong. I bet you have big tits too. Unless your a guy, that'd surprise me. I bet you like those big tits though, don't you? All the guys do.

I'm sorry, I shouldn't assume. That was rude. My mother always told me I was a bad seed who couldn't control that goddamn filthy mouth of yours!

I'm sitting in his lap, legs on either side of him. There's a small patch of blond hair on his chest and his head falls backwards onto the couch so he can look at me. He doesn't want to hide me. His spunk and my spunk swirl together to make our spunk. And it's like, the best fucking spunk in the word. No one can make spunk like us.

He has small hips and he kisses my tits. The chick were no tits, but he finds them, kisses them. He's so nice. His blond fringe falls into his grey eyes and I eat his neck. I feel alive when his rough stubble itches me and his pulse throbs on my swollen lips.

He's still inside me. He's gone soft, he's done from coming. I feel our spunk inside me. He doesn't dare move and I want this to last forever.

His nails bite my back and he moans my name.

Suddenly, this girl that looks like a mean bitch-dog barges through Draco's room. He pushes me down like the Gryffinwhore I am. She looks enraged.

"Boyfriend stealer! Man child! Slut! Get out!" She yells.

Draco kicks my back, I'm sure it's as softly as he can. I scramble up, grab a pair of robes and run out the door.

They're Draco's Slytherin robes. Slytherin just goes so well with Draco. Slytherin. Slytherin. I always let him Slyther-in.

I feel like I'm loosing myself. I don't know where to grab to stop it.

It's alright, I tell myself. Our spunk is still the best in the world.

He fought a dragon once you know— Harry Potter that is. Everyone said he wasn't scared. The Boy Who Lived never gets scared, he shuts up and saves the day.

I'd be scared. Living up to those expectations.

I think he was scared of the dragon too.

He trips me. My hero trips me, I'm sure it's by accident.

He laughs with his two goons, Vincent Crabbe and that bitch-dog girl. Her eyes are like acid and it hurts so I scratch at my skin. I don't feel like me.

She shoves me into the wall, calls me a slut. Digs her claws into my neck.

My skin is so fucking itchy!

His grey eyes bombard me. Corrupt me. And he laughs at me. I want to tell him our spunk is the best in the world and how amazing he is to me and no matter what he does, I'll always love him because soon enough everyone will fall away from him because he really isn't that nice guy that I tell myself.

But I will always be there, willing to give him my hand so his long fingers always have a place to stay.

He's so fucking good at saving the world. I wonder if he could handle me.

I don't think so— I'm so beyond repair. I'm like pig-fetus bubbling in a cauldron. Completely unsalvagable.

That's alright, it makes me unique. Ha!

He's sitting a few spots over from me, chowing down on some type of glowing porridge. There's dark circles under his eyes like someone tried to suck them out. That'd be sad. He has really pretty eyes. They should be framed in some art museum or something. Maybe that's what someone tried to do.

Come see this tantalizing piece! Harry Potter's pretty eyes! Not for sale!

They're big. Like, really big. Imagine the biggest eyes you've ever seen, and times that tenfold. Sometimes they look like their swollen in just the right angle in the light. I wish he didn't wear those specs all the time.

A guy can defeat the Dark Lord when he's a baby, but can't fix his own friggin' eyesight? Give me a break.

And the colour. I swear to you, it can swallow you whole. It can rip holes in your skin. It can make every inch of you fucking burn.

You know what's sexy?

Everyone's naked underneath their clothes.

When I was younger, I went out for ice cream with my mom. I got vanilla with green sprinkles. Looking back it reminds me of Draco. White and green.

Mom forgot to hold my hand while crossing the street. I almost got hit by a car. It flew past me, nearly running over my toes. I was so scared, my ice cream fell from my hands and splat! Got hit by the car. Mom refused to by me another and I was grounded for a week.

Now every time I cross the street, I look. It's the best lesson my mother never taught me.

I think I'm in love with It.

You know, that person that dances and does cartwheels and sings and casts spells in the moonlight?

Yeah, I'm in love with It.

I don't want to fuck It— I know, right? Unbelievable. I'm a Gryffinwhore after all.

Hermione Granger does a presentation in the front of the room. It has something to do with the dangers of not paying attention in class, but she calls it something much, much fancier. She makes it sound impressive.

She clearly loves it, she's excited and her eyes twinkle like dark diamonds and her lips move in their own accord, dancing to their own melody. She swats at the pieces of frizzy hair that falls onto her cheeks and speaks animatedly with her hands. The corner of her lips curl up.

It occurs to me, suddenly, like getting hit with a stunning charm, that I want to talk to her. I want to make her notice me so I can prove to myself that a girl like me can exist to a girl like her. My world and her world are the same world.

It's possible that I can be that happy.

It's funny.

When I sleep, I dream of his eyes. Harry's big, swollen, spec-less green eyes that tattoo into my skin. When I wake up, I can still see those eyes hovering in front of my vision while I eat my eggs. I can still feel them pulsing inside me, engraved in my skin, wearing him everywhere.

When I see him for the first time, I smile.

Wow.

I love you, Gryffinwhore, baby. My baby.

Dad hit her.

Serves her right— she was being a cow.

I want to shove a sock in her mouth, she's screaming so loud.

Oh, shit.

I would too.

That knife's in pretty deep.

Harry Potter can speak like a snake. He sings and hisses. I've never heard it myself, but just the thought gets me all wet.

He's a total babe. Harry Potter. Parry Hotter.

Parselmouth. Parseltongue.

Common, it gets you hot.

Innocent little Harry speaking such a dirty, foul language. Vibrating his tongue.

He's a gorgeous babe. Not like those beachy guys with gingerbread skin and peachy hair. No, he's his own babe. His own category of babe.

The blackest of hair and skin so pale it blinds you. You can see every bruise, every welt, every scar with brilliant clarity. And you know the crazy thing? THE GUY HAS NO ZITS! He's gone through puberty (trust me, I know. Have you heard that raspy voice?), he has stress to spare, and he's always eating junk from the Hogwarts Express trolly and Honeydukes. It dumbfounds me.

I want to lick his thighs until my tongue swells. I could marry a guy with thighs like those. Suffocate between them.

That's love right there.

He's spinning around like a tornado with a girl in his hands. There isn't even any music. Nice one Romeo, where'd you get that off of? Every fucking teenage slash young adult movie in the fucking world? Way to show her you're trying really hard and care about her so much with that stupid fucking bitch-cunt-dog-fucking-face!

"Bark like the bitch you are!" I yell at the Slytherin girl. There's something in my veins, some sort of chemical that makes me want to use Avada Kadavra on her. No, that's too impersonal. I wanna kill her with my hands. Watch her hope drain. Watch her become nothing. A dead bitch-cunt-dog-fuckface.

She kisses him in front of me. Tongues tangling, making their own mild spunk.

Fuck you Draco, our's is still the best in the world.

"You shouldn't say stuff like that. Even if she deserves it."

Of course, it's Harry Potter. The Chosen One that does all good deeds and is so fucking righteous.

"Fuck you too, Harry."

I bark at him before I leave.

"Hey."

She looks at Harry like she's asking for help. Faces me. Keeps her eyes down. "Hey."

"We've gotta go," he says.

Hermione looks at him like he's her saviour. They both run past me, bumping into people as they go.

"Fuck you too," I whisper to their backs.

I'm the kid with a gun in their pocket. I'm the bomb about to go off. I'm the girl in the sandbox that nobody shared their toys with. I'm the outcast with no tits. Worthless.

I tried, didn't I?

I come outside for the last time. The air feels too cold on my skin, like its getting a head start decomposing me.

It's foggy too.

It dances.

Walks up to me.

My heart pounds.

I cry too.

Before I see It's face, I kiss It. Blindly. I feel a nose on my lips before I capture what I'm aiming for. They're chapped, like It licks at them too much. I grab It's hair. Tangled. It's chest is flat. It's a boy. Or maybe a tit-less girl like me.

I'm pushed back.

I tell It, I love you. And God, I fucking mean it. I love It so much.

I blink a few times, getting rid of the tears.

It's Harry Potter. I still mean it.

He rubs his lips like he has Ketchup on them. Tells me to stay away from him. I tell him, don't worry I will.

He has such pretty eyes. I watch him walk away. I know tomorrow, when he wakes up he's regret what he just did. And Draco too. And every other person that treated me like shit. Fuck them all.

This is the ultimate FUCK YOU!

When morning hits, I'll be a somebody. Even scum turns into prized gold when the heart no longer beats. It's like a rule or something. In death, we become a great loss. We become the grief hanging over their heads. The wish of doing something different. The tears and the speeches and the ceremony. All for me.

I put my wand in my mouth, whisper a few words.

Pulled the trigger.