He looked at me, and I could tell there was something. There was something behind the kicks, the words, the threats and the relentless laughter which followed me everywhere. There was something. And it felt good. I didn't want to want it, but I needed it, even if -

I need it.

Even if -

I still need what's behind his eyes, even if it's just more humiliation. I need it even if it's a setup. If it isn't, though, it could be worth it. I know it isn't worth it, but I need it. Why do I need to feel special? I am already special. I'm smart. I have the best of friends. We've done some brilliant things together. I'm the best student in our year. I am the best student in the school.

I am fooling them all.

The real me is hidden behind a pile of books. I'm invisible. Can you see me? Tell me you do; make me believe I am good. Tell me you want me and that I am special and that you can't wait to have tea with me and let me talk your ear off. Tell me I'm not alone - tell me I don't have to walk around with a stone in my stomach wondering if anyone saved a seat for me.

I don't know what I am doing at Hogwarts. I don't belong here. Draco Malfoy, I used to think he was such a loathsome person. No. He is.

He is.

What happened to me? I was never like this. Have I been this person all along?

Last night I lay in bed writing - I am keeping a diary - I got an O on McGonagall's essay. She didn't look at me, though, and didn't mention it. The essay doesn't even deserve an O, but she knows I'd fall apart if she gave me anything less. She's realized I write twice as much just for attention. It's pathetic. It's gross.

There's a pattern to what I am writing, need, rejection, attention-seeking. It seems pathological somehow, but I can't deny it's true. All evidence says it is.

Draco Malfoy still looks at me like he's seeing something unexpected. Of course not. Why would I think that? Why would he? I just see what I need.

I need something to be good at, something that's not too fake.

There's a lot of porn floating around. Pictures, pretty hardcore. VHS would blow their minds - imagine dicks slipping in and out for more than 10 seconds? I found a pretty innovative book. Each picture moves, and the next picks up when the previous one left off. It works, but it's pretty pathetic. In a hundred pages, it manages a few positions, some anal and then the classic finale, a blow job and a cum shot.

Porn used to turn me on, but it wears you out after a while.

Where is the porn coming from? Pictures and books get confiscated daily, but there seems to be an endless supply.

I saw an interview with a porn actress; I must have been 11 or 12. She talked about what she does, how she has to lube up. She showed off her fluffing technique, then giggled and said it's a secret every porn star keeps it close to their beasts. She said she often enjoyed her work, but sometimes she had no sex drive, which made things hard. Pun intended! I admired how she laughed so much and seemed so self-assured. She was proud of herself and her job and talked about the stigma sex workers face and how she was an activist for change. "Sex is wonderful," she said, "it has the power to make people happy." It wasn't anything to be ashamed of. She said, "we all want something, and there will always be someone to help you get it if you dare to look, if you are allowed to, if they may give it."

It was about control. Controlling women. Sometimes it was about controlling men, too. Controlling our bodies. Making us feel ashamed for loving sex, shaming us for having sex because we wanted to. Sex corrupted the mind. If you had sex, you were dirty, disgusting, and undisciplined. You were not suited to be anything but a whore. You were not competent to make decisions. You were a hysterical slag.

I could feel it, the truth of it, and I wanted to be her. I wanted to love sex like she did. I wanted to welcome all expressions of love and sex. I wanted to be someone who never judged.

"Women often end up as sex workers because they have been abused," the interviewer stated. The smile melted off of my heroine's face. "Were you abused?" "No, I - "

"The other reason is for attention. That's it then?" It wasn't a question. There was something in the timbre of his voice, something vile.

She looked at him for a long time. Her voice was serious when she said, "I wasn't abused. I'm doing this because I want to. Because sex is important. Some don't want to have sex. They barely have a place in our understanding of the world. So even if you don't have sex, it's important to talk - "

"I. See." He dragged the words out, and hitched on to the last syllable and pulled it high like he was talking to a child.

"Were you?"

"Was I what?"

"Were you abused?"

He sputtered; you could hear a sound in the background, maybe the cameraman's involuntary snort. He sat up straighter, looked down at her, splayed deliciously in a bra and panties on the couch. "Is that normal for you? Do you have no restraint? Is that a sex worker thing? Not understanding what's appropriate?" You could hear the quotes around sex worker.

"Of course, I want attention." There was a secret smile in the corner of her mouth. "Everyone does. We're social creatures." It wasn't an admission. She didn't need to have dirty secrets. "Even you."

"This is not about me," he scolded. She leaned over to reach for something and displayed the deep gap between her beautiful breasts. If she'd leaned deeper, her bra wouldn't have been able to restrain them. There was a mumble like "isn't it though," followed by another quiet snort, and she resurfaced with a cigarette. Sitting in profile, as if she didn't want to blow the smoke in his face, she opened her lips wider than she had to and slowly formed a dark red O around the cigarette. She put the lighter to the tip, and it glowed red when she sucked her cheeks into deep hollows. Like a shy girl, she looked at him through her eyelashes. She turned toward him and parted her lips and exhaled.

The documentary cut to a porn shoot. She was bouncing and aahing at the camera. In between shots, she was laughing and playing with her co-actors. She was showing off that secret porn star skill to keep one of the male actors erect. One other was receiving similar treatment from a man.

Wizards don't know the first thing about porn. It's just my luck I grew up to be flat as a board. Draco Malfoy seemed to like them, though. Until he got bored.

When he called me an animal, I didn't feel anything. It came later, during Charms. We were practising the Cheering Charm, and the room started spinning. At first, I didn't understand it at all. I knew the Cheering Charm already, so there was no need for anxiety. Then," like an animal, like an animal, like an animal," started chanting in time with the walls passing by. I woke up in the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey said I talk in my sleep. She sent me off with a few bottles of Calming Drought and said I could come to speak to her any time.