A/N: Dedicated to Isa, who enjoys this story far too much.

I don't often watch people. Quite the opposite, really. Generally, people watch me.

I am the heir to one of the most powerful wizarding families in all of Britain. The wizarding press has called me "akin to Adonis." My father is a high official in the Ministry of Magic, my mother one of the most well known socialites in all of Britain.

And so I stand here, watching you, your red hair horribly unkempt, as if you had your own personal tornado sitting on top of your head. Your belly is large with the child, and a shiver runs down my spine. You can barely walk through Diagon Alley without people staring at you. It wouldn't be so bad for you, Weasley, if you looked older than you were, but the gods cursed you with one of those eternally young faces. You look 16, you hold the body of a 16-year-old - you shouldn't be with child, Weasley - and so the milquetoast wizarding public regard you as that which you are - a child about to have a child herself.

Your eyes don't leave your shoes, those Mary Jane-like things you wear day in and day out because your pathetic excuse for a father can't gather enough sickles to buy you another shoddy pair. I remember you used to take them off quite carefully before you'd lie down on your bed - before I'd join you on your bed. It would commence, and I would find gratification somewhere but you'd just lie there, staring into space, trying desperately to forget yourself as you lay under me. You'd stare over my shoulder, towards those ugly brown shoes in the back corner, and sometimes I'd wonder whether you were thinking of those things. Were those things more appealing than me? Was it easier to think of some old, worn pair of secondhand footwear than to contemplate what role you play in my life? Did you feel shame as you lay under me, as I moved into you, was part of you for a moment, then withdrew? Or did you just not think about it all?

You're bitter, it's difficult to see it on your face right now as you walk, I can't quite see your facial expressions are you stare towards the paved brick flooring, but you're bitter. Your large brothers encircle you, warding off any witch who stares too long or makes a move towards a friend to point out the sight that is you. The large-footed ogre of a brother of yours - the one in my year - his eyes dart back and forth, looking as if he will Avada anyone who even looks within twenty meters of you in any direction.

Do you ever have the urge to kill me? Do you ever find yourself in that brief period of time between sleep and awake, when your brain is aware of those things that go on around you but somehow they transform into exaggerations of the reality within the confines of your brain? I can picture yourself, lying there in some dusty, small, closet-sized bedroom, lying on your back as you have done many times before, just seething with anger, just seething with a rage that I will never experience.

Do you ever sit down at the breakfast table with your carrot-haired siblings, see your mother buttering the toast with a knife and think, "That would make a perfect weapon to kill Malfoy." For some reason, this brings me some sort of satisfaction. The beautiful innocence of the only Weasley daughter has been corrupted. Hail! For she has had a murderous thoughts. I've done more than violate your body, I've violated your mind. It has become the same sort of wasteland that your body has become.

This wasteland, of course, that holds my child. Wait, not my child - your bastard. No one knows that I am the father, it's apart of our arrangement. I never reveal the secret of your mother's illegitimate pre-Weasley offspring, and you allow me to seek the best revenge I could ever think of - shaming you.

My father surprised me the other day. He's much more observant than I ever would have guessed. "Have you heard about the youngest Weasley?" he asked, bearing a smirk that looked as though it could be transposed on my younger, firmer lips.

I assumed my most innocent of expressions: "Weasley?"

"She's going to bear a bastard," he explained, his face alight with joy. He was still rather annoyed at the time when he got into that public scuffle with your father. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

He knew the answer to the question before he'd even asked it. There was no need to acknowledge it, but looking at his face, I knew he was proud. I knew that he was thinking of the way he had ruined your mother. He knew my profound sense of glory and power and authority over another human being, and he smiled, nodded - and continued on with his day.

It's simple, the scene I am watching. A girl walks surrounded by her protective brothers. Except the girl is full of self-loathing. And the brothers, more than protecting the girl, hint that they are somewhat ashamed - with the way that they refuse to make eye contact with any of the passers-by. There are no protective arms around your shoulders or whispered words of reassurance, saying quietly, "No one's watching, stop being so damn self-conscious" - because they are watching, the lot of old witches that walk up and down Diagon Alley. They whisper amongst themselves, and point.

You look at the floor, perhaps surveying the shoes of the people around you, somehow seeing past the large belly I gave to you. And for some reason, you look up right when you pass me. No doubt because you saw my well-buffed brown loafers in the shadows of this building. You stare at me for a moment, our eyes make contact as our bodies had night after night after night: it's a stare of horror, disgrace, but I see it. It was for but a moment - you look down to the floor again immediately - but don't think I didn't see it, Weasley.

That murderous glint. Had I been within reaching distance, you would have killed me.

I have ruined you.

I have corrupted you.

Don't think you'll ever escape me. It's not possible.

Hatred never dies, my sweet Ginny, it only sleeps.