There was just something about the way he walked. Limping, slightly, but the cruel expression always visible upon his features hid his limp. His limp was his weakness, his sanctuary. He never exposed it, but the wound was there, refreshing upon his very own skin, where his purebred blood lay and crawled through. His pureblood.
Oh, his precious, precious pure, pure, blood. It was the thing he held hovering above his head like a sword, like a crown. And Hermione wanted to rip it off.
The crown and his head.
Both at the same time.
There was just something about the way he walked. He limped, crippled and small when nobody was around, and she lurked upon the corridors, watching, observing, wanting his head in her palms, wanting to grasp his upper-arms, shake him, make him see her vision, the way he hurt her, the way he coiled himself upon her.
She watched as his right leg went downwards slightly as he walked, she watched as he upturned his head and murmured something to the air, something to the heavens above.
But it would probably never reach.
She was going to do it tomorrow. She knew his weakness.
She was going to have her vengeance in her grasp and she would love it oh so dearly. Her fingers withered in a sense of morbid joy before she turned around and glanced one last time at the way he walked.
Limping.