The Witch Elm

by October Jones

Late on a warm summer's night, Hermione Granger is startled by an urgent knock on her bedroom window. Her visitor is Draco Malfoy — now an outcast of the Wizarding World. Draco is a distant figure of danger, torment and intrigue for Hermione. So when he unexpectedly begs for her help, she steals into the night by his side, cautious, curious and confused.

2. Chapter 2

I am covered in sweat. It must be late. The sun is beaming directly into my eyes. I squint. I feel like I've just emerged from an operation. It certainly feels like my innards have been pulled about and scraped and poked. I wonder what time it is.

Last night comes to me in strange fragments and shards. It doesn't take long to sink in. One bilious moment, a weighted white dress. Then I remember it all.

And I sit up, startled. I expect police and aurors with whistles and urgent orders. Sirens. Bells. Spotter planes. Bloodhounds. Yellow tape and busy-looking people. I expect a red sky and ominous clouds. I look through the window. I wouldn't be surprised if I found Kingsley Shacklebolt on my doorstep. It is utterly serene in our backyard, save for a castanet chorus of doves. Even so, I suspect I'm being watched. I peer at length through the window, making sure I'm not being surveyed.

I get up and glance at my bed. There's a dark patch where I slept. I touch it. It's wet. Sweat. But around that is a thin layer of grime. It looks like the chalk outline of murder victim. Like I died during the night. Or I shed my skin like a snake. I need the bathroom. I need to wash. Urgently. I grab a towel, hoping it will hide my dirt-covered clothes, then slip quickly across to the bathroom, hoping I don't encounter anyone on the way. Thankfully, the coast is clear. I slam the door and toss the towel. I sit on the edge of our lime-coloured bath. Naked and solemn, I run the water, flinching when the first spurts scald my fingers. It pools and burns my feet. I hold them aloft. God damn. Has someone lit a fire under our water tank? I want to yell at my parents for this. Finally, it eases into a lukewarm stream. It's the best I can hope for. I splash water onto my face, rub my neck. I wash myself thoroughly with granite soap. It feels good to scratch and scrape my skin. I don't mind that it hurts a little.

And I sit. Head bowed and whirring. Dripping. Ashamed of the lack of meat on my body. I'm skin and bones all the way down. It's the gangly body of a girl. No bumps and curves or lines. Nothing like Draco Malfoy.

I linger. It's cooler in here. And to be honest, I'm nursing a distant urge to cry. I still feel tired. And angry and sad. Kind of the way I get when I'm on the cusp of getting a cold. Sad and weird. My belly is tender. It's like I've been shaken and pounded and stretched. I want to cradle my head in my hands, but I don't. I won't. I'll scream if I do.

My head whirls.

What if it really was Draco Malfoy? What if he killed Pansy Parkinson? What if he killed her and I said nothing? Could I go to prison? Could he really have hanged that girl in that quiet clearing? The notion seemed so implausible in his company, but how well do I know him, really? He could have been feeding me bullshit the whole time. It could have been him all along. I dig at my ear with a knuckle.

But then why on earth would he seek me out? It makes no sense. There's no chance anyone would commit murder and then go out and find a witness. That's just stupid. So he couldn't have. Surely.

But aside from that, I trust him. I really do. And not because I have to. I think he's probably the most honest person in Wiltshire. He has no reason to lie. He has no reputation to protect. The Malfoys narrowly escaped an Azkaban sentence after the Battle of Hogwarts, and they were immediately shunned by just about every witch and wizard in Britain for supporting Voldemort. But last night, I never suspected him of pulling the wool. Not once. The way he talks to you, it's like he's incapable of being deceitful. He says things with such conviction that you're sure he believes them to be true. It's just a feeling you get.

See, most people you meet, they will talk to you through fifty layers of gauze and tinting. Sometimes you know they're lying even before they start speaking. And it seems the older they get, the more brazen and desperate they become, and they lie about things that don't even matter. Like my dad with his comb-over, or my mum with her russet hair dye. Or when my dad insists that he enjoys the challenge of teaching small children to brush their teeth, or when my mum assures her sisters in the Sydney that she loves it here, and, no, it's not too rural or cold at all, it's just lovely, it's a wonderful community.

I don't know. Maybe they just get used to it so they don't have to notice their own horseshit. Maybe it's like a creeping curse, and the more you do it the easier it gets. What's amazing is that they think they're fooling anyone.

Yes. I think Draco Malfoy speaks the whole truth in a shire of liars. I can tell. See, it's these lies that precede him, these foggy community fibs that I've been led through; they are the source of these niggling doubts in my head. I mean, if it were Neville Longbottom who had woken me up last night and brought me silently to that awful scene, I wouldn't doubt his story for a moment. I wouldn't even question him. So why should it be different for Draco Malfoy? I hoist myself out of the bath, restless and heavy. And I don't feel much cleaner than when I sat down.

When I tentatively enter the kitchen, both my parents pause and eye me suspiciously, brows raised. This is how they demand an explanation without asking for it. For a brief horrible moment I think they know something. Perhaps my mother has already inspected her trampled hydrangea bed and noticed the fingerprints on my dusty window pane, instantly surmising with her uncanny facility to accurately prosecute without evidence that I must have been out all night with Draco Malfoy, that I've seen and done something terrible, and I'm in all kinds of trouble.

But then my father smirks and reaches out to clap my back.

"Rip Van Winkle! The corpse has risen! It is so nice of you to join us."

I sit and offer a weak smile. My mother produces a hot cup of coffee with a fair dollop of cream. She leans over, hands on her knees.

"I trust you're enjoying your stay at our hotel, Your Majesty. May I remind you that our turn down service ends at ten sharp? Will Her Majesty take eggs for lunch?"

My dad snorts. My mother is the most sarcastic person in the universe. My dad says it's just who she is, but I think it's more or less an opportunity to get up my arse without appearing unreasonable. She's most acerbic when she's faintly pissed off about something, which is usually every waking hour of the day.

"No, thanks," I say. "What time is it?"

"Almost noon. So you've only wasted half of this fine Saturday. It's nice outside."

Her back is to me. She's wearing a thin floral dress that clings to her in the heat. She looks good today, I have to admit. Usually she only looks like this if she's come back from the city, where she's been going more often recently. I want to go hug her, to be held by her, but it would be too awkward and unusual. Still, her hair looks nice today.

"Your hair looks nice today."

"Oh," she says, and frowns, searching for a deeper meaning. Her eyes narrow. "What do you want?"

"What? Nothing. I just said your hair looks nice."

"But why would you say that?"

"I don't know. Because your hair looks nice."

Exasperated, I turned to my father. He is nodding and laughing quietly with his back to her.

After a brief pause, she says, "Well, thank you," in much the same way she might say, "Well, don't."

I shrug. My dad smiles and folds his paper. "So, darling. Couldn't sleep, or couldn't get enough?"

I sigh. It's difficult to play this role. Hermione Granger at Breakfast: Scene One. I don't feel the same. I don't feel happy. I'm uneasy in my own skin.

"Yeah, no sleep last night. It's too hot. I was just reading."

"I see. So, what's taking your fancy?"

"Huckleberry Finn. It's really good."

My father leans in. "It's been years since I've read that. How are you liking it?"

"Yeah, well, like I say. It's really good." I purse my lips and raise my eyebrows. I don't want to play this scene now. This coffee is making me too hot. I'm sweating. I'm stuck to this chair. I'm starting to get grumpy.

Still, I can't mollify that uneasy feeling that I'm about to be caught. There are insects crawling on my shoulders. At any moment I expect blue-suited troops to burst through the door and bundle into my house and cuff me from behind. Neighbours will line the street, spitting and yelling as I am led away and thrown into a cell in Azkaban.

I nod towards my father's newspaper. "What's news? Anything good?"

"Same old, my darling."

"Oh, okay," I say, sipping my coffee and looking away.

"Are you alright, Hermione?" My dad shifts tone. He reaches across and feels my forehead, then runs his thumb over my temple. I want to tell him everything. I want him to wrap me in his arms and reassure me.

"Yeah, I'm fine, dad. Just tired."

"Well, if you're not going to eat," my mother says, "I suggest you go visit Neville. He's been over five times already this morning with a bee in his bonnet. I told him to go in and wake you up, but he just trotted back home and said he would try again later. He's too polite, that boy."

Shit. The game. I forgot. There is no wonder he didn't want to come inside. He wasn't being polite, he just didn't want to miss anything. Right now, Neville will be huddled beside the radio, intently poised as though it is spilling secrets of the universe. I've never understood it. It's not like the same thing doesn't happen over and over. Quidditch is the most repetitive enterprise in history. But Neville will listen to the words with as much glee and intensity for the eightieth time as for the first.

I don't want the rest of this coffee, but it's not worth the wrath of my mother to waste it. I quaff it quickly, wincing at the bitter bits at the bottom. It burns my innards, but it's gone. I rinse the mug at the sink and exit stage left, offering a casual farewell.

Neville lives across the road, four houses up. Any further away and I doubt I would make it. This has to be the hottest day in history. Either the earth is being devoured by the sun, or it is hurtling towards us like an enormous meteor. Our front lawn crunches beneath my feet. Down the street, I can see strange undulations of heat. I arrive at Neville's door feeling like I've endured a marathon, and I knock quickly, surveying the porch. I greet Neville's grumpy tabby, Chairman Meow, who ignores me and hides beneath the white cage of his affable budgie, Chairman Wow.

Augusta Longbottom answers. "Hello, Hermione!" she says, and then her broad smile disappears and she looks suddenly crestfallen. She shakes her head somewhat solemnly. "It's no good. It's raining on the Quidditch pitch. Come in, come in."

Neville bursts out of the lounge. He's wearing all purple in support of his adored team. "Where have you been? You're an idiot."

"I don't know. Sleeping. Is it raining?"

Augustus suddenly laughs again. "No, Hermione, it's very hot!" She squeezes my arm, nods once, and walks away giggling.

"What does that even mean?" says Neville, watching her walk away.

I follow him into the lounge. He has the radio turned right up. I take a seat on their couch, Neville perches on a piano stool he has dragged over to the radio. It's much cooler in here. Neville recounts the day's action with unnecessary attention to detail. He's clearly disappointed. The game seems as though it's going to be washed out for the rest of the afternoon. The notion of rain seems incredibly inviting to me right now. A huge cold shower, harsh and bracing.

Augusta scurries in with a plate of sweets and fruit, and two tall glasses of icy orange juice. I thank her, and Neville dives at the tray. She turns and shrieks at him. Neville, his mouth still full, says, "It's not impolite! It's only Hermione! She doesn't care!" But her fiery barrage continues as she walks away. Neville grins. He takes up the tray and bows.

"Please, Your Highness, take first from our tray of delicacies, I beg you."

"That's better," I say.

I take something round and bright orange. It is delicious.

"What is this? It's amazing."

Neville squints. "That is Hungarian Pewter Pumpkin."

"That's a lie."

"Incorrect. That's a fact. Don't be ignorant."

"You're an idiot."

"You are a communist." Neville spills his drink as he gestures. He mops it up with a cushion. "Here's one, would you rather die of the heat or the cold?"

I lean back and put my feet up. "Do you mean immediately burned or frozen, or steady exposure?"

He thumbs his jaw. "Steady exposure."

"Well, I don't know. Neither."

"But you have to choose one."

"Why?"

"Hermione! Are you stupid? It's hypothetical."

"But when am I ever going to have to make that decision?"

"Well, let's just say you have to."

"Why would I have to?"

"Because they've got a hypothetical gun to your head."

"Who is they?"

Neville is smiling. He is sitting impatiently on the edge of the stool. "I don't know. The Russians."

"Why do the Russians want me dead?"

"Because they are evil and hypothetical! And you're a spy. You've been selling their secrets."

"To whom?"

"The Germans."

"I see. Well, I choose to be hypothetically shot in the head then. I mean, if I'm going to die anyway, why hypothetically suffer?"

"Alright, one: you're an idiot. Two: you're making this too hard." Neville thinks for a moment. "Okay. They've got your parents too."

"Neville, you're sweetening the deal."

We both laugh. I take another orange ball. Then Neville clicks his fingers and looks at me slyly, still smiling. "Okay, okay. What if they've got, say, Viktor Krum, too? Hmm, Hermione? What do you do then? You can save him by choosing one or the other."

I tell Neville to fuck off. Of course, I let the words slip just as Augusta Longbottom strides back in with more food. I freeze, my eyes wide, expecting to be told off, but she appears not to hear. Neville is quietly asphyxiating at my expense.

"Here, Hermione," she says cheerfully, and refills my drink. She exits as swiftly as she entered. I watch her go, wondering how I have skirted a certain death.

"It's okay, she doesn't know Muggle swear words," Neville says when he's recovered himself. "You should have seen your face!"

"Really?"

"Yeah. Listen to this." Neville yells towards the kitchen: "Gran! Hermione really fucking loves these orange balls! She fucking loves orange balls!"

There is a loaded pause as we both wait for a response.

"Okay! That's good! Thank you, Hermione!" she calls down the hall.

We have to bite our fists to stop ourselves from shrieking.

I lounge back, but then I suddenly remember again, and that fist of queasiness rocks me forward. It's a rollercoaster in my gut. I wish I could tell Neville everything. I really do. I wonder what it is about holding in a secret that hurts so much. I mean, telling Neville doesn't change anything. It doesn't take anything back. It's just information. It doesn't dredge that poor girl from the depths of the dam. It doesn't breathe her back to life. So why do I feel like I need to blurt it all out? Is it just the fact of telling him? Loosening the screws, getting the horrible mess out of my body? Maybe if I spill it over, it's a little less of a burden that I have to carry. By that logic, if I told everyone in Wiltshire, or Britain, or the world, if I gave everyone a share, it might become bearable.

But I can't, anyway. It's locked up in me tight. It's not that I don't trust Neville, it's that Draco Malfoy trusts me. It's an unusual contortion of my loyalties. I know I can't say a thing. Neville suddenly clicks his fingers and points at me.

"Okay. I've got one." He spreads his hands, showing me his palms like a mine, the way he always does when he's telling a joke. "Okay. Why are pirates called pirates?"

I look at him blankly.

"Because they yarrrr!"

He dies laughing. He almost chokes. He has to pause to catch a breath.

"Neville, that is the worst ever. And I mean that. The worst."

"Oh, come on. Harrrmione, you're being harrrrsh!"

I laugh. I can't help it. "Really. Stop. It's bad."

"No way. You can keep that. Tell it to Viktarrr!"

"Neville, I'm going to hold a non-hypothetical gun to your head. If I have to kill you, I will."

"You couldn't do it. Not to this handsome face."

We stay in Neville's lounge until the broadcast ends. Despite the fact that there is no chance of play continuing for the day, Neville doesn't want to run the risk of missing any developments. Neville defeats me in chess, and then I destroy him in Scrabble. He shrugs and says, "English isn't a subject at Hogwarts."

We get restless. Neville suggests that we head to the Quidditch pitch in town. I'd much prefer to stay inside and arse about in Neville's loungeroom, but I know there's no chance of that. Neville is ushering me out the door like we're fleeing a fire. He yells behind him: "Gran! We're off to play some fucking Quidditch!"

We pause.

"Neville! Wait! Wait!" his grandmother yells sternly. I detect a moment of panic on his face when Augusta Longbottom charges down the hall. But she holds out two cold flasks of water and smiles as she shuts the door.

"You should have seen your face!" I say.

He laughs as we run out onto the street.

Neville fiddles with a chunky brown quaffle in his hands as we make our way into town, snapping it with his wrists and fingers, fizzing it into the air. It is a whirring blur. I don't especially dislike Quidditch, but it requires some special sort of pathology to give it the kind of devotion that Neville shows. I don't know. Maybe it's because I'm rubbish at it. I am really bad. Of course, being born without athleticism has proved to be a significant hindrance, but it's mostly the fact that my limbs have never acted in accordance with what I intend for them. It's like they're being controlled by some vindictive puppetmaster.

Neville is uncanny. His skills are so impressive I'm not even envious. The things he can do with a broom and a quaffle are amazing. Really. And his defending is incredible, he's so compact and powerful. Despite having the stature of a garden gnome, Neville can manage to be intimidating. He's not so affable with when he's defending the hoops like a territorial dragon. He's like an animal, aggressive and focused. Or some kind of broom-riding hero. You can't get anywhere close to scoring when he's around. Granted, I'm not much competition for him, but I think if he ever gets the chance to play a real professional game, he's going to be brilliant.

We walk slowly, favouring the shade. Although it's late afternoon, it is still stupidly sultry. It's a dry inert heat that seems to press from all sides. Neville seems to struggle under the weight of his gear bag.

"See, I was thinking," he says, clutching his quaffle and thrusting a finger into the air. "The thing about Spiderman is that he is completely useless outside of New York City."

"How do you figure?"

"Well, for example: if he were to fight crime here in Wiltshire, he'd be rubbish. There's nothing for him to swing between. He needs a…"

"An urban environment?"

"Exactly. I mean, come on, who is Spiderman going to save in the Gobi desert, or Antarctica? He's screwed."

"True," I say. "But he still has cool powers."

"I understand that, Hermione, but they are rendered virtually ineffective by the environment. He is immobile. All you need is a camel or a husky sled and you can outrun him. He's nothing. And he's sticking out like a dog's bollocks. Suddenly he's just a weird-looking guy with snot shooting out of his wrists."

I think about it. "Fair point," I say.

"And of course it is. And that's why Superman is the best superhero," Neville says, tossing the quaffle into the air. "He is all terrain. He can cover the globe in a second. He is the greatest. Simple."

"I disagree."

Neville catches the quaffle. "What? Excuse me? You what? How could you possibly disagree with that? You're an idiot."

"Think about it, you little bigot. Superman is boring. He's too accomplished. There is nothing interesting about him. There's no story. He's too good. It's not even an effort to apprehend criminals or save children from fires. In the end they had to invent some stupid arbitrary green mineral to give him a weakness. Whatever. It's boring. You know it."

Neville squints at the sun and groans. "Hermione, you are a fucking communist. Firstly, he does have other weaknesses."

"What? Bullshit. Name one."

"Love, okay, you twat. Obviously. His family. Lois Lane. They can be used against him."

"I like Lois," I interject.

"Because you're queer?"

"I'm not queer, idiot."

"Secondly, the fact that he doesn't interest you doesn't mean he isn't the best. You're not the queen of opinion. You are foolish and narrow minded."

"No. It means you have no taste. And no idea what you're talking about."

Neville laughs. "Well, who's better then?" he asks.

"Catwoman. Easy. The greatest superhero of them all."

"Catwoman?" Neville stops walking, and looks around as though he is appealing to a jury. "You are queer!"

"I'm telling you, Neville. She is the greatest."

"Hermione, you are an idiot! That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard. Catwoman isn't even a superhero!"

It's my turn to stop. "Shut your mouth!" I slap the quaffle out of his hands. It bounces down the street.

"It's true! She's not a superhero!"

"Neville, you are an idiot!"

"No. You are an idiot! First off, Catwoman doesn't have any superpowers. She is not superhuman. She is not super. Therefore she can't be a superhero."

"Neville, what are you talking about? She's Catwoman!"

"What does that even mean? Catwoman just an eccentric prostitute with insomnia. She's a vigilante, not a superhero. She doesn't have any superpowers. She just has a whip and dresses in leather."

"Neville, you are insane. For a start, I disagree fundamentally that you need superpowers to be a superhero. But I would argue that she is super anyway, given that super means greater than usual. So in every aspect, she is a superhero."

I continue. "Catwoman is the ultimate human. She is flawless, but she is capable of being flawed. She has mastered the way of the ninja. She is one of the world's greatest dominatrixes and detectives. Her body is in peak condition. She is a woman of unfathomable mental toughness. She is human perfection. And it's the fact that she is just a normal person with a burning vendetta makes her the greatest. And because she can fight against and alongside people with superpowers. She is a superhero, and you, sir, are an idiot."

"Granger, you are the very essence of stupidity. I'll say this slowly: Catwoman does not have superpowers. She can't be a superhero."

I know I'm winning when he when he calls me Granger. "She doesn't need superpowers. That's my point. You are a buffoon. She can hold her own. She has an alter ego. She has a costume. She fights for truth and justice. She has arch enemies. And she does all of this without any weird mutations. She's just, really determined. That's what makes her interesting. The fact that with enough dedication and desire, we could all be Catwoman. Catwomen. Catpeople. And that's what makes her the best."

Neville closes his eyes and pops his cheeks.

"You know I'm right, Neville. It's just like Lex Luthor doesn't need superpowers to be a super villain. It's called context. Look it up. It's a fucking comic. I win. You're wrong. The same way Harry Potter is a hero, Muhammad Ali is a hero, Catwoman is a superhero. Simple. And what makes her the best superhero is exactly your stupid, ignorant assertion: that she is just a girl. She is fallible. And unlike Superman, she requires courage."

"Granger, what the fuck are you flopping on about? Superman is clearly the bravest superhero. You've lost your mind. Superman invented courage. He steps in front of bullets. He doesn't consider risk. He delves into danger without a moment of thought."

I spread my arms. "Of course he does! He's Superman, you idiot! Neville, he's invulnerable."

"So what?" Neville scrunches his face.

"So that isn't courage. He is a Man of Steel, idiot. He is invincible. Doesn't need to be brave. If a bullet can't possibly hurt you, how is brave to stand in front of one?"

Neville frowns doubtfully and stay silent.

"See, Catwoman is different. She is mortal. She's got a real life to risk. Superman just has to avoid Kryptonite. Big fucking deal. Superman fears nothing because outside of a very few specific circumstances where he might encounter some stupid rock, nothing can possibly hurt him. Catwoman has the same vulnerabilities as us, so she has the same fears as us. That's why she is the most courageous: because she can put those aside and fight on regardless. My point is, the more you have to lose, the braver you are for standing up. That's why Catwoman is superior to Superman, and that's why I am infinitely smarter than you."

I am a genius. I have won.

"Pfffft! Whatever. I'll bet Catwoman won't be too loud about her superiority when Superman is belting seven shades of shit out of her." Neville executes a number of weird Kung-Fu thrusts, then shrugs and pulls a face. He drags his feet as we reach the eastern end of town. Suddenly, he blushes. I look up.

"I hope you're feeling brave," I say. I point. It is Primrose Parkinson.

The brick in my belly sinks a notch. She's wearing a plain, sleeveless dress with red and white stripes. Her hair looks thinned out. Maybe it's the heat. Her skin is pale. She's outside the bookstore in the shade of an oak tree, examining the paperbacks stacked out by the door. She has one open in her palm. I wish I could see what it is. Nobody knows about Pansy. That's what this means. Except me and Draco. But I wonder how Primrose Parkinson can be here when her sister is missing. How could she be browsing books as she is? Looking as she always does, so distant and sedate?

Primrose's manner has always intrigued me. She seems troubled, yet infinitely untroubled. Sometimes at school, her heart used to beat too fast and she would have to sit down. She sometimes goes quiet and pale and tells everybody she's fine, even though she's breathless and sweaty. I wonder how she's not panicking today. How is she not yelling her sister's name down the side streets, banging pans, corralling locals?

We are getting closer to her. The urge to blurt everything out is at me again. To spill this illness. It sounds stupid, but I want to lead her to the leaf-littered bank of the Severn River, someplace cooler and quieter. To tell her what I saw, what I did, what I suspect. I want to tell her, assure her, that Draco Malfoy didn't do it. I want to ask her not to listen to what people say about him. With the air in my chest, I'll tell her that I know him. That he's a friend and I know what he's like. That he couldn't have done it. But it makes no sense. I want to tell her that I think he loved Pansy and I want to tell her that I feel horrible I want to apologise. I want to tell her how her sister's face looked last night. That before we moved her, she looked strangely peaceful. I want to ask her if she knows who would do this. If it was just rotten luck or something more sinister. I want to look her in the eyes when I tell her. I want to hug her when she cries. I'll say all the right things. And we'll figure it all out. We'll get justice for Pansy Parkinson.

Primrose is a few years younger than us. I think she got sorted into Ravenclaw. Personality-wise, she's the complete opposite of Pansy. She is shy, soft-spoken and kind. She did not inherit Pany's mean-streak. She doesn't have many friends. I'm beginning to think that she may not have gotten along with her older sister.

I watch her as we move closer. I watch her as though she might detonate. Neville, who has been infatuated with the girl for years, does a lot of throat clearing and foot scuffing as we approach. I want to clap his head from both sides and squeeze until it bursts. I wish he would just ask her out, and save me from whatever this is.

She looks up from her book. My body knots. "Afternoon, Miss Primrose, Neville sings, and tips an invisible hat. Primrose's eyebrow rise slightly. Her nose is speckled with barely visible freckles. And her lips just look perfect. Red and varnished. I can't shake her sister's resemblance. She has those same eyes, the same dark moons beneath them. The similarity panics me.

"Hello Neviile," she says cheerfully, then looks at me. She tilts her head and leans on one leg. "Hello, Hermione", she says. My mouth is dry, and so is my response. It is a mute whisper followed by a single nod and a tight smile. I am an idiot. I consider trying again, once with more feeling, but in the time it takes me to decide, we've already walked past her. Should I turn around? I should. I should probably turn around. I'm going to turn around. But I don't. I look down. So much for taking her down to the river and telling her everything.

Neville is grinning like a madman. When we are out of earshot, he says, "Are you saving all of your words for Scrabble?"

"Piss off," I snarl, rolling my eyes.

He tilts his head back and laughs.

"You're scared of her, Hermione."

"I will kill you. One day, honestly, I will end your life with my bare hands. That's my promise to you. You are the most irritating little man in history."

For the first time ever, I'm almost grateful for the cowardice that seeps from my body every time we encounter a member of the Parkinson family. Neville knows Pansy bullied me. She bullied everyone. And I've made it clear to him in the past that I'd rather not interact with either sister unless absolutely necessary.

We are nearing the Quidditch pitch. I want to go back and try again with Primrose Parkinson. No awkwardness this time. No panic. Strong and forthright. I want to look at her face, see if I can detect anything out of the ordinary. Anything I missed. Anything suspicious. I want to know what she's reading. Maybe her book will have the answers.

We arrive at the pitch. It is a lush, pristine vista, perhaps the one part of Wilshire that is maintained with care. It is Wiltshire's only attraction. See, the wealthy Wizarding families who set up residence here centuries ago decided that the pitches in London were simply too far away. Inconveniently far away. So they banded together and spent an unspeakable amount of money building one here. It is arguably finer than any other facility of its kind in Britain. Of course, it provides the affluent residents of Wiltshire with an excuse to form a team of players full of nasty, scummy, purebloods. Our pitch, our rules. No blood-traitors, no half-bloods, and absolutely no mudbloods.

The grounds are occupied already by the Wiltshire Wyverns. What a despicable gaggle of bratty man-children. I'm intimidated and disappointed. I can hear the cracks and thuds issued by the beaters from afar. The squad looks like some kind of piston pressed engine. I stopped and half motion to turn around and go.

"Shit luck," I say.

"It's fine, Hermione. I'll still get some practise in."

"You're joking, right? Neville, they won't let you. They never do. Come on, let's leave. We can practise somewhere else."

"Yeah they will. Come on."

Neville scuds down the grassy embankment towards the hoops.

I call after him in protest, but shake my head. He's smiling lazily and pressing on with infinite optimism, gear bag in tow. I stand my ground, but I'm teetering. He is insane. Or he has no memory.

I decide to follow him, but at a distance. As I approach, I'm not surprised to notice the team is littered with my nemeses. The arch of these, Caspian Clearwater, stands at the back, slowly rubbing the tip of his broomstick against his nuts. He has the broadest shoulders among them. He was one of those kids who was always two years bigger and bulkier than anyone else his age. He was probably born with a beard and chest hair, wailing and stinking like the enormous fetid shit that he is.

Caspian Clearwater holds the record for the most peaches stolen from the tree of Mad Marius Stygian. He's got four pits in his pocket from four separate occasions. He's been in more fistfights than anyone, and has won most of them, including one with a middle aged Ministry of Magic employee in Diagon Alley. He is feared and revered, and he knows it. He has a real tattoo. He is surly and volatile. I hate him like poison.

And, probably due to the fact that most of his bodily resources are diverted directly into his pituitary gland, he's also an affront to academia. Seldom is this boasted about, but he also holds the record for the most grades repeated at Hogwarts (three). It's a fact that renders me smug, but also sore, because his stupidity placed him in some of my classes in my final year of school.

See, in class, if I used a word that he believed was too clever, or wasn't one of the half dozen monosyllabic commands that he readily understands, he and his henchman would seek me out when I was alone, either at lunch or in the library, and would repeat the offending word like a mantra, each time punching me on either shoulder. Monosyllabic. Monosyllabic. Monosyllabic.

If I tried to run, I was caught and floored and nailed. If I tried to fight back, I risked complete annihilation. If I insulted them, the same. If I told someone about it, it was a suspended death sentence. If I curled up and took my beating on the spot, I was almost killed. So I stood there and usually accepted the punishment that was meted out at their discretion. Mostly, it was quick and painful. But if I had ever been particularly clever, or if my teachers were especially pleased, the humiliation would be public. And I didn't want Harry or Ron involved. The message was simple: Don't be too clever. Mudbloods aren't clever.

All this has done, really, is firmed my resolve to get smarter. And not without a measure of spite. It's made me thirsty for new words. Every time I encounter one for the first time, I look it up and bank it. Every word is like getting a punch back. No matter how obscure or archaic, I eat them up and let them settle. And I vow not to forget them. I collect words and lock them away, stored like a hoard of gems. And every night I use them. Every night I pick the lock. I have black quills and yellow notebooks. And every night I write stories and poems. I polish my jewels. Sometimes I imagine spitting my poems at those boys, but I know it would be like thrashing them with a feather. I know that they would just laugh at me. And, of course, I know they would thrash me back with something significantly harder. But there is a grim satisfaction in knowing something that they don't, in having something that they don't have. That's what I used to think about as I silently accepted their punches. This Mudblood is smarter than you.

I position myself at the top end of the pitch. I'm far enough away to remain reasonably inconspicuous. I'll stay here and collect any balls that might get straight driven or lofted out, and I'll send them back with my head down. I don't expect grateful waves, but I hope it might save Neville some grief. I'm still nervous though. I look at Neville, casually laying his gear bag down among theirs. So laconically bounding in and meshing with the pack of players, as though he's part of their side. He looks small. It's like watching a puppy crossing a busy street. Neville hops onto his broom and settles, but he is shoved, hard, out of his chosen position. I hear someone say "Fuck off, Blood Traitor," and my gut knots.

I don't understand, because Neville has tried this before and it never ends without some kind of humiliation. I watch him hover around the crease in the middle of the pitch, not taking his mark, waiting for a chance to cut in and participate. But the same thing will happen, I know it. Neville is a talented keeper, and so whoever is chasing just invariably tries to herd the quaffle as close to the hoops as they can. If they miss, which they often do against Neville's defence, a beater will smack a bludger and send it flying towards Neville like some sort of possessed asteroid. And Neville will genially dodge it and chase after it and come straight back, fizzing the ball in his fingers, hoops still defended, goals unscored.

Sometimes, Neville mistimes his pursuits and is charged by one of the chasers ducking in. For this, of course, he's angrily pushed and rebuked, sometimes among all of the beaters, who shove him around like a pinball.

Very rarely, Neville will be allowed to play the role of a seeker. Right at the end, when it's almost dark. It's never a lenient act, though. They take bets. Somebody hurtles furious bludgers straight at him as fast as they can. Neville, of course, is resilient and impressive, but occasionally he will be hit in the chest or the shoulder, and there will be a thrilled roar and an exchange of money or something valuable. Neville stays up there though, chasing the snitch, right until the crowd tires and walk off.

I watch Neville effortlessly defend the first quaffle, and it's right on the spot. In fact, the ball dips and turns sharply, clipping the shoulder of Rhyolite Rosier. Rosier halts his broom and pegs the quaffle directly at Neville's head. Jeers and laughter erupt from the pack of beaters. He spits towards Neville, then claps his gloved hands together and sneers, "Oh, I'm so sorry! I didn't see you there."

Everyone laughs, watching Neville hurry out to fetch his quaffle in his pressed Quidditch uniform. I think Augusta made it for him, but it looks clean and official. He is jostled and bumped around the pack. He's so small compared to all of them. Someone kicks his ankle and says "Fuck off, Mudlover." Neville falters, but keeps going, head high. I am so ashamed. It hurts me to see. I want to run over to Neville, to tell him we should go. But I don't. Even the coach is cackling. A red, ruddy man with a clipboard and a cigarette. He has an oily film of sweat across his brow. When he laughs, it sounds like he's coughing.

It continues in much the same way. Neville retrieves the quaffle, bounces back, waits patiently for another turn to keep. I watch and wait. None of the chasers can distract him properly. They nick and slide and yell with no reward. Why can't this stupid coach see that? Neville is the only keeper here, and he's not letting anything get past him. He's got agility and prowess in the thin air, and they couldn't beat him with a barn door. He's palmed three feeble attempts of goals out already. And every time they pick up his quaffle and dispatch it from high up, further and further away. Every time they laugh.

See, I always thought that eventually there would be a sort of grudging respect to Neville's talent. Much the same as it is for Draco. The Wilshire Wyverns wouldn't win a single game if it weren't for Draco Malfoy. He raises the eyebrows of even the most audacious bigot on the sideline. He's a phenomenal, a cut above. It is impossible not to be impressed. He never trains, he doesn't listen to the coach. He's supposed to be a seeker, but doesn't really play that position. He just does his own thing. Doesn't even own a uniform. Draco is the most nimble and versatile player I've ever seen. For someone younger than the rest of his competitors, he intimidates his opposition more than any beefy monster in the air with fire in their eyes. Draco has incredible hands, and an amazing instinct for the game. He has a vertical leap and burst of speed that can have the whole crowd gasping at once when he lurches forward to pocket the snitch.

It is difficult to understand. The people who watch in wonder when Draco plays, who barrack him like he was one of their own, are the same ones who might cut their eyes at him should he walk their way a few hours after the game. But they'll smile and cheer and shake their heads in awe if he scores against a renowned keeper, or dodges a notoriously menacing flock of beaters. His teammates too. Those around him and scratch and ruffle at his hair in celebration, they will applaud and pat his arse. But once the game is over, the pattern returns. He's back to being shunned and privately envied by the men, and subtly adored by the girls. Draco hands his uniform back, and leaves them to their change room without a word.

It is hard not to believe that something in the uniform is powerful, and its number is significant. When fat angry bastards are screaming advice to the best athletes in the country, and when women are shrieking blue murder, it's not hard to feel as though Draco Malfoy has forged himself some kind of momentary peace, because it's blatantly obvious that he's a champion among them. They're forced to accept it. He is the best player around. He is one of them. Draco Malfoy is the player on whom they pin their hopes and place their bets. I wonder why it can't carry on. Why he has to strip off his shirt in hand it back at the end. And I wonder why Neville can't even get a slice of that, as fleeting as it is. Maybe it's because he can't assert himself like Draco, who broke three collarbones, two arms, and a nose this season.

Neville's next defence produces a leading edge, and it skips past the others in a blur. Most of the beaters let it fly past them, one of them swats it along. It flies towards me. I duck out of the way and roll backwards. I hear them talking.

"Got your girlfriend here, Mudlover?"

"I heard Whoremione likes it up the arse!"

"I bet you love her and her filthy blood, don't you?"

Someone pushes Neville in the face. Someone else prods him hard with a broom. They all laugh at this with cold lips. Especially the coach, who looks up from his clipboard. His teeth are all the colour of bath grit. Caspian Clearwater picks Neville up by the collar with one arm. They cheer, and he throws Neville backwards, his thin arms flailing. More laughs. Neville sticks the landing like a cat. He picks himself up quickly and returns to his position.

I don't want to watch this anymore.

I wish Draco Malfoy was here with me right now. I wish he was standing next to me. Then I could scream everything I want to scream. I could point and swear. I could single this coach out. Tell him he is a disgrace. Tell him he doesn't know anything about the game. Then I'd tell Caspian Clearwater that he is a smug, odorous fool who will never leave this town, that he will be trapped here forever by his endless stupidity like a rat in a wheel.

I would sneer and tell him he's got the cerebral fitness of an amoeba and delight in his squints of confusion. Then I would punch him, as hard as I can, in the shoulder, repeating those words: Cerebral. Cerebral. Cerebral. Amoeba. Amoeba. Amoeba. Then I would tell Neville to get on his broom, and I would make them pelt quaffles at him and they would realise that he is the best keeper among them. He would carve and slice them away so effortlessly, that they would have no choice but to admire him. But that won't ever happen.

It's twilight. And in the copper glow I see Primrose Parkinson making her way across the pitch. She is still carrying that book. Everything feels so pronounced today. All my senses are tender and buzzing. The slightest tremor feels like a quake. I feel harassed by the busy sound of insects around me, like I'm trapped in an enormous thriving hive. I'm watching Primrose Parkinson walk and I'm transfixed, she so assured and demure at the same time.

I think she sees me. She looks up. I look down. I can't help it. And when I glanced back up, she is giving a short wave. I offer a small smile in return. I should go over there. I should ask her about her book. And then we'll talk. And maybe I could tell her about her sister. I should. I should walk over there right now, like Draco Malfoy, broad shouldered, with a long lope and a knowing, confident grin. I'm going over there. Right now.

Behind me, someone wolf-whistles. Then all of them do. I whip around. They are laughing. Caspian Clearwater puts a palm to his mouth.

"Show us your tits, ladies!"

Primrose looks down and walks a little faster. I am horrified. I hope she doesn't think that I'm friends with them. Caspian Clearwater has his cock out and is waving it at us. They all cheer. Thankfully she has turned away and doesn't notice. They laugh. They turn. They lose interest in us. Primrose Parkinson is almost gone. I watch her disappear. I should have said something. I should have stood up for her. I should've defended her. Her sister is missing and she is being harassed by a band of creeps. I am an idiot. I'm a coward. I want to go home. I sit down, feeling a little woozy.

Pansy Parkinson is dead. Her sister doesn't know. But soon, everyone is going to know. I'm in the eye of the storm. The world has come apart. I don't know what I'm going to do. It's like I'm waiting silently for the battle to start, knowing I'm slowly being ambushed. There is a coil around my chest being bound even tighter. For once there is no comfort in knowing something that no one else does.

How can Draco Malfoy expect us to go back and unravel everything? We tied her to a stone. We buried her in water. We did that. We can't hope to solve this mystery. It is too much. It is too big and unwieldly. Where would we even start? Pansy Parkinson is dead. And she is just hours away from being reported missing, unless she already has been. And we're not going to find her. Unless someone confesses. Unless Mad Marcus Stygian steps into the Ministry with his wrists ready for the cuffing. So, what's going to happen? We bought Draco Malfoy some time. But how much? How long until they give up? How far will the search spread? How thorough will it be?

What I really can't begin to understand is how it happened. How somebody could do that. How anybody could kill a girl. How they could take her into the forest and beat her down and hang her from a bare branch in her nightdress. How could they watch her die? How could they leave her there? How could someone be capable of that? I snatch at a mosquito in front of my face. I flinch. They are everywhere. I hate insects.

Pansy Parkinson is dead and I touched her warm body and she has cursed me with dread and sorrow. And I can only hope that they don't find her until we get to the truth. Neville turns and looks around, scanning the sky above him as he shifts his weight from side to side on the ground. No one has started the game. One of the other players gestures for him to rise. Neville smiles. He mounts his broom. And just as he pushes off, someone swiftly pulls his black shorts to his ankles. He stacks it, hard. They erupt again. The coach wheezes. Neville stands and retrieves his shorts, his arse exposed like a pale plum.

Meanwhile, the chasers have taken the Neville's quaffle hostage. Rosier spins and sends the ball high and hard over the back of the pitch, into a vacant block of trees and scrub. A huge hit. It's definitely a lost ball. Neville watches it go, and it breaks my heart because that quaffle was a birthday gift he had spent months waiting for. I hope we can find it later. Magic would help, but I worry about being traced. Is that a thing? Could an auror somehow link a simple locator spell from my wand to Pansy Parkinson's death? I hope not.

My eyebrows furrow in my nostrils flare as I watched Neville cut his losses and walk back towards his gear bag. I watched them ruffle his hair and shoved him lightly. Then I look at the coach. How he stands, how he intermittently pinches at his dick and shifts his weight. How his ugly rodent-like eyes lazy survey the pack of boorish bullies. How his nubby fingers clutch his cigarette. And I think, if he can watch this with a thin grin, what else could he watch? What other cruel things could he view without intervening?

I'm chewing the inside of my mouth and my face is hot. I look away. A part of me is faintly resentful of Neville for joining them in the first place and making me feel like this. I blink hard. Neville remains unperturbed. As though he was simply undone by fair play. And they're still spitting words at him as he hoists his bag onto his shoulder, but I don't want to listen anymore. I just want to go home. Neville walks towards me. There are grass clippings in his hair. His head is bowed as he approaches. But when he gets closer to me, his face lifts and splits into his smile.

"Did you see that first quaffle? Blocked, beaten away, bang! The crowd goes wild! Thank you very much!" He spreads his hands as though the ball actually exploded on contact.

"It's true. It did travel a bit," I say, and it feels good to be defiant.

"A bit? It was everything. That second last guy took a really good shot, but I've got a deep point, so it's covered. Hermione, if you knew anything about the game, you'd understand that you've got to have a deep point. It's fundamental. You want to get them on the back foot, so you invite that shot. Then, bang! You slide in and send that quaffle into the nether realm. Hook, line and sinker." Neville executes some frenetic shadow-boxing combinations punctuated by sharp sound effects.

"Easy, Muhammad."

"Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee. A beater can't bludger what their eyes don't see! Bang!" He kisses his fist.

"You are insane."

"What's that, Hermione? I'm the greatest?"

"No, you're –"

"Yeah, you're right. I probably am the greatest." He bursts into round two, bobbing and feigning, his bag swinging against his hip. Still, I shake my head, angry.

"I hate them. I hate those snotty bastards."

Neville sighs. "Hermione, if no one had stolen his bike, Muhammad Ali wouldn't have hit anyone." Then he stops and points a finger up at me. "Meanwhile, you are an idiot."

"Why?"

"Because you didn't go and talk to Primrose for me."

"So?" I shrug.

"Hermione, you are the queen of idiots. It's not like she didn't come this way because she knew I was down here. She loves me. She came to swoon."

I shake my head.

"Neville, you are ridiculous. Maybe the heat of the day is getting to you, making you delirious. There is no way Primrose could have known we were going to the pitch, she couldn't have gone that way purely to see you. Which means, essentially, that you have no idea what you are talking about. As usual."

Neville snaps his head back and drones, stomping along like a zombie. "Hermione, you know nothing about the world of seduction. You need to be advised by an expert, namely me. I know everything about girls. They're too vain to be a mystery."

"Neville, you don't know the first thing about girls."

"Bullshit. What's not to know?"

"Plenty."

"I know why you wear makeup and perfume."

"Why?" I sigh.

"Because you're ugly and you stink!"

We bicker back and forth for the remainder of the walk home. Neville spies a ripe pear tree that hasn't yet been raided. He picks a couple and we share them as we ponder the motives of the person who first discovered milk from a cow, who it was that arranged the letters of the alphabet and why they decided on that order. We also question why kamikaze pilots wear helmets. But my heart is never really in the conversation.

When we turn into our street, I find myself slipping in behind Neville, expecting a cavalry of dark and daunting vehicles to be parked at jagged angles on my lawn, and people in suits and sunglasses waiting, pointing as they see me appear. Loud speakers. Planes. Shocked onlookers.

I'm safe, but I feel no relief. If anything, it swallows my unease to compound. It adds freight to the weight. "Stop staring at my arse, pervert!" Neville says, and I absentmindedly move back to his side.

Our street is a little busier than when we left it. In the cooler evening air, neighbours chat over fences, watering their gardens with hoses and watering cans. Toddlers stagger about in the nude, and older kids squeal and zip around beneath sprinklers in their underwear. Dinner smells seep out of front doors. You can hear the babbling of evening television, parental censure and laughter.

Augusta Longbottom is out front, working at her garden with care. She grows various odd fruits and vegetables out the back, but out here is a neat and perfect presentation of colour. The Longbottom front yard is like Wiltshire's own Botanical Garden. It's easily the most impressive scene on the street. Neville says his grandmother orders seeds and saplings from all over the world, and she has a logbook for how and when each should be set in soil. Augusta has her land planned with the precision of a symphony. There's a year round flush of gorgeous hues, even through the cold British winter, but in spring it explodes like a frozen firecracker. And Augusta is always there, coaxing and summoning its blooms like a conductor.

Most residents plan their evening strolls around Augusta's eruption of colour. They like to point and pick out the wisterias, the wild poppies, the jasmine, the roses. They like to wonder aloud what some of the more exotic plants could be, and then marvel at the selection and scent. But, of course, all I can ever see is the shifting constellations of insects that hover above the petal blooms, and I stay as far away as I can. I'm deathly afraid of them. Bees. Wasps. Hornets. Anything that flies or crawls or hops or stings. My mother is especially entertained by my phobia, but Neville is the worst. One of his favourite jokes in the world is to warn me that there is a bee on my back, or a spider on my shoulder. He pauses, wide eyed, and says Don't move, like I'm about to tread on a landmine. It gets me every time.

One day I might be able to survey Augusta Longbottom's beautiful garden up close for what it is without my skin crawling at the terrifying hum of a million poison-tipped assassins. But for now, my most comfortable vantage point is where I'm standing: outside my house. Neville hoists his bag further up onto his back. I peel off onto my lawn.

"I'd ask you around for dinner, but I don't really like you," I say.

"I'd rather lick my own arse than dine with your kind."

"Rubbish," I say. "You'd rather lick your own arse because you like it."

Neville laughs before retorting, "It tastes better than your mum's cooking!"

"Touché," I laugh.

Neville turns to go, but spins back around, grinning. "Hey Hermione?"

"What?"

"What's the hardest thing about liking Catwoman?"

I close my eyes and sigh. "I don't know. What?"

"Telling your parents you're queer!" Of course, he dies laughing.

"You're an idiot. That doesn't even make sense."

"You're an idiot. That was hilarious."

"I'm not the one licking my own arse."

"If you had this arse, you would." And Neville's shadowboxing recommences as he wanders away.

"Bye, Muhammad."

"Because they yarrrr, Grangarrrr, Because they yarrrrr!"

Neville skips home. As he arrives, Augusta stands abruptly and jabs her secateurs in his direction, yelling something stern and fierce. Neville stands bolt still. It looks like he's in shit. I watched him duck his head and mooch inside. I do the same.

During dinner, I try to sound my parents out about any news, but they don't offer up anything. Afterwards, I take my coffee straight up to my room. I'm not in the mood for television or chitchat. My dad asks if anything is wrong, and I just shrug and say I feel like reading. I set down my brew and open my window. I peer out of it for some time, hoping to see Draco Malfoy waiting in our backyard. He's not there. I try to read, but I can't concentrate. I discard Huckleberry Finn on my nightstand and use a dirty shirt to wipe the sweat from my face. And I think about this time last night. It seems a world away. It's like I used to inhabit some other dimension, some other body. Restless, I pull out an old brown suitcase from beneath my bed and unlock it. I take from it my yellow writing pad. I tuck myself into my desk, full of promise. Ready to spin the black silk. And I need it. The urge is urgent. I need to spill some of this over. I need to tell some of my secrets. But my quill will won't cooperate. It is dry and useless. I stare at the page.

I think I hear something. I leap onto my bed, squint through the window. I hiss Draco's name. Nothing. So I sit back down. I try to write again. Still nothing. The strange thing is, I'm boiling over with words, they're like a swarm in my head. I just can't order them. They swirl and dip like insidious insects, haunting and noisy and nonsensical. I sigh and toss my quill aside. I rest my cheek on my palm.

I need to see Draco Malfoy. And soon. It's not right having all of this to myself. Pansy Parkinson is dead. And we buried her. In a dam. We tied her lifeless body to a stone. We did that.

And until I see Draco Malfoy again, I can't even begin to try to make sense of it. I can't hope to get to the root of things. I need to talk to him about the likelihoods and contingencies and strategies that are bubbling and spitting in my head and my belly. It's like I've started to read a tragic book from the last page, and I need to try to fill in the gaps, to write what came before. But I can't. Not without the Draco. Not without the truth. There's just too much. I don't know. I frown suddenly and clutched my stomach. I burst out of my room and smother our toilet. I kneel and spew something foul and molten. And there is a moth. Right there. On the ceiling. Huge. As big as a bird. Do they bite? I close my eyes and pretend it's not there.

What do we do if somebody actually comes forward with information? It's unlikely, but what if somebody really were aiming to set Draco up? What if they said they saw what we did? What if Mad Marius Stygian contacts the Ministry? What if he tells everyone where Pansy is and she's not there? What happens to us? How much trouble would we be in? Would Draco keep his promise? Would I be safe?

The moth applauds the light globe above me, casting strange and distorted shadows. It is enormous. It is a giant moth. It probably has fangs. It could eat a rat in a single gulp. There are centipedes in the Amazon that eat bats. They hang from the ceilings of caves and snatch them as they fly by. I grit my teeth and turn away. More acid jets out of me. And why hasn't anything been reported yet? Aren't the Parkinson's worried? She is the daughter of a high ranking Ministry employee. Where are the search teams and the reporters? I palm my forehead. It's this hot tension that I can't stand, this sleeping giant. The ticking bomb.

I retreat back to my bedroom. I checked the window for the second time. I quickly drink the cup of coffee and it gives me a little bit of a buzz. I try Huckleberry Finn again, forcing myself to follow the words. I find myself intermittently glancing out of the window.

I remember a quote my father always used to tell me before I set off for a school year. It's from Mark Twain. Courage is resistance to fear. It is the mastery of fear. Not the absence of fear. My head tilts. Exactly. That's what I wanted to say to Neville about Superman. I wish he were here. I would wave that quote around like a red flag. I understand over those words. Maybe my father was right. Mark Twain has something smart to say about everything.

I shift to my desk and write those words down. Then I write around them. And under them. Shielding my words with my cupped palm. The same as I used to do in school during exams. And I keep going. See, I think it's harder for me to get brave. It's harder for me to suck it in and square up and bunch my fists. I think the less meat you've got on you, the more you know. The more you're capable of being beaten. The more it sets you back. The lower your weight division, the more often you are swinging up. I think the more you have to defend, the harder it is to press forward without looking back. I would have Superman's fearless swagger if I couldn't get hurt. But instead, I've got the Hermione Granger slouch because I bruise like a peach and I'm afraid of insects. And I don't know how to fight. Not without magic, anyway.

Does that mean it's easier for Draco Malfoy than me? But what about Neville Longbottom? I don't know. Maybe he's the brightest out of all of us. My scribbling is interrupted.

"Jesus Christ, Hermione Granger! What have you been eating?" My mother had just walked into the toilet. I smile to myself. I have a dozen wisecracks about her cooking tickling the tip of my tongue. But each one would be a death sentence. I keep writing. It is aimless and fruitless, but it feels good. Like I've loosened a valve. Like I've shed some of this stress.

It's late when I ease up, exhausted. The house is cool and quiet. I slip into bed and check the window again. I whisper Draco Malfoy's name to the space I where want him to be. And I give my eyes more than enough time to adjust. Nothing. I sigh.

I clear up my desk. I lay my yellow writing bad. Back in its case. Before I snap the combination lock, I flick through the thin pages on my filled pads. I just touch the grooves and ridges. Right at the bottom, a thick brown paper package makes me smile. I untie the red string and sift through the bundle of pages.

Last winter, Neville and I spent rainy days writing a novel together. It was an exciting way for him to take a break from all of his Herbology-Professor-In-Training studies. The story was a penny adventure that quickly spiralled out of control through no fault of my own. I would sit with the pad in my lap while Neville Longbottom paced in front of the fire. One arm behind his back. Gesturing with an empty pipe, garrulously proposing wild ideas. The plot had more twists than a hurricane. Neville took care of the action and intrigue, mostly in the form of Kung Fu battles and hot pursuits. It was my responsibility to concoct an actual story, which Neville dubbed The Girly Stuff, around these sequences. I was also dubbed Minister of Witty Dialogue.

Our fast-paced adventure involved a jaded ex-cop from Patagonia called Truth McJustice, who quit the police force after his wife mysteriously disappeared. Abandoning his impeccable crime-fighting profession, McJustice buried himself in his first love: archaeology.

What followed was a series of barely believable plot developments, with Truth discovering the Holy Grail, Dolores Umbridge masquerading as a furious faux-Pope after abducting the real one, and Truth's missing wife emerging as a brainwashed assassin called Ivana Knockyourheadov, hired to execute him and retrieve the artefact.

Of course, the story ended in a flurry of martial arts in the Vatican. Truth was tearfully reunited with his wife, while Umbridge was executed via hanging in St Peter's Square.

I didn't really agree with lynching Umbridge, but Neville said we had to in order for the story's title, Pope on a Rope, to work. I was more in favour of Truth Will Set You Free. In the end, we agreed to mash them together and make my suggestion a subtitle.

After we decided on a fitting nom de plume, Clifford J. Brunhart, Neville wrapped up our manuscript in brown paper and concluded that therein lay the Great British Novel.

"But how can it be, really?" I argued. "It's not even set in Britain. And besides, to be honest, the coincidences seem a little outrageous. Our critics will lambaste us."

Neville's head snapped back as he groaned. "Hermione. You are officially a Luddite. There will be no lambasting. You know nothing about literature. You need to understand that the truth is stranger than fiction. Listen. People are willing to swallow any old tripe as long as you say it without flinching. They want to be told stuff. And they don't want to doubt it, either. It is too hard. So if you say it like you really mean it to be true, then you're away. Conviction. You could do with some. Look at Dickens. He got away with murder! And don't get me started on Jesus Christ and all that zombie resurrection bullshit. Now there's a twisted ending that's hard to sell. He's dead! He's dead! Oh, no, wait, who is that crawling out from behind that rock? No, it couldn't be. Oh wait, yes, he's alive. Hello Zombie Jesus, he is back."

"With respect, that seems a little cynical."

"It's not cynical if it's factitious."

"Factitious makes no sense. It's not even a real word." Neville prodded his pipe in my direction. "Hermione, the problem with you is that you're not worth a damn. Now, if you'll kindly refrain from slowing my progress with your impertinence, I will remind you that Clifford J. Brunhart is always right. End of story."

And it was. Pope on a Rope has since been stashed in my suitcase, and although its merits have often been discussed, it hasn't been read again. I doubt it's my gateway to being a published author, but I do know that one day I'm going to work on something big and significant. I'm going to stun this know-nothing town. And I'll be Manhattan-bound with a book bearing my name.

I've often wondered if my father has been working towards the same thing in his library. I have long suspected him of secretly writing something in there. He steals away most nights and stays up for hours. Sometimes he falls asleep at his desk. He's got to be working on something. I wonder what it's about. I wonder if he's close to finishing. I wonder how long it is. How many pages? How many words? It's been years since he's first started going in there. Always locking the door behind him. Which I never understood. I mean, my mother hasn't stepped into that room in eight years. See, my dad's library used to be a second bedroom, painted blue and decorated for the arrival of my younger brother. He died just before he was born. It almost cost my mother her life and stole her chance to ever try again.

Still, it's strange to think of me and my father both scrawling clandestinely through the night. Scribbling lies and secrets from under the same roof. I wonder, if I told him about my writing, would he talk to me about his? Would he let me read some of it? I carefully close my suitcase and lock it. I slide it underneath my bed. Then I cup my temples and look out the window for the last time. I'm on my own tonight.

I turn and lean back on my pillow. I look down at my chest and stomach. Frowning at my stick arms and my ladder of ribs. My lip curls. I spill onto the floor and embark on a set of pushups, full of resolve. I make it to ten before I almost fall into a coma.

Back on my bed, sucking in air, I tuck my hands beneath my head and think about Draco Malfoy. It seems almost ridiculous, but I can smell him. I close my eyes. I should have talked to him more. I should have crossed that clearing afterwards. After his best friend sank into the murky depths of that waterhole. And I should have told him all of the right words. I want to see him in a way that almost hurts. I wonder what is unfolding at his house right now. At Malfoy Manor, or whatever is left of it. Is he asleep or is he awake and frantic?

I imagine Pansy Parkinson's parents speculating and supposing. Panicking. They must have involved the authorities by now. The people whose job it is to locate the missing. They're probably over there right now. Dozens of specialists. Experienced aurors. Maybe Harry is there, helping. They probably have maps and blackboards and switchboards on trestle tables. They're getting organised. Drinking black coffee. They're talking fast and loud. Putting out their cigarettes dramatically. Collars pulled, ties loosened and wands at the ready. Important investigations of a trail of crumbs and hot leads that will take them directly to me and Draco Malfoy.

This dread is lousy. When it hits, it's like someone has turned the dial that controls gravity. Everything seems hard and cold and fast. It winds you. It is that same feeling, that same sad panic you confront when you can't sleep. When your mind wanders. When you remind yourself for no reason at all that you're going to die one day. That you will end. You will be buried and forgotten about. And everything and everyone you know and remember and love will be void.

And in that act of knowing, something rushes inward and twists at your heart and you can't breathe right. The knowing, it is a cold kiln for this brick of worry. It is stuck firm. It is not going anywhere. And you come to understand that a century from now, everyone presently in Wiltshire, in Britain, in the world, every parent, every child, every animal will most likely have died. It's a weird and unspeakably sad feeling that leaves you hollow and heavy.

That is what I am so beset by. That's what Draco Malfoy has led me to. And so I roll onto my side and I think about him. I recall his scent. And my dread spreads and bursts into butterflies and I think about how soft his lips look. And how it might be to press mine against them. How it might be to say things into his ear that might make him smile slightly. That would settle his frantic heart and have it beating like the sure tick of a clock. How it might be if he were to encircle my waist with his arms. Tight. How warm he might be. I shudder.