DISCLAIMER: I own nuttin' but the plot.

A/N: Good luck.

LIFE IS A BITCH.

AND DEATH IS HER SISTER.

-lil Wayne

It tugs at my very heartstrings. Like a fistful of rusty fishhooks embedded deep inside the fibers. Rusted but for the length of time they've been there.

Bella darling, your future…

What of it?

Do you ever think on it? Where the choices you'll make will lead you?

Cissy had looked at me with what I could only call concern. Whether or not it was genuine at the time remains up for debate.

My blasted sister is a viper lying in wait; beautiful on the outside yet still so full of poison.

And her wretched husband! Though she may be a snake, he is but a worm. Spineless. An invertebrate crawling on its stomach through the muck.

I have chosen my path, dear sister. The Dark Lord's side is where I belong. I will be his most trusted. His last, best lieutenant.

The future will destroy you Bellatrix. It will be your undoing.

I would've said the same to her husband.

Now I lie in a state of limbo. Trapped in the in-between.

At first it feels like a pseudo consciousness; like when you first plunge your head beneath the water. Everything is refracted and fuzzy. The surface and it's life giving air a just within your grasp, but if you were to breathe in deep, it'd be your last.

NOT MY DAUGHTER YOU BITCH!

I'm dead.

Been dead.

Dead.

Cut down by that ginger pig and the legion of mudbloodmongers.

The Dark Lord…what a crock. He was a sham. His arrogance ultimately destroyed us all. And I was too bloody arrogant to see it. Blinded by my own self-fulfilling prophecies.

There's nothing I can do. Not from where I am.

I watch the world rot more than it had when I was alive! A weeping and festering pustule in the ass of the universe.

And I can do nothing but watch. Resurrected, but trapped in a cage.

Doomed to move through the recesses of the mind of the person that I both hate and adore. Witnessing their greatest fears...and their most twisted desires. Both often involving me.

Everyday I learn something new.

The Dark Lord had once spoken of this. Never to fear dying.

Death is not the end, nor is it the beginning...

Oh what a tired cliché.

I am trapped.

I can't speak to her.

I can't defeat her.

Nothing can.

I envy her. She is a part of me, and I'm so touched by her goodness. She makes me feel whole.

And the best part of all…I am a part of her…

But...perhaps I am speaking in circles…allow me to start over.

Hermione has a tumor.

Always fitting to start off with a bang, yes?

Hermione Jean Granger has a tumor.

We often stop and tell each other stories to pass the time. There's something you should know, though you've probably already deduced it for yourself, this isn't a run-of-the-mill illness our heroine suffers from.

She's got a parasite living inside her.

She reminds me of myself when I was her age. Ambitious. Bright. Headstrong. And so easily fooled by a man with a mere shred of charisma.

But this isn't about me...it's about us...the connection we share. If I explain where I am at this moment it couldn't possibly make sense…but I digress.

A tumor the size of a sickle right is nestled upon a small patch of her frontal lobe. It had been growing for some time.

Such is what happens when one is exposed to the brilliantly dark magic of horcruxes for oh so long. Poor little creature.

Muggles, I have learned in my post-life, would call something like this radiation. A force that permeates skin like water and slowly rips apart the very fabric that makes us all human…such a delicious torture I wish I'd thought of it first.

Radiation. A fitting analogy to describe Ms. Granger's plight. Months on the lam with her two best friends, on a quest to methodically destroy magical objects of evil. Conclude with a classic battle between good and evil. Epic proportions. Explosions. Death. Wanton destruction. Granger fights like a seasoned veteran along with the rest.

I should know…I was there. I dueled the girl and her two piggish friends myself before…

NOT MY DAUGHTER YOU BITCH!

And I was sublimated. Molecules scattered to the air.

Victory!

With the Dark Lord vanquished all surely seemed right with the world. Potter survived. The Weasel was fine. Her nearest and dearest were (for the most part) unscathed. A deluge of adulation was rained upon them.

Then a few days later, during a press conference with that vulture Rita Skeeter, Hermione had a headache. (Just a minor nuisance, quickly remedied with the appropriate potion.)

However with time…the headaches became migraines. Night after night.

And once at St. Mungo's she learned the horrible truth: a tumor.

Her muggleborn blood doomed her to a life of weakness against the Dark Arts.

Immunity is imparted from parent to child and Mr. and Mrs. Granger sadly lacked the magical antibodies. Further emphasizing the inadequacy of muggleborns, but I suppose it cannot be helped. I'll admit I have wizened a bit in my…age. Trying to let go of some prejudices…

Now this all might sound a little foolish, a simple detail that a witch as bright as Hermione would surely take into consideration. But love and devotion makes fools of us all. Harry and Ron, with their more…fortified blood, would go on to lead (relatively) normal lives.

And an inoperable tumor was discovered mere days after Hermione's 25th birthday party, where she fainted from a particularly intense migraine triggered by a toast from the bloated whale, Molly Weasley.

In fact her head ached quite terribly whenever she was in the presence of the Weasley matriarch; which was most troublesome considering her intimate relationship with Ron.

The migraines never stopped, and the St. Mungo's healers never helped.

Muggle doctors, however, so trigger happy with their ballpoint pens and paper pads…were more than willing to prescribe…

TBC