A/N: I have no excuses for this story. Just a thirst for writing and plot bunnies.

Warning: strong language and mature situations ahead. If you're a fan of dark humour, you'll be at home. As usual, this is going to be disturbing.

Hope you enjoy!

I'm alive again.

Not in the body I wanted, not at all in the mind given to me by divine graces. I'm a wreck, but a living one. To be honest, I don' look so bad, either. Yes, my pale complexion is sickly, and those green eyes never cease to unnerve me, but hey, the rest of me is fine.

If my language startles you, it's because I needed to become a hybrid in order to fit in.

After all, realistically, there is little chance of impersonating Harry Potter without adopting...his quotidian ways, so to speak. I'm doing fine so far, judging by outside reactions.

It has been almost a year and people think I, well, Harry must still be tormented by past events and is unable to fully integrate in society. I'm left alone when I don't want to communicate or when I reject help, because, after all, these things take time and I'm broken.

This all works to my advantage with strangers.

It's harder with his friends. But Lord Voldemort is nothing but resourceful. I've spent half my life in this stupid child's head. It's like coming home, really. And when I see myself slipping or not quite mimicking the reactions of a nineteen year-old boy, I turn a sad face and tell Weasley and Granger to leave.

I don't understand what Potter sees in these people. Weasley is a babbling idiot with some inferiority issues. Clearly the Pureblood was wasted on him. And Granger, well, without her intellect she is rather dull and motherly. Mudblood to boot.

She's more difficult to get rid of. Weasley can at least take a hint. But she will linger in the doorway and try to grab my hand and squeeze it. Revolting! I can't pull away, because she's shrewd, this one. So I wait for the physical contact to be over and plan awful, but effective ways in which to murder her once I gather enough strength.

Weasley's sister is a treat, however. She has remained besotted with Potter all throughout the years and I feel little dishonesty here, since she used to fancy Tom too. It's a bit ironic that I get to shag her.

How awful that people nowadays are so vulgar. Yet there is something refreshing in the notion that I'm just plain fucking Ginny Weasley. The first few nights were hard because I kept getting angry at her for her disobedience and just general incompetence. But then I could just flip her on her stomach and not have to see her ridiculous face. I got the job done quickly. Surely, she'd pit my sexual deviance on another war trauma. Afterwards I had to hold her and whisper sweet nothings in her hair, but I did that on a daily basis when she had my diary, so really, Harry Potter feels like my teenage years all over.

Life is sweet and mediocre, but I get to live another day and every minute counts. That is my new creed. Turn Harry Potter's worthless existence – which is now my existence – into something better. Immortality may be harder to achieve now, but not impossible. Were it not for the fact that Potter is stuck in my decomposing corpse, he would be thanking me for the great powers I will soon bestow on his meagre body.

My short-term plan has consisted of one goal, so far. I need to rehabilitate my knowledge of the Dark Arts. I've given up on the idea of Horcruxes. I'm not going to waste this second chance on that again. But I also need to quench my thirst for revenge and blood. It's becoming a bit of a problem. I have gone on some quick torture sprees, nothing fatal. A Muggle here, a Muggleborn there, but no one died. I don't know if these excursions will hold me out, since the drive to kill is strong.

And oddly, I feel like killing one of Harry's close friends. One of the Weasleys, or maybe Dean Thomas. I don't know why specifically Dean Thomas. Perhaps because whenever I happen to visit the Ministry he makes it his point to say hi and asks me for coffee, which I can't refuse because Harry Bloody Potter may be antisocial, but he can't say no to his Gryffindor pal. Then, it's never just he and I, since he's already called "all the boys", including such stalwart individuals like Seamus Finnigan, Denis Creevey and Ernie MacMillan. I have been forced to learn their names, which is reason enough to commit murder. Whatever happened to choosing sensible names for your child? Parents these days are quite eccentric.

In any case, if I don't kill someone soon, I might just tear my hair out. I've tried finding an occupation outside of my research into the Dark Arts, but nothing seems safe or good enough.

Granger has recommended I go back to teach at Hogwarts. It would be poetic justice if I finally took the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts. But that wretched school has many traps in store. I almost died there. I could be easily caught. It still irks me that I didn't manage to burn it down. Anyway, I don't want to repeat any of my mistakes. Hogwarts can kiss my arse, as I hear young people say nowadays.

The Ministry sounds like a better idea, but not by far. Potter is not qualified for anything more specific than Auror, and I don't know if I could control myself in such a job. No doubt I'd make more victims, than catch criminals.

But one of these days, I'll have to take up Gawain Robard's offer and take the Auror examination. I'm afraid I'd score a little too well and incite suspicion.

Meanwhile, I'm reading all day, making shitty potions in the lab which I conjured behind my kitchen. It would be magically better to have one installed, but I'm still non-committed on continuing with Potions.

Early into the discovery that I'm, in fact, Harry Potter, I also realized I'll have to relearn some things. Although I still possess my mind, I'm stuck with Potter's mediocre skills in some areas.

If this all sounds rather depressing...it is. But I am not one to complain. Whenever I am tempted by melancholy, I remember how much Potter must be hating me right now for taking his place. And I've also taken a liking to Fire Whiskey.

Soon, I'll be myself again.

It's Sunday, which means one dreadful thing only.

Dinner with the Weasleys.

Usually, if I'm nice and sad enough, Ginny will suck me off in the bathroom before dessert. She rarely does it, because she feels ashamed to be doing something so carnal under her mother's roof. But one nicely bandied word about my suffering and she will drop to her knees. As of late, she's been keying me up about a more committed relationship. So I can't say for how much longer this trick will work, but I will milk this cow until it dies.

This evening of all evenings, we are graced by Bill and his French wife. Whenever she visits, I test the waters to see if she's attracted to me and if she would perform certain things Ginny does not. But she's safely in love with her beast of a husband. Still, if Ginny won't suck me off, I might slip into the bathroom anyway and think of strangulating the quarter-Veila while I shove my -

My train of thought is interrupted. Granger has sat down next to me and is telling me some nonsense about a new case she's working on. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement is a dead end, as far as I'm concerned, but she feels very important there so I have to listen to her insignificant drama. This Sunday, it's about how hard it is to take her N.E.W.T.s and work full-time for the Ministry.

"I should've just finished my year at Hogwarts instead of trying to balance work and school, I know. Ron has been telling me the same thing."

Ron is stuffing his mouth with potatoes, but he nods absently.

"It's just that I thought I could rush things, you know? Maybe get promoted quicker?"

"Why do you want to be promoted so much? It just makes you more competitive," Ron points out with the tact of a troll. But he's right. Granger seems to be addicted to competition. Good. Let her go crazy.

"You should go for it, Hermione. I know you can do it. In three years, you'll be head of the department," I say with an earnest smile on my face. I hope she tears her eyes out when it doesn't happen.

Hermione smiles brightly and nudges me in the shoulder. "You always know what others will do. What about you? Got any premonition for yourself?"

Oh, sure. In about four hours I'll be out of here. Ginny is looking pissy tonight so no coming over. I'll probably Crucio some late subway travellers and maybe Imperio the sixteen year-old on my street to strip for me again while she inserts two fingers inside her cunt. After that I'll read a chapter from Bartholomew the Terrible's "Inquests" and practice some new spells if I haven't consumed my entire cabinet.

"Tonight, I predict I'll be watching TV on my couch. But maybe tomorrow, I'll drop by and see Robard."

I knew that would make her positively joyous. She pulls me into a tight hug. I have to control every muscle in my body not to push her off me and into the next century. She smells like oily parchment and stale tea. I'm going to be sick.

"Finally! I'm so glad you're giving the Auror position a try."

"I'm not saying I'll take it, just that I'll talk to him."

"Good enough for me," she said, flashing those crooked teeth of hers. I wish she knew who she's smiling at.

Molly Weasley, the fat bitch who killed one of my best soldiers, is lathering up my plate with more sausages and cream. At least she's good in the kitchen. Sometimes, when these dinners drive me to absolute mental exhaustion, I think that maybe she would've made a good Death Eater.

It's hard not to chuckle when I see George Weasley all by himself, still moping after his brother. Tonight he brought his girlfriend along, a black woman with full breasts. It's hard not to stare. I'm not that vulnerable to the female body, but lately I've been more and more dissatisfied with what Ginny and the rest have to offer. I suppose it's my craving for blood making me impatient. None of my followers ever understood why I'd chosen a sexless, deformed and sterile body for my return. Well, this is why.

Right before dessert, I slip away to the bathroom for my usual ritual, sans Ginny. I'm accosted in the hallway by Granger again.

"Look, if this is about the Auror position..."

But she has pushed me inside the bathroom and locked the door behind her. She's breathing hard. Something is off. I'm unwittingly excited. Has she discovered my secret? She can't prove anything. Will I have to kill her in this very bathroom? How would that know-it-all face look dead? I am itching for my wand already,

"I know this is sudden, but I had to talk to you...away from everyone. I need my best friend right now."

I'm almost disappointed. Still, alarm bells ring in my head because every time she or anyone else demands comfort and understanding from me, I take one step closer to the truth.

"Yeah, sure," I reply half-heartedly.

"Okay. I'm going to come out and say it. There's no other way to it. I think Ron is cheating on me."

For a moment, I'm not sure I grasp what she's saying. I lean against the sink and raise an eyebrow. Is she actually telling me her idiot boyfriend has found another skirt?

"Well, can't say I'm -" but I stop right there, because I was about to say shocked. "I can't say I'm not surprised..."

"I know I sound crazy. I'm like those paranoid women in old marriages. I know he loves me, in his own way. I think he's just bored. You know, ever since the War, he hasn't had much to do at the Ministry and the hero title is starting to wear thin. Maybe...God, maybe it was all just the euphoria of the victory and maybe sometimes he wishes he'd made different choices..."

She's rattling on about feelings and consequences I can't help but be slightly impressed with how rational and yet how absurd she is being about this entire situation. Time with Weasley and Granger has made me insightful enough to know they're a ticking bomb waiting to explode. She's talking to me like she already knows the facts but wants me to lie to her. It would be endearing if I didn't hate her so much.

"I'm sorry, I know it doesn't make sense. I have to trust him and believe it will work out. After all, we've been inseparable since childhood. Something as trivial as this can't really affect our relationship. But things are not falling into place and with the exam and the Ministry work, this is the last thing I need on my mind. You know? And I hate that I'm doing this in a bathroom, hiding from him. But I've been meaning to talk to you for a while now."

My usual reply to such speeches – and trust me, in the past year, she has expressed other doubts about Weasley, although none so incriminating – is "Sorry to hear that, you should talk to him about it."

If I said that now, she would realize I'm a broken record of the overused clichés.

"Why do you think he's cheating?"

"Well, two weeks ago, I was doing some quill shopping in Diagon Alley. Well, truth be told, I was hunting for Scrivenshaft's new set from Croatia."

Typical, I think with derision. Although, I also resent her for not letting me know Scrivenshaft's has new material. But why would she tell Harry Potter about quills?

"And I see Ron walking out of Whizz Hard Books. At first I thought he was buying me a book, for a special occasion. Then I saw him waving through the window at someone inside. So, I waited till he was gone and walked up to Whizz Hard Books and guess who is their new shop girl. Guess!"

I hated whenever she did this. She wasn't the only one expecting me to know Harry Potter trivia, but she was the most persistent.

"Well?" I ask impatiently.

"Lavender Brown, of course."

I have no blasted idea who this imbecile might be, so I just nod philosophically. "Thought so."

"Like I said, I'd hate to turn into that kind of girl, but the evidence is against him, you'll agree. Ron isn't overly fond of bookshops. And we both know their breakup wasn't mutual. Maybe residual feelings remained."

Ah, so Ron Weasley has an ex. There are miracles, after all.

"What do you think?"

I can see she's hoping for me to dispel her doubts, make her fall in love with her oafish sweetheart again. I won't do that. In fact, the more miserable Potter's friends are, the more they'll be self-absorbed enough to ignore me.

"I think he's not being entirely honest, then."

Granger pales. "Really?"

"Yeah. He could have told you he ran into...her. He didn't, did he?"

"No..." She chews on her lower lip and looks around the bathroom like she wants to flee, but I'm having fun.

"Ron's a great guy, but he shouldn't keep stuff from you."

She shakes her head. "Maybe he forgot to tell me."

"But when you saw him, was he waving in a friendly manner, or was it just an indifferent wave? Was he smiling?"

I can see the mounting pain in her eyes and I feel like dancing, really.

"I don't recall...he may have. He seemed in a good mood."

What I learned about Hermione Granger in the length of one year is that she is intelligent, for a Muggleborn, but also incredibly stupid, for a Muggleborn. This is easy to exploit. With other women, I'd jump directly at sexual manipulation, but with Granger, I can stop at her mind. Her sharp, foolish mind.

"Well, you can't really ask him what he was doing two weeks ago. That will seem odd."

Granger takes one step towards me. She obviously wants to lean her head on my shoulder or some such shit, but I sidestep her gracefully.

"What am I going to do? I'm good at winning arguments, but I can't negotiate with him like I'm in court. And he's grown so tired of my questioning of his daily routine. I've noticed."

"I guess...I guess your best solution is to follow him. He's my best friend, but that's what I'd do," I say with impressive conviction.

She blinks at me, still hoping I'll give her a way out.

I smile sympathetically.

"Chin up, Hermione. It might all be a misunderstanding."

But I've planted the seed of doubt. Soon, she and Ron will be too busy clawing at each other's eyes out to care about me.

"Thanks, Harry...I hope so too."

There's an awkward pause as I try to shift my way to the door.

"How are you and Ginny doing?"

"Fine."

"It doesn't seem fine to me. She seems upset with you."

"Yes, well, I don't think you're in a position to criticise someone else's relationship."

To my surprise, Granger cracks up at my sarcasm.

"Suppose you're right."

The peculiar bathroom conversation has left me with a bitter taste in my mouth. Maybe I should pay Lavender what's-her-name a visit and show her what Weasley can't. Sometimes I feel so defiled, invaded by other people's lives. Worse, I get involved in them; these petty, predictable stories that all end the same way. Call it morbid curiosity.

As I leave the Weasleys that evening, I know for sure I'm not going to kill tonight. I'm in the mood to watch someone kneel and beg me for release.

George Weasley is saying goodbye to his girlfriend. She's using a portkey to get back to London. I wonder if I can catch a ride with her.

"Of course, Harry."

I grin. She won't remember anything come morning.

Moments like these, being Harry Potter isn't half bad.