What do you want me to say, Granger? That you are mine and I am yours? You are. I am. Let's not fuck around.

How do you want to die?

She had buttermilk-pale skin. The exhaustion was plain as pumpkin juice on her face. Her hair was lit from behind by the paling window, the red filaments mixed in with the brown flaring to life. She lurked in my periphery just like that—improbably, infuriatingly—and I could have sworn she was divine if I wasn't so sure she was a Mudblood.

"Relax, Granger. I wanted a smoke. Then I wanted another. What better place to light up than in Hermione Granger's non-smoking stairwell? There's a bit of poetic justice to that, isn't there?"

"Oh, don't be such a killjoy. Come on, just tell me. If you could die in a way of your own choosing, how do you want to do it? I'd like to die by a lake. At sunrise. In the winter, I think. Yes, in the winter, with two feet of snow all around me, and my fading breath clouding the air."

Now what summary could possibly top that title? Well alright, I suppose we should at least try. Here goes: in which two unpleasant characters have bad sex. But who are we kidding? You were going to click on it anyway, regardless of the summary. Are you still reading this? Really, now. That's enough of that. Go on, click on it. We promise not to judge you.

A-po-phen-ia (noun): The pursuit of the human mind to spontaneously construct meaning, order, and purpose from unrelated chaotic structures.

You see, all it takes is a bit of sacrifice. A little tit for tat. A bit of a 'you-help-me-and-I-help-you' sort of thing. And death isn't so difficult to conquer, after all.