They're so stupid. One of my master's people was present that day, but he was caught, the stupid fool. I was not. It's so easy to underestimate me. I admit, I play into that role. Playing at weak, playing at stupid, foolish, cowardly. But then that one day, my real weakness caught up with me. I didn't want to die, so I gave in. But you see, I started to hate them, my friends, just as much as I hated my master and the people that flocked to him.

Why did no one ever question how someone so obviously a coward, a hanger-on, could have got into Gryffindor? But I digress. I began to hate them, because they would have died for me, but I would not for them, and they were unable to save me, unable to see what was happening under their very noses. That very superiority burned in my breast, ate away at my stomach. All that I had done, strived for, was turned against me in that one moment. I had sought so hard to be beneath notice, and in the end it was for nothing.

And so I was there, to overhear. A prophecy that struck me to the heart. Finally something I could work with. Something I could use to not only strike back at my so-called friends, but at the man who enslaved me. Such a simple prophecy, and so deliciously ironic. Who would have ever thought? That bitch is almost ready to deliver her whelp. His whelp. Both of them ready to spawn more mewling brats into the world.

I suppose I should record it. After all, I want to remember this forever.

The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. . . . Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies. . . . And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not. . . . And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives. . . . The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies. . . .