So this was Hermione Granger. What do you dream of, little witch? On closer inspection of her petite curled up form and her folded arm, hidden under the curtain of brown locks of hair she reminded him of the Flaming June painting. Rosy cheeks, cupid’s bow lip, relaxed eyebrows in her slumber state. He had the urge to lash out and rip her unblemished skin to ribbons. No. It wasn’t so. There were freckles sprinkled all over her nose, cascading down her cheekbones. He abhorred freckles, they were an imperfection. Good. That should distract him from his acute need of destroying pretty things. Just a girl, a person, oblivious to evil. A perfect vessel to manipulate. He just had to attach the strings and turn her into his puppet. 