I couldn’t. I couldn’t just tell him. I couldn’t let him know that I, the Golden Girl, had been fantasizing about the bad man in my backyard. I couldn’t tell him the Dark Mark appeared in my dreams, as a phantom pale hand wrapped itself around my throat. I couldn’t tell him that when my fingers slipped under the band of my panties most nights, I ended up moaning his name in the moonlight. The name he wanted me to say so desperately: Draco. It was only for me to know, to hear, to do. 