Her, too. She must have sensed it, because her mind was identical—fear of pain, fear of death. A grim, pleased feeling at the misery of others. A sense, cultivated since childhood, that there was something deeply and desperately wrong with both of them, that others were not the same. A deep, unslakable need to  know  things. The sensation of otherness, wrongness, like a splinter in skin, keeping a thin barrier between themselves and other people. Neither muggles nor wizards would accept them, and was that truly their fault? No, they had both decided, it was  others" fault for not recognizing the brilliance. For not appreciating their minds. Their talent. Their strength. 