But for all that, she had never feared him. His antagonism with the Gryffindors, his rivalry with Harry, had always seemed so schoolboyish, so petty in comparison with their conflicts with real-life evildoers like Quirrell and Lucius Malfoy and Rita Skeeter and Voldemort. Perhaps she had never stopped thinking of him as that eleven-year-old boy they had first met on the train almost six years ago and, no matter how nasty he was, it was hard to fear an eleven-year-old boy. Besides, Malfoy had never focused that anger and cruelty on her, not really. They weren't nemeses, like Harry and Malfoy or even Ron and Malfoy.
Certainly, he occasionally called her a mudblood or a Know-It-All—though even her best friends barely refrained from the latter—or sneered at her wild hair. But, as unpleasant as it may have been, it never really felt like it was about her; it always seemed like he was trying to get a rise out of Harry or Ron.
He had never particularly extended this hatred to Hermoine, muggleborn though she was. When she encountered him in the hallways or in Ancient Runes—the one class they shared without Harry and Ron—his hassling was dramatically toned down: He was practically indifferent, as far as blood feuds went. Perhaps he had no feelings for her one way or the other about her outside of her role as Harry and Ron's friend, or perhaps he thought she was unworthy of his attention, too muggle and common to be a threat. Perhaps he focused his anger on Harry and Ron because they should have been on his side, Harry for his power and fame, Ron for his ancient and pure bloodline.
Malfoy had even offered Harry his friendship, once upon a time. They had rejected him, betrayed what he stood for. Hermione was never meant to be on that side, wouldn't have been welcome even if she wanted to join, and so she was just a run-of-the-mill muggleborn. That slap in third year had been the only time she felt that they were well and truly enemies. She had never hit anyone in her life before that day, and she hadn't since.
She was not a violent person by nature, preferring to think, to intellectualize things until the sting was gone— What does it matter if Malfoy calls me a mudblood, she remembered thinking in second year, Mud may have negative connotations, but it's really just earth. Besides, we're all made of Carbon She had emotions of course, and a temper to go along with them, as Ron could attest, but this took serious provocation.
But Malfoy was being so cruel that day, mocking Hagrid at his lowest. Besides, she had had so little sleep for almost an entire year, and she had spent so much time alone, fighting with Harry and Ron over that blasted Firebolt, that she had just snapped. And, she was ashamed to admit it, a large part of her anger and frustration had stemmed from the fact that Malfoy had gotten a whole five points better than her on their last Ancient Runes essay.1000yrs.net/includes/vermillion/dating-templates.php
The Tell-Tale Heart
She had always beaten his marks, even in Potions, where he was Snape's favourite, maybe not by much, but enough to satisfy her pride. But amid all the stress of that year, the tumult of a life scrambled up by the Time-Turner, she had slipped, and suddenly Professor Babbling was congratulating Malfoy for being so clever, and Hermione was left feeling stupid and useless. So she had no choice but to target him when he had only half-heartedly targeted her. But despite the murder in his eyes, she hadn't been afraid of him, feeling so tall and mighty next to his slight—what people generously called "aristocratic"—figure.
His attempts at revenge had been petty: So when, during their sixth year, Harry had grown increasingly paranoid about Malfoy, sure that Malfoy harboured a Dark Mark and was behind the attacks on Angelina and Ron, Hermoine hadn't believed it. How, Hermione had asked herself, could such a snivelling, cowardly little boy, whom she herself had physically dominated, be a serious threat? But then in her sixth year, one day near the end of term, Hermione ducked into the second floor girls' bathroom and got her answer. She generally avoided the second floor girls' lavatory as a rule; Moaning Myrtle had never been fond of her, ever since those ill-fated comments she made at Nick's Death Day Party.
Whenever she tried to use the facilities, Myrtle would hassle her endlessly, flying in and out of the stall and making alternatively teasing and tearful comments. It was a very unpleasant process, but sometimes a girl, through various circumstances and no fault of her own, was not able to make it to the safety of the first floor bathroom, but was forced to submit to such a fate.
She opened the lavatory door with a flourish, never one to let fear diminish her Gryffindor spirit, but immediately stopped short. The room was dark; one of Myrtle's tantrums must have knocked out most of the lights. Through the dim lighting, she noticed a figure sitting on the floor next to the sinks—it must have been very near the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets, though she couldn't be sure, having been petrified at the time. Moaning Myrtle hovered next to the figure, making sympathetic cooing noises.
Hermione thought she could hear crying, a low, desperate cry unlike Myrtle's gushing, over-the-top sobs. It reminded her of herself, crying in the girls' bathroom in her first year, feeling so alone and unloved and missing her parents fiercely. Though the prejudice against muggleborns had not been so explicit back then, at least not among the first years, she had felt instinctively unwelcome in that strange, archaic place.
Perhaps unconsciously, she had gone over the top, trying to compensate for her ignorance of the magical world, full of bizarre rules and strange subjects so unlike the ones at her primary school. But then Harry and Ron saved her from that troll and she became a part of something so very wonderful, accepted and valued and called the cleverest witch of her age.
Filled with these bittersweet memories, she thought about turning back to give whoever it was some privacy, but at that moment, the crying stopped. Myrtle looked up at her and began to shriek, "Get out of here, you dreadful girl! Can't you see he's upset enough as it is! He doesn't need to see your ugly cat-face, not when he's under so much pressure! Hermione just caught a hint of blonde hair from behind the shadow of the sink.
Myrtle fell silent as Draco Malfoy lifted his head. His cheeks were damp, that much she could tell in this half-light, but his expression was hard. He stood up quickly and gracefully.
Beneath the Floorboards, a harry potter fanfic | FanFiction
While he had seemed such a pitiful figure a moment before, he suddenly struck her as very tall and grown up and beyond her reach. For the first time, she wondered if Harry's suspicions were true. Could he be a Death Eater? But his still-red eyes betrayed the vulnerability from before and made her doubt. But before that word could pass her lips and make this strange, terribly moving moment real, Malfoy had his wand pointed at her and was shouting " Crucio!
It happened before she could think. Perhaps Harry, with those Seeker reflexes he and Malfoy shared, would have been able to cast a counter-curse or a Protego or at the very least would have managed to duck. She heard echoes of Harry's voice, Are you a witch or aren't you? But Hermione had never been quick on her feet or with her wand, oh, answers for class were different, simple memorization, purely theoretical, nothing like the smouldering red light that enveloped her—.
She numbly felt the cold tile beneath her body. A ghost harped faintly in the background. A boy stood over her, or was he a man? She recognized him, but she did not know him. She looked up into his cool grey eyes, which burned sharply through the haze of her mind.
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- Young mum injured after floorboards in council flat collapse beneath her.
She felt very cold and afraid, beneath that flinty gaze. He was Malfoy, she thought, but the name didn't mean much to her. She opened her mouth and croaked out, "Crying? The doctor is sending me for an x-ray and I was prescribed painkillers and steroid cream. The single mum is adamant she cannot move her family back into the two-bedroom flat, even if repairs are carried out, because of the injuries she suffered.
She is calling on the council to assign her a property in Waltham Forest which in not in need of repair and does not have hygiene issues. There were mushrooms growing up through the carpet in my bedroom and in the hallway and the walls were damp. Cllr Louise Mitchell, cabinet member for housing, said: We are making arrangements to transfer the resident to alternative accommodation so that this can be addressed.
Teenage mum may have lain beneath floorboards of Handsworth house for up to two weeks
Young mum injured after floorboards in council flat collapse beneath her Call me on The narrator then dismembers the body and conceals the pieces under the floorboards, and ensures the concealment of all signs of the crime. Even so, the old man's scream during the night causes a neighbor to report to the police, who the narrator invites in to look around. The narrator claims that the scream heard was the narrator's own in a nightmare and that the man is absent in the country. Confident that they will not find any evidence of the murder, the narrator brings chairs for them and they sit in the old man's room, on the very spot where the body is concealed, and suspect nothing, as the narrator has a pleasant and easy manner.
The narrator begins to feel uncomfortable and notices a ringing in their ears. As the ringing grows louder, the narrator comes to the conclusion that it is the heartbeat of the old man coming from under the floorboards. The sound increases steadily, though the officers seem to pay no attention to it. Terrified by the violent beating of the heart, and convinced that the officers are aware not only of the heartbeat but also of the narrator's guilt, the narrator breaks down and confesses, telling them to tear up the floorboards to reveal the remains of the old man's body.
A Literary and Critical Magazine , a short-lived Boston magazine edited by James Russell Lowell and Robert Carter who were listed as the "proprietors" on the front cover. This edition omitted Longfellow's poem because Poe believed it was plagiarized. The exactness with which the narrator recounts murdering the old man, as if the stealthy way in which they executed the crime were evidence of their sanity, reveals their monomania and paranoia.
The focus of the story is the perverse scheme to commit the perfect crime. The narrator of "The Tell-Tale Heart" is generally assumed to be male. However, some critics have suggested a woman may be narrating; no pronouns are used to clarify one way or the other. The story opens with a conversation already in progress between the narrator and another person who is not identified in any way.
It has been speculated that the narrator is confessing to a prison warden, a judge, a reporter, a doctor or anachronistically a psychiatrist. The story is driven not by the narrator's insistence upon their "innocence", but by their insistence on their sanity. This, however, is self-destructive, because in attempting to prove their sanity they fully admit that they are guilty of murder. Passion there was none. Despite this, they say, the idea of murder "haunted me day and night. The story's final scene shows the result of the narrator's feelings of guilt.
Like many characters in Gothic fiction , they allow their nerves to dictate their nature. Despite their best efforts at defending themself, their "over acuteness of the senses", which help them hear the heart beating beneath the floorboards, is evidence that they are truly mad.
The narrator claims to have a disease that causes hypersensitivity. If their condition is believed to be true, what they hear at the end of the story may not be the old man's heart, but deathwatch beetles. The narrator first admits to hearing beetles in the wall after startling the old man from his sleep.
According to superstition, deathwatch beetles are a sign of impending death. One variety of deathwatch beetle raps its head against surfaces, presumably as part of a mating ritual, while others emit ticking sounds. Alternatively, if the beating is really a product of the narrator's imagination, it is that uncontrolled imagination that leads to their own destruction.
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