Hedwig went away. It was a while ago, a little over a month, and I miss her a lot. Just a week after school got out, I opened her cage and watched her fly out into the night sky. She never came back. No other owls came, either. I think they're afraid of me. In ways, she was really the only one who understood me. A good friend. And in a time when I had no friends whatsoever, she was dearly missed. But strange things happened after she went away, too. Not magic things, but strange things. Things that scare me and excite me and intrigue me all at the same time. Someone is looking for me. I don't know who they are. They never show up in person. They just send notes, cards, invitations, letters. They invite me to gorgings, to bloodings, to feasts and midnight picnics. They say they're thrilled that I'm one of them. They think that Harry Potter is going to change the way they're thought of. I think they're vampires. And I think I'm one too. I don't know much about vampirism. We covered it in defense class, but I wasn't paying much attention. I never expected to meet a vampire, much less find one underneath my own skin. How did this happen? Was it curable? Was it something you could just ignore? No, it was not something you could just ignore. My stomach told me as much. I was getting hungrier by the day. I could feel my insides twisting like writhing snakes, the blood hunger settling in like a cancer. But I did not want to eat. Because I do know that vampires can only drink from people. I don't want to be a killer. I know what I have to do. The Dursleys are out. Shopping for formal wear. A big party tonight, I think. It gives me the time I need. I walk into the bathroom, and notice that my reflection is gone again. It does that on and off. At least no one has noticed yet. It may be a problem when I get to Hogwarts and have four roommates at my back all the time. My stomach did another flip. Hogwarts. I'd have to be expelled, I know. All the more reason to do this. A razor had found it's way into my hand. I exhaled slowly, pressed down, and tore it across the tender skin of my wrist. I gasp as the pain causes my hand to spasm, before a river of blood oozes down my open palm and drips onto the floor. I stare at the wound, hoping to die. The wound closes up. My eyes widen. And then I start to laugh. How do you kill the undead? My laughter rings off the tiled walls as I press my wrist to my lips and lap off the blood with a certain eagerness. It's warm and sticky and salty, and sits nicely in my stomach. But it isn't enough. And it isn't the kind of blood I want. I want someone else's. I sigh as I take out a washcloth from the cupboard by the sink. I'd have to clean up the blood before the Dursleys got home, or there'd be hell to pay. I don't know how much longer I can take this.