I'm on the cusp of really losing it here. There is no one to talk to. I can't leave this dingy apartment for more than necessities. The books are out of date by half a century! I'm going to start pulling out my hair if things don't fall into place. The thing I'm about to do, it makes my skin clammy. It seems like a childish plan, and I've talked myself out of it nearly a million times. Still...love is the most destructive power in the world isn't it?
Hermione snapped shut the slim journal she had been keeping notes in for the last few months. It was good to write down her feelings, she had decided. There was no one she could safely talk to, and her plan to murder the most well guarded Dark Lord of modern history was starting to gnaw at her.
If Harry or Ron had been with her she wouldn't be such a neurotic mess. She had been two months completely unchecked in her scheming. It had been so long since she had been without someone to pull her from her own mind, and as the days drew closer to the initiation of her plan she was more manic than ever. Her hair looked like she stuck a fork in the light socket.
It was a shake of a plan, but she had never been good at planning murder. Sure people got hurt sometimes for the sake of her friends or the greater good, but out right killing was the line that was supposed to set them apart from the others. She was one of the good guys, and good guys faced all odds while keeping their morals intact while working toward the defeat of evil.
Real life was turning out to be much different.
Pacing the room helped her think, and there was a path in the carpet showing her usual circuit. She paced as she ticked off how the next day would have to go in order for her to succeed. There were so many unknown variables, and the actual acts she would need to complete would be detestable. Her teeth set to grinding.
To get anywhere near close enough to Lord Voldemort to kill him, she was going to have to do some terrible things. A glance over her shoulder at the grimy furniture piled high with spell crafting and potion materials, as well as the small desk with a bubbling cauldron, made her ill. She was about to go rouge.
She hoped that she could sleep, but the smell of the potion was strong. Fresh parchment. Mown grass. Ron's hair. Her heart was sick with longing for home, for him. The betrayal that was about to taint her, she was sure it would never wash from the constructs of her character and soul.
Love potions were worse than poison by her estimation, but effective. Both could be deadly.
She threw her hands up into her hair and let out a muffled scream.
Killing him was going to kill her. She just knew it.