Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and I do not earn any money from these stories, only self-satisfaction

Warnings: Attempted suicide, language

A patch of air shimmered in the moonlight, the Fat Lady's portrait swung gracefully closed. Frowning, she surveys the empty corridor.

"Students always waking me up for a joke," she finally decided, grumbling to herself, as she lay back in her chaise, already halfway asleep again.

In the glimmer of hallway, Hermione gave a soft sigh and strolled down the corridor, pausing for a last glance back at the familiar painting.

I'll never see the Lady again. Hermione thought gloomily. Never have to brace myself for the awed stares of the first years, the lecherous gaze of Ron, the sight of Harry and Ginny curled up in an armchair together…

Blinking back the tears that threatened to fall, she turned and continued, heading up to the Room of Requirement. At each classroom she passed, she said a mental goodbye. Goodbye to the memories of good times long past. Goodbye to the long hours studying. Goodbye to the accomplishments. Goodbye to the 'friends' she'd made. Goodbye to the pain.

By the time she reached the blank stretch of wall, the tears were flowing freely, blurring her vision. But she was calm, calmer than she had been all year, even as memories swam in the tears in her eyes. She began to pace. I need a place for an ending. I need a place for an ending. I need a place for an ending.

She turned to face the dark cherry wood doors that had appeared, pulling them open with a feeling of detachment. It was like an out of body experience. She wasn't here, pulling these doors open, she was fifteen, hiding in her room as Ron snogged Lavender downstairs. She was seventeen as she watched her parents eyes turn vacant as the memory charm took hold. She was kissing Ron with the sounds of battle surrounding them. She wasn't walking into the Room of Requirement, eyeing the ropes on a low lying table and ceiling support beams; she was standing frozen in the doorway to the rebuilt common room, staring at Ron with a fifth year girl sprawled in his lap. She wasn't walking over to a large medicine cabinet full of pills; she was watching Harry propose to Ginny as she thought of the unfamiliar lacy black thong she had found in Ron's bed. She wasn't counting out pills; she was hearing Malfoy hiss 'Mudblood' under his breath as he shoved past her. She wasn't pushing open a door to a balcony toe Room had created; she was walking through the busy halls alone and realizing she had no one to go see and feeling so damn lonely. She wasn't picking up a gleaming razor from beside the ropes; she was laying beneath Ron, hearing him grunt and pant into her ear, the bedsprings singing, staring up at the canopy and feeling… empty.

I need a chair. Hermione thought, pulling back from the memories, deciding on the knife. Blood seemed preferable to puking or suffocating. And after Dumbledore's death, a short flight off of the balcony held no appeal for her either.

A white beanbag appeared and she settled in. As she raised her left arm, she gazed at the word 'Mudblood' carved into it by Bellatrix. Now it was framed by the small parallel cuts she'd done herself. Carefully hidden, her silent release from this hell. Once the War was over, wasn't life supposed to become better? It had made hers unbearable. Ron had turned into a narcissistic, attention loving, cheating ass. Her friends had scattered; only Harry, Ginny, Ron, Neville, and herself had returned to school. With Harry and Ginny reveling in their new engaged status, Neville studying hard to pass his Herbology N.E.W.T. to become a professor, her own studies, and Ron's womanizing, the end of the war essentially ended her social life with it.

The worst part of it was knowing that she'd faded out of her friends' lives without them noticing. She never received any owls or invitations to Hogsmeade. She felt like a ghost at meals, they had stopped talking to her as well.

Hermione ran the edge of the blade along the pad of her thumb softly, curiously watching as the blood beaded along the small incision. Steadying herself, she whispered "Goodbye" and yanked the razor from her wrist to her elbow. Gasping and whimpering at the pain, she sobbed as she drew another line into her flesh. She cut deep and blood began to pool in her lap, running in crimson rivulets over the slick white material. Drawing her want as her hand began to shake, she lowered the tip to the inside of her right wrist and whispered "Slistera." New lines on her arms burst open and wept blood, and she felt a confused sense of relief. It would be all over soon.

"Slist-"

"Expelliarmus!"

Hermione tried to jump to her feet and face her attacker, he wand clattering against the stone wall. She managed to rise a few inches before becoming light headed and falling back into the softness, blood starting to stain the white fabric. Footsteps ran to her from being, someone must have come in (why didn't she ask for a room without doors?) and she rolled her head around (where was her neck? Her head couldn't stay up) to catch a glimpse of pale blonde hair and paler skin surrounding wide silver eyes. Her eyes fluttered shut, they were so heavy (she just needed a little sleep) and from somewhere she heard faintly "Granger! Fuck, Hermione! Stay with me…!"

Thank you guys for reading, I had a blast writing this! I will try to update regularly, and with summer coming on, I will have lots of time to write! Please review, they inspire me and let me know the finger cramps are worth it!