I don't really know what to say. I do not write down my thoughts. My thoughts are my own. Not out of choice, it would seem. And suddenly I find I want to tell someone everything. I want them to comfort me, to reassure me, to say it will be alright. I am not sure they would be right and I am not sure I would feel better. But in any case I have no-one. So here I am, just about to write it all down. I am not sure why I am even doing this, and I can not begin to use words to express my feelings. What can I say?
What do I think?
I think many things. I think they hate me. I think they see something when they look at me that I do not when I look at myself. They see an antisocial, rude and arrogant girl, who loves her own company and the sound of her own voice. She is far too clever, a know-it-all. If there is a person there, somewhere, she is no potential friend. She shows no emotion, therefore she has no feelings.
I know so much. I work so hard. I strive to be the best.
Why?
What else do I have? I am not pretty. I am not brave. I am not likeable, I am starting to believe. Two months on and I have no friends. All I have is my success, my ambition. They are important to me, they always have been but I would readily be without them to be as happy as the people I see around me.
I must've noticed I've got no friends.
I have noticed. I am not stupid. I am Hermione, I am clever. Two months and still I have made no friends. And I have noticed, believe me.
Halloween. It's Halloween. The whole school is decorated with black and orange, pumpkins and bats and strings of lights. The smell of pumpkin is everywhere. Everyone happily anticipates the feast. I find myself almost dreading it. It will only accent my loneliness, show everyone, and show me, yet again that I am surrounded by people who do not care. I may as well be alone. I would rather be alone.
It is my fault, I believe. Do I believe that? I am not sure. Perhaps I believe it is not and that I should believe it is. Or that the fault is mine therefore I should know it is not. Perhaps I am making myself a victim so I can blame others. Who do I blame? No-one. Everyone. I do not hate them. I am indifferent to them, I tell myself, but I hate them. I hate them and I want to be like them. I want them to like me. Why would I want them to like me? Then I would be like them. Would I behave to myself as they behave to me? Or would I behave to them as I do if I could see Hermione Granger as they see me?
I do not know any answers. I do not know anything any more but I can not pretend I do not care.
Hermione ripped the page from her notebook.
No-one knew her thoughts. They were her own.
She wanted to keep them that way.
She threw the page into the fire and watched it burn. In a second it was gone, it was nothing.
Nobody would know, now. Nobody would know how she felt. She did not want them to.
And she wondered if secretly, she had not wanted someone to see, to know. Inevitable tears coursed down her cheeks as she realised that nobody wanted to see. Nobody wanted to know. Nobody cared.