It's a fucking Monday and Hermione Granger feels like shit.
She suspects it's because of the high probability of her being late to class if she still doesn't make an effort to detach herself from her bed—which absolutely sucks to an unimaginable degree because she really doesn't find it in her to channel the energy to do just that. Deep down she knows it's because of the growing awareness of the absurdity that is her existence.
It's a fucking Monday and Hermione Granger wakes up to another dreadful existential crisis.
And more.
Because it's always downward spiral from there.
She curls further under her covers and pointedly ignores the light seeping through the gaps of her window blinds. Her alarm had gone off a little while ago and she still couldn't care enough to attempt getting up.
She realizes, in hindsight, how very taxing getting up could be. It's a nuisance and she hated how it sounded so like her during her better days, when she wakes up not wishing to be six feet underground instead. In fact, it was an act entirely too responsible and mature and the right thing to do if she wanted to catch that very important lecture about fucking monetary policy which would definitely come out in their midterm exams. It's the fucking accumulation of what she's supposed to be doing over an hour ago. It sounded too much of an obligation, which frankly is, and reminds her too much of how everything she's doing feels like a routine. She has enough obligations to last her a life time of misery shoved unto her just because she arbitrarily exists and thus must actively participate in the sharing of experiences among mankind. It's bloody obnoxious, the whole thing. Getting up meant having to face the world even if she'd rather have herself rot in her room for the rest of eternity.
She loathes the very notion of it, among other things.
She's in one of her terrible episodes, unfortunately, and feels bitter that she's supposed to be doing great things and not contemplating the purpose of her existence ten minutes before her class. She'd been a bright student in high school—set a record there, she did. The principal told her parents how grateful the school is for having her and she'd preen at his praises every time she won first place in every individual interschool competition she'd been sent to. Nevermind that the student body hated her guts and called her a bloody swot in the hallways and insulted her hair on a daily basis. Nevermind that the faculty were annoyed by her enthusiasm and eagerness in class. She was supposed to make a difference.
She tells herself five more minutes.
Suffice to say, there's no such thing as five more minutes.
It's almost afternoon when she decides she's skipping her lectures for the rest of the day. Her mood has gradually depreciated by then and she's grown accustomed to the dull ache in her stomach. She burrows herself deeper into her pillows and tries not to focus too much on how much she wants to binge and the consequences of ditching that gnaws at her from the back of her head. It's fine through, she assures herself in spite of her skyrocketing anxiety, they're just minor classes.
She resolutely ignores the fact that it was nearing midterms week.
Her phone vibrates and there's a faint ping! from somewhere under the sheets and she doesn't make a move to check. She's endlessly tired, and really just wants to vanish into thin air and having her friends constantly worry over her—which consequently makes her feel all guilty because she truly doesn't deserve them—and remind her of her stupid life choices such as not attending classes during the most crucial time of the month wasn't something she was dying to hear at the moment.
She eventually reaches for the blasted device after a series of noise she could no longer bear, notifying her of new messages, and turns it off. She doesn't bother sifting through the texts from Harry and Ron and whoever else felt compelled to be worried over her absence.
She feels terribly awful through. She admits she's a horrible person for ignoring them because she knows they all meant well. But sometimes it's all just so bad and out of control and everything she does feels so futile and she really just wants to cry. Sometimes, she's too tired and spent that she doesn't even attempt to try and understand their feelings and intentions beyond their terrible wording that having to hear them tell her to stop being so sad—as if the whole notion of her having to feel something not akin to being happy is utterly ridiculous because some people have it worse—just made her want to scream.
To stop being so sad because some people have it worse. God.
A sob bubbles in her throat and she firmly presses her face down to her pillows, muffling her screams and perhaps trying to block her airway too because she truly wants to cease. She knew she shouldn't be feeling that way. That she had no reason as to why she'd feel that way. She wasn't a victim and she was privilege enough and well provided for. That her living condition was a lot more desirable than most of her friends' wasn't helping her feel any less of an ungrateful bitch.
She doesn't eat for the rest of the day and her phone remains dead as she stares blankly at the bare expanse of the beige wall of her room. She feels time pass through her and it's getting dark and the monsters are coming out from the closet and crawling out from underneath her bed and from the deepest recess of her head.
Really, it's a fucking Monday and Hermione Granger feels like shit.
A/N. hi this is some experimental stuff im doing that mainly centered around hermione and ofc draco but like yk