Title: So Tired

Disclaimer: As generally applies I do not own any of the characters mentioned or implied in this story, nor am I making any money off of this. If you feel so fit to sue, I assure you all you'll get is my student loan and my OCD cat.

Author's Note: I love reviews... a lot. Even if you think my story sucked, leave a three word sentence and I'll appreciate it more than if you wrote nothing.

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She was so tired.

She was so tired of playing girlfriend with The-Boy-Who-Lived, so tired of ignoring hushed whispers, insults that cut her to the core no matter how much she rationalized her own intelligence. "Shes banging him," the whispers hissed into waxed, teenaged ears, slandering the smartest girl of their year, "He keeps her around for the blowjobs." The fact of the matter was that she had no sexual connection with Harry at all—in fact, she hadn't even had more than a kiss in her entire lifetime. She is tired of being the bookworm; the one Ron went to so he could dump his Charms homework and go play Quiddich with the boys. And yet she did it, like a faithful little tramp who longed so much for attention that she'd do anything.

She was tired of it, and he knew it.

He knew when he looked at her that there was a light gone in her eyes, a light that was only extinguished by the constant sapping of energy and talent in exchange for a kind word or a pat on the head. He knew, even as he stood there lecturing in front of an entire doubled class that she watched him for guidance—but trouble lurked in the potions classroom, didn't she know that? She was, after all, obnoxiously brilliant; so why didn't she see what dangers gravitated towards him? It was well known that he bore the Dark Mark and throughout class he found himself wrapping long fingers around his wrist to cover it from view if his sleeve slipped up. Albus didn't want the students to know what he had been a part of, but there was no cloaking that one… no hiding the fact that he had been a vessel of the Dark Lord.

She looked at him with the utmost respect: the way he moved, spoke, gestured all held her attention like a flame in the darkened night that had become her life. And so he became her lover, unconsciously of course, and she set out to complete her potions assignment like she would initiate sex. She caressed the book with tentative touches, eliciting an inaudible moan from the literature as she set the quill in ink. She closed her eyes and envisioned the potion in question; any potion did the trick, bubbling up like the juices that pooled in her belly. There he was, stirring the cauldron with those eyes that seemed to penetrate pure steel as she wrote the complicated procedure, making herself squirm with longing as the Professor in her mind undressed her with his eyes. She felt like a whore when she turned in the parchments, almost as if she had climaxed on the work itself and she prayed that those hawk eyes didn't accompany a wolfish sense of smell.

But she took him for a fool and he did indeed notice the extra effort put into every piece of work he assigned; he also noticed the way her neck flushed when she handed the rolled up parchment in, or how the light slowly returned to those dull chocolate eyes just for a moment. A flash in the pan, and then it was gone. He knew she got off by doing his work and he felt, just for a moment, like he could take advantage of her by marking down her grade. Wouldn't that make her strive for greater achievements? No, not in her fragile state of being… it would simply cut her down and he would be no greater than Potter or Weasley. He felt pity for the girl who pinned him so longingly with her eyes but there was nothing he could do about that—he was no knight in shining armor ready to rescue the homely girl who batted her eyes his way. He was alone is his life, and that's how he liked it.

She was alone as well, but unlike him it ate her inside.

Locked away in her tower, smashed in with tens of other girls who seemed to ignore her like she was another animated painting on the wall. Once in a while the Fat Lady would inquire about her health as she exited the common room and the answer was always the same. She was fine. Nothing more, nothing less. To everyone, that seemed to be the case until winter came along. Gray settled over Hogwarts like a blanket of depression and it became too cold to even go out for walks by the lake. Snowstorms struck violently and covered everything in meters of snow—Hogsmeade was closed for business and Quiddich had been suspended. She was handling everything fine until one day.

He couldn't take it anymore; her work was taking a pornographic turn and there was no excuse for the dubious stains that littered her parchment. An assignment as simple as: "Explain the process of extracting essence from the Gillyweed Plant" was rife with innuendos, connotations and inappropriate wording. There was no way that he could let it slip and in the darkness of his dungeon, with red ink and a razor sharp quill he wrote his comments, noting the grade in his roster. He was apathetic when he handed her back the parchment the next day, one eyebrow raised as he thrust it into her hand. He at least had the common decency to roll the thing, so her peers wouldn't see the debacle she had made of the work.

It hit her like a killing curse.

Her face flushed red, as red as the ink on the parchment as soon as she read the comments and tears filled her eyes. Her throat constricted and all at once she couldn't breathe, couldn't see; she had embarrassed herself in the worst way possible in front of the one human being she respected most. Of course Harry and Ron said nothing as she attempted to hold back a sob—they hardly noticed her at all anymore and she fled the room, never looking behind her. Her footfalls were loud as she ran through the deserted stone halls, seeking the highest place in the school to be alone and think. That's all she needed to do.

He noticed her physical embarrassment as soon as she untied the parchment and stood stonily in front of the class, all of them oblivious to her and her breakdown. After all, school was a competition and most of them were comparing their own grades. He quite expected her to leave crying, so it was no surprise when she slipped out the door, ignored by her companions. It was tragic really, but he couldn't feel more than momentary pity for the girl who worked so hard to please. Nevertheless, he started the lesson with no more than a bat of an eye in her direction.

She climbed the Divination tower, ironically the place she hated most and yet it had the highest tower—empty at that time of day. More than once she collapsed on the stairs in a fit of hysterics, tears and snot mingling on her face as she lamented her own stupidity and lust for attention. Higher and higher she climbed, her limbs and lungs growing fatigued as she neared the top of the open tower. It was freezing cold and the tears and mucous dried quickly on her face, unruly curls flying around wildly as the wind blew through the openings. Clutched in her hand was the parchment, littered with his scathing remarks in tiny red script she reread over and over. Her eyes were glued to the failed assignment when she sat on the edge.

And oh, what senses of humor the Gods possessed as she grew more and more tired, her back seeking the solidity of the stone to rest upon as her red rimmed eyes fluttered closed. There were no ghosts then to warn her of the precarious perch she sat upon, no Peeves to scare her out of her wits—only the ghost of her former self screaming at her to wake up. But it was no use as the girl tumbled noiselessly from the highest tower on the coldest day. Her body cracked sickeningly on the earth below, limbs arranged haphazardly and broken, her neck bent back at an odd angle.

She finally had her sleep.

When they found her body, the entire Hogwarts community was horrified—the brightest student the school had ever seen, the best friend of Harry Potter committing suicide made no sense in their minds. They thought everything had been fine, just fine. When questioned about suspicious behavior, the Fat Lady could only weep; and through the tears, it was related that she seemed fine. Everything was fine. But he knew different. He had never felt guiltier in his entire life than at her funeral, dressed in finer robes than she had ever seen him wear, bearing a Gillyweed to place upon the grave dug for her. As he walked away from the massive procession, he found himself tired.

He was so tired.