A/N: Hey y'all! This is my note that you should read before you read the actual fic. First, come the disclaimers, stating that I own nothing except for the idea behind this fic. The actual characters belong to J.K. Rowling. About this piece of writing, I understand that some people may be upset by the contents, that is why it is rated the way it is. I never meant to hurt anyone...seriously! Again, I warn you...Suicide is NOT the answer. There are handy little drugs called anti-depressants (I happen to know because I use these on a regular basis). Do not give in to the dark side my friends!
"Tired with all these, for restful death I cry."
"Sorry Herm, did you say something?" Ron perked his ears and turned to face her.
"Oh, no..." she murmured before sliding into a seat in the dining hall. The harsh wood stabbed at her weary back as she slouched. Hermione sighed wistfully and propped her heavy head up with a pale arm. Harry and Ron exchanged looks. Hermione had become more absent-minded and quite reserved since the previous winter vacation. They had speculated that it could be stress from the upcoming exams they were facing, but she had not been studying at all.
Hermione leaned back in her chair, dangling her fork above her plate of dinner. She swung the silver utensil back and forth, finally letting it land in a pile of week-old mashed potatoes. Hermione got up, disposing of her untouched dish.
"I think I'll head up to bed. I'm rather tired," she managed to say while muffling a yawn. She slung her bag over her arm and yawned again. Hermione trudged from the hall into the corridor. Once in the Gryffindor tower, Hermione collapsed on her bed and felt her eyelids drooping. Not even bothering to change from her robes, she drifted off into a blank whiteness.
Hermione was walking alone. She was at her old school, Emerson Grammar School, the one she had so gladly abandoned. She saw the children out at recess, playing hopscotch and foursquare. She began to recognize people she had known before- her enemies, her fair-weather friends, her homework partners.
Huddled in the corner of a brick wall, nose stuck in a book, crouched a little version of Hermione Granger. She was shivering in the cold, desperately trying to rub herself warm. From the corner of her eye, Hermione could see three short, very thin girls approach her past self.
"Well if it isn't Bucktooth Granger!" the girls giggled wildly. One, obviously the ringmaster of the group, flipped her platinum blonde hair and stepped forward.
"It's no surprise you don't have any friends, you're such a bookworm. No popular person would ever hang out with you. I mean, who likes ugly people?"
Little Hermione began crying and ran from the tormentors to the building. Hermione recalled this happening all the time, and how she had come to build herself into a shell to guard her emotions. She felt salty tears well up in her bright eyes.
It was true that she had no real friends, so she had turned to reading. Or it could have begun the other way; she didn't really know. She had loved Shakespearean tragedies and sonnets, and could recite many by heart. Hermione had also indulged in her own creative yet disturbing poetry. Her parents had encouraged her to do well in school and ignore the concept of "friends", so she had become the teacher's pet, and a serious "nerd".
Little Hermione now stood at the front of the school, waiting to be picked up by her parents. She hopped into a large, blue minivan and slammed the door shut. Although the real Hermione was outside the car, she could remember clearly what came next. Her mother would ask:
"How was you day, honey?"
She would reply:
"The kids made fun of me 'cause I don't have any friends."
Her mother would say, supportively:
"Books are your friends. Besides, it doesn't matter as long as you have good grades and are smarter than them, right?"
Hermione sat on the curb of the road and balanced her head on her hands. A rush of memories hit her like a frigid gust of wind. Her father hitting her mother; her mother hitting her; the cuts and gashes on her mother's wrists; her father's frequent disappearances; his "touching" her. Everything about the past was so painful.
Everyone saw her family as so perfect; they saw her perfect world, not what was really there. What they saw was an illusion, a mirage set up by her family.
"They're wrong!" Hermione screamed at the top of her lungs into the whiteness, "It's a lie! It's all a Goddamn LIE! They're all fuckin' wrong!"
Hermione woke up sweating profusely, hot tears streaking across her cheeks. She rolled onto her side and found herself looking directly into Ginny's face. Ginny smiled.
"You're awake, eh? You started screaming something about lies. I guess you were having a nightmare." Hermione weakly nodded in agreement.
"Want to talk about it?" Ginny asked gently. Hermione shook her head.
"I'm okay now. What time is it?"
"Three in the morning."
"Oh." Hermione watched as Ginny bent over and picked up a piece of crumpled parchment.
"What's this? 'Tired from all these..'"
"Yeah, it's just a sonnet from some Muggle poet named Shakespeare. It's my favourite one," Hermione interrupted crossly. She quickly added:
"I'm going for a walk. I'll be back later."
"Okay, just don't get caught." Hermione pulled her hair out of her robe and draped a cloak over her shoulders. She crept out of the tower, careful not to disturb the portraits. She snuck silently through the hallways, stealthily balancing on her toes.
In the distance, she could hear echoes of steps fading. Hermione caught her breath and then quickened her pace. Hogwarts became an eerie dungeon at night, as it was shrouded with darkness. She slipped out into the early morning, ignoring the biting cold.
Hermione stumbled across the open field, falling into the long, prickly grass. She whimpered in pain and attempted to wipe the scarlet blood that ran down her delicate legs. She began to run, faster than ever before, until she tripped on a slippery stone and fell into the mud.
Hermione lay lifeless on the ground, sobbing loudly, letting the tears drop like salty rain. She looked up and saw the shore of a deep lake. She had seen it once before, perhaps in a dream.
Lilies floated upon the black water, ripples lapped against the ground. The water was icy to the touch. Hermione dipped her legs in the lake, dangling them from the edge. She felt numb, but slid farther into the darkness. Her body was shaking wildly, her heart slowing to a monotonous rhythm. She lifted her head from the water long enough to whisper:
"Tired from all these, for restful death I cry..."
Her head dropped under the surface and was engulfed by the black.
Ron bolted straight up in bed. He had felt something and it told him Hermione was in trouble. He slipped into his sneakers and woke Harry. They rushed to find Hermione, but her bed was empty. Ginny lay bawling on the floor, she had seen Hermione go and knew something was wrong, but didn't know where to go. They ran to report to Dumbledore, and then searched every corner of the school for their friend.
Ron opened the door to the cold outdoors. Not knowing where to go, his heart led him to the black lake. The others soon followed ensuite. He delicately lifted her body from the water, wringing out her robes. He caressed her porcelain white cheek, bending down to close her vacant eyes. Ginny walked over, placing a trembling hand on his shoulder.
"She had this, Ron..." she murmured, dropping the parchment by his side. He read the sonnet, fresh tears blotting the sheet.
"That's what she kept repeating all week. Hermione..." Ron bent his head, and tears fell into the lake, ruining his reflection. Rage and misery invaded his thoughts.
If only she had bothered to see the rest. "Tired with all these, from these I would be gone, save that, to die, I leave my love alone". She has left, she was so tired. Hermione has left me.