Disclaimer: Yeah, I'm J.K. Rowling, Millionaire-extraordinaire, writing on some stupid website instead of finishing the HP series and making billion's of dollars. I much rather spend my time writing some silly little story. (Note the sarcasm.)
A/N: Well, you'll like it, or you won't. I don't give flying monkey's ass about if you like it or not. If you don't like the story plot, don't bother reading it. I write for myself, not for others. I came up with this story out of sheer boredom at first, but actually liked the idea, so I decided to make it better. Here it goes. 3/28- I have just redone the prologue, made it better.
And I'm sympathetic,
And I'm sympathetic,
never letting on I feel the way I do
As I'm falling apart again at the seam
never letting on I feel the way I do
As I'm falling apart again at the seam
And I'm falling, falling, falling,
falling, falling, falling, falling
Apart again at the seam.
Seether: Sympathetic
Broken
Prologue:
The night is cold, yet I have no desire to leave. I am quite content to just sit here, and wait for the mourners to disperse. I won't join them; I can't join them. For them to see me would be my most dire mistake.
I am sitting on the giant oak tree that overlooks the entire graveyard. Row after row of grey tombstones line up in a morbid pattern that only I can see, but my attention is mainly focused on the large white marble tombstone around which the mourners are flocking too. There are around a thousand people there today, but I can easily pick out the people I search for. The red-headed Weasley's are up in the front of the procession, their hair standing out brightly against the dark and bleak sky. They are the only ones I can recognize, as the rest are just a blurry blob of brown and black.
Finally, the mob is leaving. Many are weeping, but I don't concern myself with them. Let them cry, they are weak people.
Finally, the last person has cleared. Climbing down swiftly and confidently, I leave the tree, and calmly make my way to the grave. I have to say goodbye. But the last thing I had reckoned on was the pain I feel as I make my way closer to the grave. Part of me is still refusing to believe that he is dead. My heart is broken in half already, but realizing that he is truly dead will shatter it to pieces. But another part, my reasonable part, knows that he's dead, and wants to make closure. It's snowing now, but I do not care about the snow flakes that are freezing to my exposed flesh. I reach the grave, and fall to my knees. Now of this seems real. It was as if I were lost in a dark dream, and I couldn't find my way out.
A cry from deep within me rose into my throat, but I choke it back, not wanting anyone to hear me. I clutch my hair, the pain in my breast making me gasp for air. I am denying it; I don't want it to be real. I'm trying not to loose control.
My entire life depends on my keeping control, I can't afford to loose it now. For so long I have kept my emotions deep down inside of me, so that no one would know of the turmoil in my mind. I am ashamed of my emotions, emotions that I have always felt so strongly about. My emotions betray me, make me weak. I hate weakness, in myself and in others, so if I hate weakness I hate myself. I only have myself, so what good would it do for me to hate me. Letting people know how I feel makes me weak, so I hid it to myself. I never cry, I never scream. I keep it locked up inside of me, never letting the cries escape my lips. Sometimes, at night, I think about all that I have inside me, all of the secrets, and I am amazed that I haven't ripped apart, like a bag stuffed with too many books.
I try to make myself look at the tombstone, which is made of pale white marble. As long as I didn't see his name on the stone I can still say that he was alive, but is just gone for a while. And I won't loose control. I know it's my fault that he is dead. I murdered him through my actions, through every plan I had devised. I killed the man I love.
I wonder sometimes that, if I had known what I would become, would I have done things differently? If my parents hadn't died, and I hadn't killed that man, would everything be different? Would I be as dejected as I am now? What moment in my life did I become crazy, and lost my identity as Hermione Granger?
I try to think back, back to when everything was more or less still ok, back to when I was happy. I have to know what happened, and I can only know by going back in my memories.
The scenes from my mind are unfolding in my head. I can see everything, almost smell the smells. I'm getting lost in them, and I don't care. In my memories I can remember what it was like to be loved. Things were much simpler then, back in the beginning.