Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, but I wish I did because I could make Draco Malfoy mine! Bwahahaha, well, Harry and Oliver would be mine, too! Well, anyway, Draco, Harry, and Oliver obviously aren't mine, so obviously I don't own the Harry Potter series. Right? Right…
A/N: This story is based on a short story that a dear friend of mine wrote to me in a letter once. She was afraid of what I might have done to myself. I changed it to fit the characters of Harry Potter, although my friend originally wrote it about me. This story is dedicated to the friend who wrote me that letter. Thank you, Jessica, for caring enough about me, because of you, I am still here.
An ordinary day for a student at Hogwarts usually followed a normal schedule, the only change would be the class or a possible club or team meeting that afternoon. A student goes to class, eats meals, does his or her homework, and sleeps.
Not my friend Hermione though.
Hermione was the top student in all her classes and one of the nicest, most caring people one would have ever met. She was Head Girl in her seventh year; something that everyone knew was going to happen. She was always looking out for her classmates and the younger students. But as she grew older, I noticed a change.
She was still extremely caring and compassionate for others, but she seemed distant. She barely smiled. I rarely saw her eat or socialize. It even became uncommon to see her with my brother, and her best mate, Ron, and her boyfriend, Harry.
No one knew what was going on inside her head; she was always so complex and hard to figure out. Harry, Ron, and I became worried. At first we thought she was just reacting to the pressure of the upcoming N.E.W.T.S—she was always an overachiever, but soon we learned differently. It was so much more.
Hermione's arms gradually developed mysterious cuts, which eventually turned to scars, visible from even far off. But if we ever said anything about them, or went to her with concern, she would turn us away with a curt reply, "You wouldn't understand."
We knew the cuts were caused by her own devices, that she was self-injuring in more ways than one, and it didn't take us long to realize that she was contemplating suicide. Fearful for our friend's life and overwhelmed with concern, we approached her and demanded that she never do it.
In response she shrugged us off with a dry laugh and implausibly said, "Of course I won't."
The term ended and we all went back to our respective homes. Even more worried, we wrote Hermione each day, she only reply with short letters—very unlike her—saying she was 'fine.'
One day, two weeks into the summer, Hermione got into a fight with her parents. She went to her room and locked the door with a spell so that they would not be able to enter. She started thinking of all the negative influences in her life. She analyzed every situation and blamed herself.
Overwhelmed with emotion, she frantically searched for something to preoccupy her mind, to stop her from thinking about it all. She came across a hidden knife. In her rage and hopelessness, she made the fatal cut without really realizing she had done so.
It seems that Hermione wasn't able to feel the pain that she should have; she could only see the infinite flow of blood that came from her wrist. She called me on the telephone; she told me she felt dreadfully lightheaded.
From the shaking and urgent tone of her voice I knew something was wrong, that something was awry. Oh how I wish that I had not been right.
She continued and told me what she had done. I panicked but kept her on the line, I began to feel feverish but tried to stay calm. My friend was dying, her words were becoming slurred. She broke into speech about how red the knife was and how beautiful was the blood coming from her wrist.
I notified Harry and Ron about the situation while I persisted to keep Hermione on the line. After another minute had passed, I realized that her muttering had completely stopped. I could no longer hear her voice or her frantic and shallow breathing. Immediately after, I heard a dull thud and a faint clattering of the phone being dropped. I fell to my knees. Hermione had fallen.
She was gone.
A few days after, I walked into the building in which her funeral was being held. Each person in attendance stood and walked to the front of the room to talk about the 'good old times.'
It was hard for all of us. She was so young. She was going places. If only we could have helped her to hang on longer. If only we had known what to do.
Harry didn't talk at all. Ron and I sat with him in the corner, trying our best to console him while trying to keep our own wits. I don't think I ever stopped crying; with Hermione's body in a casket and Harry staring blankly at the wall.
The next week my brother got an owl from Professor Dumbledore. He came into the kitchen, red-eyed and sobbing. Mum took him in her arms and Dad slowly took the letter from him, which he read and passed to each of us in turn so that we may read its contents.
Mr. Ronald Weasley,
I am sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, and I wish there were nothing to have to tell. I am sure you are still grieving over the unfortunate loss of Hermione Granger, as we all are. Last night, Harry Potter found one of his Uncle's guns (a non-magical tool used to kill); he shot himself. He left behind a note reading, "I should have seen it coming, Hermione. In apology for not being able to help you more, my life I give away."
My deepest regards,
Albus Dumbledore
PS- As your friend and former professor, I can honestly say that I am here for you if you need anything.
That's the story of Hermione's death and why today is so important. Today is Saturday, and the day of every week that I visit her grave. I'm sitting in a cab and the sky is cold and grey, I hold in my hands a bouquet of twelve white roses. Today is the five-year anniversary of her death.
I pay the driver for the ride; he gives me a questioning look. I suppose I have tears streaming down my face, but I cannot be sure, I no longer feel them, for they are always there.
I reach her gravestone, an elaborate angel, and kneel to set the flowers at its bottom, "Hermione," I sniff and remind her of something I say every time, "as you know, I've graduated Hogwarts."
"I'm twenty-one now, you'd be twenty-two; we'd be able to try fire-whiskey together." I sniff and wipe the tears from my eyes as I try to steady my sobs and talk, "I'm almost done with my training to become a Healer."
I close my eyes, her smiling face staring at me from atop the angel, and try to shut out the ever-flowing tears, "Oh, Hermione! Why'd you have to lock everything inside? We would have understood! We were your best friends, we could have helped you!" I open my eyes and look up as she begins to fade away, "Why'd you shut us out of your life? It only made you hurt more!"
"If you hadn't isolated yourself, if you hadn't committed suicide, you and Harry both would be here today. We'd all be laughing together, just like before! You could have come to my wedding!"
I break into sobs again and slam my fists into her gravestone, mad with myself for not having been able to do more for her, and mad at her for leaving us like that. I look up once more; she is completely gone now. I know it is time to go for today, but I'll always return, every Saturday, to tell her about my life and tell about how much we miss her.
I stand to visit Harry's grave and turn away slowly, feeling my heart shatter just like the day of her death all over again. If only she knew how much pain…
With tears welling in my eyes, I clutch my chest and glance at the stone angel once more, "Rest in Peace."
A/N: If you're contemplating suicide, please let a friend know, you may not think they care but they do. There are many websites and hotlines to visit or call. If you don't want to do that, or you need someone who really understands, someone who has been in your place, you can always e-mail me. I won't judge you, and I'm NOT a trained professional, I'll just be there to console you and help you, like a friend should, because we all know how hard it is to talk to adults, and I promise you, I am nowhere near being one. My e-mail address is Spooty07 at yahoo dot com (it won't show if I actually put a link) feel free to write if you need someone to talk to, I'll always care.