Title: Dreadful Sensations
Summary: Hermione reflects on her feelings.
A/N: Some of you may have read… the horrendous story I wrote in 2001 called "No time for a bushy, brown haired, know-it-all…" I am so ashamed of the thought of being the creator of that. I've sort of rewritten here. On a holiday, same character. It's not the best, but I tried. R/R please! ^__^
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It was a cold day in February. Bitter, even, for a girl who felt alone. Alone in a world where a war was raging and darkness starting to over good, was a good not a place to be. But here she sat, alone in her dormitory, with a knife in her hand.
She had taken to cutting herself when she got the feeling. It made her feel better. It proved to her that she could still feel something besides loneliness. It proved to her that she was still alive. It made her feel alive. It gave her a comfort that no one else provided. A comfort that should have been provided on this day- this holiday of they call Valentines Day.
The only one she had thought loved her had left her empty. He had tossed her aside for a prettier, funnier girl. A girl who wouldn't burry herself in books twenty-two out of twenty-four hours a day. Someone who she was not.
And it hurt. It hurt her a lot. She supposed it was a good sign- at least a few of her emotions were still intact. Even if they were just that; a few. A few meager points that she was human. That she had feelings, too.
But she had been thinking lately. She didn't want to feel these… these… dreadful sensations. She hated them. She hated herself, even. She hated what she had become. A selfish, bratty, know-it-all. She was an outcast in the popularity scale.
She did not get roses on this commercialized day. No candy. Not even a silly card from her friend. Perhaps she should have outgrown these silly thoughts by now, she was almost seventeen.
Her eyes wandered to the knife that had just left a wound in her shoulder. It was bloody. As it should have been. It had just cut in six different places. She knew how easy it could be. How easy it would be to take the feelings away.
She could slit her wrists. That was simple enough. Or perhaps she could slit her own throat. And if she wanted to be quick about it, she could take her wand, point it at herself, and say the fateful words. Avada Kedavra. It would be done in a matter of seconds, and it wouldn't be painful. She could say crucio as well. She was sure the pain would kill her after awhile.
She deserved a painful death. She was sure of that. She was such a burden on her friends. She tagged along with Harry and Ron, and she was sure they were sick of her. Their girlfriends got suspicious. It would never happen again if she were gone. They could have their girlfriends without any trouble.
Yes, she should be dead. She had come to the conclusion in a matter of minutes. But how, she did not know. The killing curse was too easy. If she used crucio, someone could hear her screams, and someone could save her. She thought for a moment and slowly held the blade over one of her wrists. She pushed it down and pain seared through her like a flame on gasoline. She hadn't cut it where it would kill her yet, but it would hurt her like hell. She waited, enveloping the paint, before raising the blade to her neck.
In only a matter of time, Hermione Annabelle Granger was found dead in her dormitory, without a note of explanation. Her blood was engulfing her body, and she had an expression of content on her face.