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Why Me?

As I sit here, nose stuck in a book, neck aching from being bent over, eyes dry from late night studding, all, I have to ask, is, why me?

Why me?

"The brain," I am labeled. "The wanna be Ravenclaw."

People can be so cruel, so utterly cruel, but, why me? Why must they inflict their sorrow, their hate, their bitterness toward me?

Why me?

"Mudblood," they say. "Worthless." But, why, why must they be so harsh?

Why me?

Ah, yes, now I know. Harry Potter, he is the key to all this.

But, still, why me?

Foolish girl, you, you, are the reason he is still alive, and you know it. He loves you, you love him.

Why me?

I could end it all so easily, so very easily. But, no, I can't, there is too much that I still want to see. So very many things…

"Hermione," he says, his voice lingering on "Hermione," as if he is instinctually doing it, but, no, he is not. Why though, why must he toy with me?

Why me?

Note: I own nothing. This is just one of my set downs, and write, so…