So I'm not feeling the best either, but writing usually calms me down. Here you go. I don't own anything.

It's funny, because she doesn't seem like the kind if girl that would have problems. Hermione Granger is perfect, after all. She understands what's going on in Transfiguration, and her parents are dentists. They aren't convicted felons, and they definitely aren't dead, so what if they are Muggles? She's never had to work a day in her life at school, and her family is great. An Outstanding on every paper, a smile on every face, she thinks, should be her motto.

It sounds like the kind of motto someone who made sales pitches would have, she reflects. Hermione is sitting in the shower, fully dressed. The water is frigid and on full blast. The noise isn't enough to drown out her racing thoughts, and her skin feels like it's on fire. Her chest feels tight, and it isn't because of her clinging clothing.

She holds a hand out in front of her, watching it shake with vague detachment. Her mind is screaming at her, telling her there's something wrong, and a million other things because she feels like someone shot straight up caffeine right into her heart. Hermione fidgets, because she should be doing something. Anything, really, never mind that it's two o'clock in the morning on a Sunday.

Focusing is out of the question. Her thoughts are moving so fast Hermione isn't actually sure she catches all of them. Her breath has started to come faster while she wasn't paying attention, and it takes more than a few deep breaths to steady herself. Maybe she'll throw up. Struggling out of the shower, she slops a trail of water to the toilet, which she kneels in front of.

This is not where she thought she'd end up. As a first year she'd had all sorts of grand ambitions, along with her whole life planned out. Then her emotions had gotten—for lack of a better word—wobbly. Unstable. Weird. Well, weirder and more unstable than those of an average teenage girl, because Lavender and Pavarti weren't in here staring down a toilet.

It had taken her years to realize that probably this wasn't normal, girly stuff. Not that her epiphany had done her any good, because she couldn't muster up the courage to talk to Madam Pomfrey. No, Hermione suffered in silence and it was her own goddamn fault. She was supposed to be able to handle things. She was the brightest witch of her age, how could mere mood swings affect her like this?

Her stomach heaves, but nothing comes up. Hermione flops onto her back, ignoring the cold puddle of water she's created as she stares at the ceiling. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe she's just not as good at handling emotions as everyone else. Sometimes she feels fine. Could it all be in her head?

Probably not, she decides. Being all jittery and anxious is almost desirable compared to the other end of the spectrum. Feeling overwhelmingly worthless, and stupid, and definitely unattractive would have her in tears at least once a month. She'd considered suicide once. Hermione studies the white ceiling, thinking that it really hadn't been that long ago. Just this last summer, actually. She hadn't gone through with the vague plan forming in her mind, because there was that constant reassurance that she'd feel different in two days tops.

Sometimes she wonders if this is a plea for attention by her subconscious. After all, she hasn't got anything to be sad or anxious about. And her grades are fine, plus she's almost always laughing and smiling. No one would believe her, even if she did tell someone. That's what she really wants to do though. She wants a shoulder to cry on, someone to reassure her that she'll feel better tomorrow.

It feels like she's alone in a crowded room. No one can hear her, and if they could Hermione isn't sure they'd care.