Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to the Harry Potter series

Author's Note: Yay for another update! My muse is back and I'm taking advantage of it any time I feel like it's a good time to write. I didn't take the chance a week ago and I'm not going to make that mistake again! Then again, if I'd taken advantage of it then, I might not have come up with the sequels to Am I Perfect Yet? I apologise that this chapter is shorter than Draco's chapter, but Draco refused to cooperate the other day unless I let him ramble on about painting empty rum barrels and the ceiling. Harry doesn't like talking. And I don't really like Ron. I don't have a muse for him.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to the Harry Potter series. None of the characters are mine. Anything you recognize as pertaining to the books or movies is not mine. And here we go again…

My name is Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, Scarhead, boy, whatever you want to call me. Chances are that you know my story, and if you don't know it, ask just about anyone you see. They probably know my story better than I do. My story's spread around all over Britain and probably other places, too. Anywhere there's a witch or a wizard. It's not something I'm proud of. You'd be one sick bastard to be proud of the fact that the entire wizarding world, scarce as it's becoming, pities you because your parents were betrayed by their best friend and murdered by some freak leading a band of dimwitted drones as a result.

I'm not the only one here. My friend Ron Weasley's right next to me. We're both just sitting here in the dormitory, a bottle of firewhiskey held in each of our hands. To hell with the drinking age. We know Hermione wouldn't have approved of this. She wouldn't have approved at all of us sneaking off to Hogsmeade to get the stuff, and she certainly wouldn't approve of us drinking it. But… Hermione isn't here now. And that's the reason we're drinking, I suppose. It's supposed to numb everything in your body, just erase your mind. It's not working. I don't think anything will ever work. Our lives fell apart three days ago. You can't just put the pieces back together and forget it ever happened.

Three days ago…

Ron and I are racing each other down to the Great Hall and when I go around a corner, I nearly crash into Professor McGonagall. She grabs me by the shoulders and before Ron crashes into me, I see her face is a pale, mottled color. Professors several feet behind her are trying to push a crowd of students into the Great Hall and back to their dormitories at the same. A few students have tears running down their cheeks. Most of them are pale and trembling a little. The Slytherins look triumphant. One of the younger girls in particular seems more upset than the others. I see Professor Sprout hugging her tightly to herself, her hand moving in slow and soothing circles on the girl's back.

I know something is wrong. Very wrong. There's red on the floor. It's nearly dried in the grooves between the stones that compose the old floor of the entrance hall. Someone must have been hurt. Fuck. Death Eaters. Maybe some got into the school. But how'd they get past the wards? Then I realize McGonagall is shaking me and saying something. Her eyes have an urgent, desperate look to them.

"Potter, go to the infirmary. You too, Weasley. Both of you. Just go, you'll know everything soon."

I hear Ron's voice behind me as he asks in a confused, yet demanding voice what was going on. He apparently doesn't wait for an answer because moments later he's shoving his way through the crowd. His anguished cry reaches my ears and my heart stops. It's Ginny or Hermione. It has to be one of them. But I don't want to believe it. McGonagall doesn't try to stop me as I pull away from her and run to the crowd. They part to let me through and finally began obeying the Professors.

I stop as I reach the front of the crowd. At first all I see was Ron knelt over a girl. I know that body. I know it as well as I know Ron's or mine. It's so small… When did she get that small? How didn't we notice? She'd seemed just fine. I step closer and my knees buckle. I don't bother to grab onto anything. I'm too stunned. The reality of it is finally hitting me. Hermione. On the floor. Something glints in her motionless hand. All I can see is red. Her legs, her arms, everywhere but her face. Her face and her hair are the only clean places left. Her uniform's growing stiff and turning a color between red and brown.

I reach out a shaking hand to brush her hair back and see a streak of dried blood. Someone's touched her already. Someone's lovingly pushed the lock of hair out of the way and gazed at her face. Gently caressed her cheek. I don't dwell on it. I can only stare at her in silence. The shock's taken away my voice. There isn't anything to say to the deafening silence of the hallway. The students have retreated and only the Professors, Ron, and I remain.

Dumbledore quietly walks to us, kneels on one knee, and hugs us both. Neither of us reacts until he gently pulls us to our feet and leads us to the infirmary to have a large dose of a dreamless sleep potion. When we come to again, Madame Pomfrey gives us another potion for shock and sends us to supper. Neither of us feels like eating anything at all. So we just sit there and gaze at our plates, locked into a trance. Everyone leaves us alone. The entire Gryffindor table is subdued.

Halfway through the meal, another startling bit of news trickles across the hall along the grapevine and eventually reaches my ears. Blaise Zabini found Draco Malfoy dead in the boys' bathroom shortly before lunch. Apparently he took his own life as well, by use of a rather complex potion. The ingredients were simple enough and it was quick to brew, but one slip and you became a vegetable for the rest of your life. Malfoy didn't fail. Potions class had always been his forte. I guess it came in handy in the end.

Now…

Nobody knows why he killed himself. Nobody knows why Hermione killed herself, either. Or even if they're connected. After her funeral, Dumbledore pulled us away to tell us the truth. We deserved to know the truth about our friend. Ron and I found out that Hermione wasn't as okay as we assumed she was. Her arms were covered in scars and shallow fresh wounds alongside the fatal ones. Her knuckles were scarred and enamel was wearing off her teeth. She'd fallen from the tightrope dividing underweight from normal.

Ron and I are sitting on his bed, shoulder to shoulder with the empty bottles on his pillow. Firewhiskey wasn't the only reason for our trip to Hogsmeade. Both of us have our apparation licenses now, so popping in to London isn't a problem for us. We took some money from my vault yesterday and spent it at a small shop on the outskirts of town. A quick memory charm, and now the man has no recollection of selling two handheld pistols to two young men.

I look to Ron and let the corners of my mouth tilt up slightly. He gives his own mouth the same privilege and I lift my hand to pat him on the shoulder. I close my eyes and rest my head against the wall behind me, letting my mind drift freely for a few minutes as my hand gently caresses the handle of the weapon in my lap. My pointer finger hooks around the trigger and I raise the pistol to my temple, feeling the coolness of the metal against my skin.

"Why?" I whisper to the air.

"Why?" Ron murmurs beside me.

Two shots ring out together as one and a ghostly mantra is lost in the smoke.

Why, why, goodbye.