/interlude
Violent Minds by VUKOVI
Hermione wondered if the trees had always looked dead.
Curled up with her knees to her chest in the window seat, she was sure they hadn't. That the only reason why they looked dead now was because everything did. The moment she plunged the knife into Draco's throat, she'd felt a part of her soul die. Even if Narcissa hadn't come when she had - whether he was alive now or not - everything was still dead to her. Aurora. Her magic. Light. Draco.
The land.
Tears dripped steadily down her cheeks, as they had been since she awoke, and her food sat untouched on the table behind her. She watched the trees rustling their brittle leaves and gnarled branches with a hollow emptiness in her chest.
She'd fancied him since Sixth Year. Possibly since before that. And she'd hated herself for so long for it. She'd thought it was Ron, but whenever she slept, she saw Draco's silver eyes. When she snogged Krum, she imagined it was Draco's Slytherin tongue in her mouth. When she cried over the sight of Ron snogging Lavender, she never told Harry that it was the thought that she would never be with the person she truly wanted to be with because of who he was. When he gave her the blanket, she'd offered herself to him for more reasons than gratitude.
And she was all the more stupid for it.
She watched the trees as they swayed dead in the wind and wondered if Draco would even come back. He was well within his rights to let her rot. She felt rotten. She was no better than Voldemort. Striking things down that stood in her way. She was a bloody fool.
Hermione hugged her knees tighter and sobbed. She was so tired of living with regrets. Regrets about not getting Aurora and herself off the island while there were still boats leaving, all those years ago. Regrets about giving up the good fight, about letting the Dark Lord have the victory even while the Order still stood. Now the Order was gone, and so was any hope of the future she once dreamed of.
A future she didn't deserve. Not anymore.
As she had been doing for hours, she racked her brain again for a sign that Draco deserve what she'd done to him. She found nothing. No hints. No signs. He hadn't hurt her intentionally. He'd been kind. He'd risked his life.
And she stabbed him. She'd stabbed him, betrayed him, hurt him, and he still sent Tinky back to take the knife from her. He still sent Tinky back to keep her safe one more time.
What would it matter if she died now? Aurora was dead. She had to be. Even if she wasn't dead, Hermione was a bad person. A murderer.
Hermione's eyes swept the grounds below. She wished she could jump. She was tired of suffering. She was tired of there being no hope.
She was tired of being the sort of person who slept with men on the street and then stabbed people who showed her kindness in the neck.
It didn't matter if the tree had always looked dead. They were dead, and when Draco returned, she was as good as dead, too.