A/N: This was a story I posted a long, long, time ago. Now it's back!
*Applause* Anyway, it's very...er....strange. But please take the time to
read and review.
Disclaimer: I disclaim. Everything.
Hermione looked at the window for snowflakes. There were none. Not even tiny drops of rain pressing themselves against the glass. Just grey nothingness, bare skeletons of gnarled trees and dirty old snow on the ground. The sky was colorless.
She looked around the room. Five beds lined up in a row, perfectly draped with maroon velvet. Her wastebasket overflowing with tissues soaked in tears, torn up letters and report cards. The thick, plush carpet.
She didn't feel anything except old. Not old as in years, but old as if she had been here forever, sitting by the window, her back forced to be straight by the hard chair she was sitting in. Old as in tired of life. Not tired exactly. All she felt was old.
Hermione could feel somebody's footsteps coming in.
"'Mione," somebody called, "What's wrong?"
Hermione looked up at Ron. "Well, nothing's wrong. Except that Crookshanks is missing. Viktor's in the hospital. My mom was diagnosed with cancer. I failed Astronomy for the term. And, to top it all off, we were supposed to get thirty centimetres of snow starting three hours ago but none has come. So I'm just sitting here waiting."
"Ah," said Ron. "So you're upset about the snow?"
"Not really," answered Hermione softly. "I'm not exactly upset. I don't feel mad or sad or anything. Just old, as if I've been sitting here for centuries."
"A good cry would help," murmured Ron quietly.
"I'm too empty to cry," she replied.
"Oh."
They sat there for a while and waited for the snow.
"Look," said Ron. "Isn't that a snowflake on the window?"
"A speck of dust," said Hermione bitterly, the cold back of the chair pressing against her.
"You're such a pessimist."
"How can you ever expect me to be an optimist in this sort of situation?"
Ron was silent.
"No snow," Hermione whispered. "There never will be. And the world will end like this, all grey, without a proper The End to save us."
"You're crazy."
"I'm not."
"Then you're depressed."
"I'm not." Hermione swallowed. "I'm just waiting for the end to come."
"Why don't you wait for the beginning instead?"
"Because the beginning was years ago. I was there in the beginning. That's why I feel ancient and..."
"Look," said Ron.
"At what?"
"At the window."
Hermione turned her head and watched silently as flecks of white moistened the glass.
Disclaimer: I disclaim. Everything.
Hermione looked at the window for snowflakes. There were none. Not even tiny drops of rain pressing themselves against the glass. Just grey nothingness, bare skeletons of gnarled trees and dirty old snow on the ground. The sky was colorless.
She looked around the room. Five beds lined up in a row, perfectly draped with maroon velvet. Her wastebasket overflowing with tissues soaked in tears, torn up letters and report cards. The thick, plush carpet.
She didn't feel anything except old. Not old as in years, but old as if she had been here forever, sitting by the window, her back forced to be straight by the hard chair she was sitting in. Old as in tired of life. Not tired exactly. All she felt was old.
Hermione could feel somebody's footsteps coming in.
"'Mione," somebody called, "What's wrong?"
Hermione looked up at Ron. "Well, nothing's wrong. Except that Crookshanks is missing. Viktor's in the hospital. My mom was diagnosed with cancer. I failed Astronomy for the term. And, to top it all off, we were supposed to get thirty centimetres of snow starting three hours ago but none has come. So I'm just sitting here waiting."
"Ah," said Ron. "So you're upset about the snow?"
"Not really," answered Hermione softly. "I'm not exactly upset. I don't feel mad or sad or anything. Just old, as if I've been sitting here for centuries."
"A good cry would help," murmured Ron quietly.
"I'm too empty to cry," she replied.
"Oh."
They sat there for a while and waited for the snow.
"Look," said Ron. "Isn't that a snowflake on the window?"
"A speck of dust," said Hermione bitterly, the cold back of the chair pressing against her.
"You're such a pessimist."
"How can you ever expect me to be an optimist in this sort of situation?"
Ron was silent.
"No snow," Hermione whispered. "There never will be. And the world will end like this, all grey, without a proper The End to save us."
"You're crazy."
"I'm not."
"Then you're depressed."
"I'm not." Hermione swallowed. "I'm just waiting for the end to come."
"Why don't you wait for the beginning instead?"
"Because the beginning was years ago. I was there in the beginning. That's why I feel ancient and..."
"Look," said Ron.
"At what?"
"At the window."
Hermione turned her head and watched silently as flecks of white moistened the glass.