Authors Note: (Before I begin, I would like you to please note that all poetry by me, is genuine and was not written with fanfiction or any fanfiction characters in mind. I would put my full name on it, except that my parents do not allow me to have my full name on the internet. So it is presented under the signature of citcat299. Also, someone has asked if they can use my work as a signature. The answer is yes, you can post my work anywhere you like under the condition that it MUST have my name on it somewhere, and NOBODY else's. Thankyou.)
Prologue
The winds of the world whistle through the rusty gate,
The green hues of the trees contrast roughly with the shiny red and yellow swing set,
Sounds of laughter long past echo silently through the graffiti'd tunnel,
It is empty and abandoned but not quite forgotten,
The little old woman on a sturdy wooden rocking chair stares out the window,
And remembers,
Children running wearing multicoloured clothing,
Giggling, shrieking in excitement,
A harmless game played for the last time one sunny Saturday afternoon,
The clomping and clattering of a playground in full swing,
The screeching of the fireman's pole and the cries of Marco Polo,
And a little boy wearing a bright blue shirt,
With a blindfolded face and a beautiful smile,
Stepping off the edge of the longest slide,
Falling,
Falling,
A broken body lying on the ground,
Tattered and stained with blood,
A blindfold slightly askew revealing an expression of slight surprise,
Two dark empty eyes staring into the cloudless blue sky,
After the ambulance took her brother away,
A sign was nailed on the fence the next day,
This Site had been Proclaimed Unsafe
So the playground slowly rusted away,
But the memories it had made still remained,
Never forgotten, forever contained
(The Playground, by citcat299)
-o-o-o-
Hermione ran. Ran from her life, her past, her pain. But most of all, her hate. The hate was consuming her from the inside. Sobbing, she hit the balcony hard knocking all the air out of her body, and she fumbled inside her pocket for her knife. Her release.
"Filthy little mudblood."
As the first drops of blood from her self mutilation dropped onto the rail and tricked to the ground she reflected through her pain and tears.
The blood was red.
Frantically she cut deeper and deeper trying to find the dirt, the dirt that according to him was supposed to make her filthy, unclean. The dirt that could release her from the hate that was incinerating her soul.
The blood was pouring to the ground now, in streams that joined and turned into rivers.
It was still red.
She hated herself for doing this, she hated Harry and Ron who had turned their backs on her, but most of all she hated Malfoy, whose hate had torn her life apart and still tore chunks out of her soul. The basted that caused the never-ending cycle of hate that ripped her apart from the inside and was slowly killing her. Because she was too weak to fight it. Because she was too weak to accept it.
She watched in morbid fascination as the knife slipped out of her bloody fingers and fell to the ground. As her knees crumbled and she collapsed into the pool of her own blood, encircling her head like an impure halo, the last thing she saw before her world went black was a pair of sliver grey eyes.
Watching.
-o-o-o-
