Disclaimer: I don't own it. I'm not claiming to own it.

Sometimes I wonder if Harry and Ron really know me. If anyone really knows me. If I really know me.

No one has noticed any changes in me. They haven't seen anything in the way I act, the way I talk, the smile I need to force upon my face when it's appropriate. No one has realized that I'm dying inside, drowning, suffocating in my thoughts, my memories, my knowledge...

"Pass the potatoes, Hermione?"

I forced the smile in place. Picked up the potatoes and passed them to Neville.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

My mask was in place. Intermission was over and it was time to get back onstage.

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

I couldn't think. No, that's wrong; thinking seems to be the only thing I can do.

I couldn't concentrate. Not on my work, not on what my friends were saying.

I needed to leave. To just run and run and never look back. To fall off the face of the earth. Get a new identity in a new country, pretend to be someone else just so I wouldn't have to be Hermione Granger anymore. So I wouldn't have to think or know.

I wanted to, but I couldn't. I couldn't do anything anymore. Nothing I wanted to do, at least.

I need to get out. I need to be alone.

"Are you all right, Hermione? You've been staring at the fire for the past ten minutes," Ron said.

"Yes, I'm fine. Just tired," I replied, rubbing my eyes for effect.

"So am I...I think I'll go up to bed," Ron said, standing and stretching. "Coming, Harry?"

Harry seemed to jump at that. "Sure, Ron." Recovering quickly. There's something wrong with Harry, and if there wasn't something wrong with me, I would've noticed sooner.

Somehow, I can't bring myself to care.

I waited a few minutes after they went up, and then left the Common Room.

The Owlery isn't that peaceful at night. There are always owls swooping in and out. But it gave me what I needed: privacy and air.

I leaned on one of the windowsills, elbows resting on the ledge, hands gripping my hair. I didn't have the ability to keep the memories away any longer, and I let them take me away.

Dad didn't drive quickly. I wondered why. His teeth were clenched, a strange look on his face. His knuckles were white against the wheel, but he spoke calmly when asking how I was doing. He said we didn't talk enough anymore. I thought that I didn't want to talk, but I didn't say anything.

I didn't want to be there. I wanted to be at home, reading a book or watching a film or something on the telly. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to scream and cry. Anything but sit quietly, hands in my lap, a neutral expression on my face and listening to my father tell me we didn't talk enough anymore.

I noticed a bunch of dead flowers in front of a gravestone as we passed a cemetery.

I wondered if it would be him underground soon, dead flowers decorating his grave.

Dad pulled into the parking lot. Found Mum's car. Parked next to it. Got out. He didn't wait for me, but that was okay.

The ground was wet. My shoes squeaked on the floor as I entered the building. People stared as we walked up to the desk, talked to the woman, asked her what room he was in and if we were allowed to go back...

An owl brushed against my head. I forced myself back to the present. I couldn't stay there, so I left.

A/N: Constructive criticism is welcome. It's what all writers need to get better at what they do. And I'd love to hear your thoughts about this.