Title: Outcast
Summary: Love is like riding a broomstick. Some people are addicted to it and others just can't seem to get the hang of it.
Disclaimer: I own the plot, which makes me very happy.
Please read the following:
Due to deterioration in my wrists I can't type for very long let alone write. So updates for this story and all my others stories will probably last longer than expected. If you know other people that read my stories, please deliver them this message. Thanks!
A/N: Thank you soooo much quidditch7 for helping me on my way…AGAIN!
Everybody around Hermione cheered. Red and gold scarfs were being thrown into the air and people were being hoisted up one anothers shoulders. Down on the field she could see a small figure standing there, clutching his broom with one hand and making a fist with the other. She knew the snitch was in his hand. The match was over. Gryffindor had beaten Slytherin and won the housecup for 5 years in a row. Her eyes travelled through the air, looking for another small figure who undoubtedly was still on his broomstick. Ron loved his broom. It was almost like he was addicted to flying it. Once, back in the old days when they had been friends, he had told her how amazing it felt to soar through the air without a care in the world. How free he felt. How nobody could judge him. She remembered smiling at the thought of flying a broom with him. Even though she hated brooms and flying with a passion she would have loved to experience those feelings with him.
Sighing, she made her way over to the common room. People surrounding her were shouting and singing, planning a big party she knew she wouldn't be part of. Couldn't. Everybody still loathed her. Brushing a strand of hair out of her face she noticed a tear gliding down her cheek. She wanted to be part of this school again. She wanted to have friends. Most of all she wanted Harry and Ron to forgive her for what she had done.
Yes. She knew now. After that memory, or 'dream' as she had stubbornly called it ever since, had come back to her again she had realised that everything was her fault. Nobody did this to her. She had done it to herself.
Up until now she had refrained from hurting herself. She felt that she didn't deserve to feel sorry for herself, and that cutting would only lead her to wallow in her misery. She didn't deserve that. She deserved all the pain and torture that was bestowed upon her. She needed to be strong, to deal with the pain.
Walking into the commonroom she smelled the firewhiskey and immediately remembered everything over and over again. Her clothes. Her predatory walk. The way Harry's eyes had slightly largened before she had kissed him. How he tried to struggle, to push her away. How she wouldn't let him and kept kissing him, kept forcing him to kiss back until Ginny had stormed in. She remembered being smacked. The look on Ron's face, both incredulous and angry. Beyond angry. She felt all of this coming back and a stabbing pain seered through her chest.
She had gotten drunk. She had thought of such a horrible plan disregarding her friends feelings entirely. That had been the night she ruined everything. She couldn't ever fix this again.
She needed to hurt herself, punish herself for all that she had done that night. For all the other people's lives she had ruined. Hot tears streaked down her face as she ran towards the portraithole, all the while feeling someones eyes on her. Ron's eyes.
She needed to get away. To anywhere. Some place she'd be safe where no one would care about what she was doing. The prefect's bathroom! That would be perfect. She could lock the door, seal it with a spell and nobody would find her, even if (which was highly unlikely) they would come looking for her.
Falling down to the floor she hugged herself, crying. He had called her names all day again. She thought she would have been used to it by now. Ron had called her so many things in the past few months but it still stung her everytime. He had been such a caring friend and it seemed so weird to hear such harsh words from him directed towards her. She was used to hearing him call Malfoy and Parkinson names. She could deal with him cursing Snape under his breath – though she did not approve. But knowing that every one of those hurtful comments was directed at her was more than she could take. She knew the pleasure with which he had said those words.
Still feeling the need to punish herself she took her razor out of her robe. It was old, not very sharp anymore, and dried blood dulled the shine of the metal. It didn't matter. It still worked to soothe her pain, to get rid of all those guilt feelings. A few more cuts and she'd be clean again. Innocent.
She was about to drive the razor in her flesh –already craving the sweet stinging sensation – when she heard someone on the other side of the door. A soft curse when the normal unlocking spell didn't work. Soft scratching, like someone was trying to wriggle something in the lock to make it open. She held her breath, her heart racing and her hand still holding the razor firmly in place.
When the door finally opened Ron stepped inside. In his hand he held Sirius' knife, the one Harry had gotten in fifth year to open any door. He looked at her, just once, and shook his head.
"Don't do that Hermione"
She looked back at him, surprised. Did he care about her? Is that why he was here? To stop her hurting herself?
She was about to open her mouth when his look changed. It became colder, more hurtful, as if he had suddenly remembered whom he was speaking to.
"You don't deserve to feel sorry for yourself"
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