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.

A/N: Ok Ok you got me. Thanks to a lot of pleading I won't disable anonymous reviews. The good reviews definitely outdo the bad ones anyway. Sorry that I haven't updated in forever, I've been operated on my wrist for like...the sixth time or whatever. So, I can't type, which sucks cause I love writing this story. Sorry for the shortness of this chapter!

I don't know what is happening to me. I don't know why. People are whispering behind my back, I am used to that. But something is different. The atmosphere is less...hostile. I get smiles. Do you know how weird it is to see someone smile at you when you've been treated like crap for over a year? Let's just say it is very very strange. And it makes me wonder. Wonder what is going on. If they're playing some kind of joke at me. If they're just doing this to make me feel accepted again so they can dump me in the end. It feels like it, though maybe people would say that I don't give them enough credit. Well, if your so-called friends dump you, you don't really keep trusting them, now do you?

It's strange, walking through the halls without getting into trouble. Well, Malfoy has called me some stupid insult, but that's just all in a days' work isn't it? Strange thing is, I was pretty sure a voice – Ginny's voice – told him to shut up. Ginny! The person who told me to drop dead, quite literally.

I wasn't really sure what I had expected to happen after my grand confession, but it surely wasn't this. People are acting so nice towards me that it feels like they really mean it. Yet I'm sure they can't be. I don't know how to deal with this. There's only one way I know.

Hide. Shy away. To my room, where I feel safe and not so self-conscious. To my oversized clothes that hide my skeleton-like figure. To my razor that ironically enough takes the pain away.

Yes, it is weak, I know, but I am so confused. And it is so easy. So damn easy to drive that razor into my arms and temporarily forget the world around me. Just watching that blood welling up in the harsh cuts makes my day better. Not so confusing. At least when I am cutting I know what I am doing – supposed to do – and who I am. Hermione Granger. A pathetic witch. A boyfriend stealer. A good for nothing loser. I have been that person for so long that it is difficult to let go of and become someone else. Too difficult.

I know that if Ron finds out – or rather, when he finds out – he'll ignore me again. He made me promise not to hurt myself anymore. That was about the only thing he had said to me, apart from a few short hellos and see-you-laters. Of course I had promised him, and of course I had broken that promise. To be honest, I don't know if I would mind him ignoring me. See, thing is, it would be easier. I wouldn't have to worry about the future – for I had none. Not with Ron anyway. Now that he talked to me again, if you could call it that, my heart started thinking and hoping...maybe he would love me again...maybe we'd be together...

The prospect of such beautiful things scared me, much like flying had. I knew that if I eventually would take off I'd love it, love the view, the feel of being free, but I was too scared to take the first step. I am in love with Ron but too scared to even think of being more than acquaintances or perhaps one day friends again. So yes, not talking to him would definitely be easier.

"Hey Hermione"

"Hi Lavender"

I greeted. I had always found Lavender rather nice. She had never been as mean to me as the other Gryffindors had. And when she was, at least she looked like she was sorry.

"Would you..."

She started, but someone interrupted her. Harry.

"Leave her alone Lavender."

Harry grabbed my arm rather roughly and I pulled away with a gasp. How dare he!

"I can decide who to hang with on my own perfectly well thank you."

I said with a rather defiant tone, anger searing through my body. What the hell did he think he was doing?

"You don't want to 'hang' with her..."

"Trying a new smear-campaign now that I have admitted my guilt? Pathetic!"

I spat, wondering where my new-found courage came from. Maybe it was because these new rows weren't about me, about what I'd done. They didn't concern me much. And maybe it was because I tended to believe the best of people – unlike Harry, Ron or Ginny.

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