Scattered Leaves

Hermione stared out the window of the North Tower at the grey, cloudy skies beyond. She sighed heavily, giving herself up to the warm, deep blackness of depression. They're all wrong, thought Hermione. They don't understand at all. They can't cheer me up, they can't bribe me to live. This is truly the only way. Near the end of the War, the enmity between Slytherin and Gryffindor Houses had flared up, culminating in the Betrayal. Now it was more of a half-hearted 'for old-times' sake' malevolence, especially as there were only about three or four students in each year left to both Houses. Her thoughts drifted back to the latest in a series of spats between herself and Pansy Parkinson....

...Hermione hurried into the castle, cloak wrapped tightly around her for warmth and comfort. She had returned from her nightly sojourn of remembrance and sorrow at the lake's edge. She started to turn and make a comment to Ron on a certain painting in the corridor, stopping as she realized that Ron was dead. Ron was dead and Harry was gone. St. Mungo's was a cruel, cold place, full of memories and broken dreams, broken shells of once-people with nothing left but the outside appearance. One such broken dream, one of these disappointed hopes, whose cracked shell lived on in the icy prison of the hospital, was Harry Potter. Hermione gave a little whimper of despair before steeling her resolve and continuing on. Lost in deep contemplations of life after the War, her mind wasn't exactly on the corridor in front of her. WHAM!

"Stupid cunt!" cried Pansy Parkinson, one of the few remaining students of Slytherin House. "Does Little Miss Paragon-of-Purity Granger think that she is so far superior to the rest of us poor wretched creatures that she cannot deign to watch her steps? Or do you just want an excuse to grope me? More likely, the second. You have to stoop to me, a lowly Slytherin, because you can't snare anyone else to save your life. Let me ask you something, O ye of the eternally bushy hair," - here Pansy's voice dropped conspiratorially - "Have you ever noticed that people avoid you? That they watch you with worried eyes when they think you're not looking? They think you've finally gone off the deep end. I think they're wrong. I think you went off the deep end years ago, the first time you tried and failed to please your very first lover. Poor pitiful pearl, you can't even take - or give! - comfort in the bedchamber. I know your secret, even if nobody else does. They'll guess soon enough, though, never fear.Too bad, so sad, cry me a river." Pansy stopped at the look in Hermione's eyes, one of utter and complete hopelessness - and, not surprisingly, a touch of pure rage. Hermione cut in with a tone no less coldly scathing than the Slytherin's, eyes flashing.

"You know what, Parkinson? I don't care anymore. It's over now. Your precious Dark Lord's gone, defeated by an old man and three schoolchildren. Maybe my life's in ruins, but at least I'm not a mindless lemming. Have a nice day, Pansy. If you must." With that, Hermione swept past Pansy, face ashen with rage, her mouth set in a hard line. Pansy stared after her with wide eyes, mouth slightly agape, before shaking herself mentally and proceeding on...

...Fresh tears welled up in Hermione's eyes at the renewed pain of rejection and harsh truth. The stress of the times was threatening to break Hermione, as well it might; the death of one best friend, the insanity of the other, the terrible strain of being a high-profile, key player in this ultimate chess game of life and death, and finally, this tiny, stinging insult - all was more than enough to bring even the strongest-willed witch to the brink of despair.

Hermione let the tears stream down her cheeks, tasting the salt on her lips, staring resolutely out into the dusk. She moved to the window, lifting the sash almost reverently and gazing out. As though in a trance, she climbed up onto the sill and looked down in wonderment at the empty grounds hundreds of meters below. So close now...so close to her beloved. One step...just one tiny step among thousands taken. Out, out into the cold November mist she fell, eyes closed, finally at peace. She never felt the landing, never felt her fragile body shatter against the jagged rocks below, never saw her fate drawing nearer and nearer, never panicked. Never saw her sole watcher turn from his window in sorrow, mourning wordlessly.