“Really, it’s no wonder she hasn’t got any friends!”
The line flew through her head over and over again, bouncing off one side of her skull and crashing into the other. It was true, to a degree. Sure she had Harry and Ron, but not really. She had trouble tolerating them at times. For all Harry’s heroism and puppy-like loyalty, he also had a puppy-like daftness. And Ron, well, what is there to say about Ron any way? He’s fairly two dimensional, really.

Hermione had never really gotten on well with other girls, even Ginny. She just wasn’t girly enough for them. She didn’t care quite enough to wage war against her hair every day, and make up seemed such a silly idea with her hair like that. And clothes, well, she could keep up with muggle trends to a degree, when she went shopping with her mother over the summer. Witchy trends, however, proved to be a lost cause on Mudblood Granger.

“Really, it’s no wonder she hasn’t got any friends!”
Sometimes Hermione wondered why the wizarding world was so backwards. How many times had she been researching something desperately, wishing there was some sort of Google function. And how many times had she spilled an ink well and, after using a quick cleansing charm, wondered what was so horrible about a type-writer. Right now, though, she missed internet messaging. There were people she knew, muggles, whom she could only talk to during breaks because she knew them only over the internet.

Perhaps it wasn’t entirely safe, but Hermione liked the idea of having someone to talk to, someone she would never meet in real life. It had a liberating feel to it. She could tell them things she wouldn’t think of saying to Harry or Ron or especially her parents. Talking about things like boys, drinking (she didn’t drink often, only when it seemed necessary) and, probably most importantly, talking about being so completely lonely.

The one she talked to most openly on messengers was called Tom. Tom really was a wonderful person. She often, at least recently, wished she knew him in real life. He really was her best friend, if not her only real friend. It was a depressing thought, she had never met her best friend, and she had to lie to him. Really, she couldn’t very well tell him, a muggle, that she went to a secret wizardry school in Scotland that no non-magical person had ever seen. Well, she could, but he wouldn’t believe her. Or would he? No, that was out of the question.

“Really, it’s no wonder she hasn’t got any friends!”
Missing Tom, Hermione really just wanted someone to talk to just then. More over, she wanted someone she could cuddle up next to, who would put his arm around her and let her know she really was worth the air she breathed. That was something else she’d never had, a boyfriend, or even a boy interested in her. Sure Krum (she still didn’t like calling him Viktor, except to use him in an argument with Ron or Harry…mostly Ron.) had asked her to the Yule Ball, but she wasn’t going to fool herself. He’d only asked her because she was close to Harry, and Harry was competition. She was just so impossibly lonely! In a castle full of people, she felt as alone as if in some deserted ruins.

Hermione dragged herself from her thoughts. It wasn’t healthy and she knew it. The bottle of firewhisky in her hand was also unhealthy, but sobriety was such an unattractive thought. Besides, she had no classes tomorrow, it was Friday night.

Both of her parents were arrow straight and didn’t condone anything like underage drinking, but Hermione thought her mother was more, well, realistic. She believed her daughter wouldn’t break the law by drinking underage or doing drugs or anything sexual, but cautionary comments came her way anyway. “It’s a real sign when someone starts drinking alone” the girl said aloud. She remembered a time her mother asked her about the effectiveness of medical magic. Did it work as well as an extra-strength Tylenol for a headache? How well did it work as a contraceptive? Hermione remembered being slightly less than comfortable during that talk. “It works like magic,” she’d said facetiously. Hermione had never used a contraceptive charm. She’d never had need to. On the other hand, she’d worked miracles on hangovers after long nights of lonely drinking plenty of times.

She set down her firewhisky again and checked on the potion brewing by her bed. It was, in a way, a permanent fix to hangovers. It would even taste a bit sweet, much like the thought of never waking up to nausea and headaches and pain again. It was a burnt orange color that reminded her of what pumpkins looked like in twilight. Oh, now that sounded poetic. Or perhaps it was just the alcohol making her think that. It didn’t really matter all that much.

Hermione’s mind tried hard to come up with specific times of the past that had led up to this. Was there any one thing that could have been different and changed everything? It made her head hurt to think. Soon enough, the potion let out a green puff of smoke, signaling that it was ready. That was the wonderful thing about potions: if you did it right, they would always tell you specifically. The trick was actually doing it right.

Tilting the bottle back and finishing the last of the firewhisky, Hermione put out the flame under the reduced-sized cauldron and cooled it enough that holding it wouldn’t burn. She checked the adjusted Daily Prophet. She’d changed the headline to read “Brightest Witch of Her Age Creates Permanent Pain Potion” the article had been erased. It was as much of an explanation as anyone would get, not as if anyone would care, any way.

“Really, it’s no wonder she hasn’t got any friends!”
Hermione drank her potion with the finesse of a professional drunk. She had been right. It was sweet. It tasted a little strongly of cinnamon, but that wasn’t particularly horrible. It worked quickly, she already felt light headed, heavy and happy. Happy? It made sense, in a twisted sort of way. She made sure the mock headline was easily visible, and lay down on her bed, knowing full well there was more than enough poison hemlock in the potion to ensure she’d never again wake up with a hangover, or at all.

She felt the paralysis spread throughout her system, slowly making its way to her heart and brain, and several hours later, didn’t feel a thing as her body was removed from its bed by some person or another, as secretly as was possible in a school where rumors flew so quickly.

“I heard some Gryffindor girl died!”
“I heard she killed herself!”
“It was that Granger girl; she always did keep to herself.”
“Mudblood Granger’s gone?”
“Don’t call her that!”
“Was there a note?”
“I heard she left one, but nobody knows what it said.”
“Potter probably knows!”
“Maybe we shouldn’t be so careless about someone dead”
“Oh, she’s dead, she won’t care.”