T R A I N E D T O S I N | dramione

Twenty One

Tw: mention of suicide.

Hermione woke to the familiar comfort of her bed sheets. Her weary eyes opened in a row of slow blinks. It was still dark outside, stars lit up the ,what she presumed to be, early night sky. But when she sat up, her head felt heavy, heavy enough that she nearly fell back and resumed her place on the pillow.

But it wasn't her head. It was her neck.

The icy prick of metal bit into her skin and she snatched her hands upwards, clawing at the collar and trying to slip her fingers beneath it to possibly pry it off. But the collar was skin-tight, hugging her neck so tightly it was as though she was slowly suffocating.

In a way she was...with grief. The memory hit her so hard that she had to dig her hands into the duvet in order to steady herself and avoid falling backwards. Neville was dead. And it had been at her hands.

Her bed had never looked so inviting, the urge to lie back down and sleep for the rest of her days was stronger than it had ever been before, but she couldn't allow herself such pleasure. There were questions she needed answering. Ones she had been deprived of. She deserved to know considering she was at least part Death Eater now. Surely that gave her the slightest bit entitlement.

The floor fanned out across the bare soles of her feet, like an icy breath, as she slid off the side of the bed. She swayed for a moment, using the moment to try and pry her mind away from the painful memory of Neville's dead eyes. She hadn't even closed them.

Her legs led her to her door, each action hardly thought out in the void that was now her mind and to her surprise, the door opened with ease. She supposed that the collar granted insurance that even given the chance, she wouldn't try to leave the manor and she didn't have the resources to kill anyone to do it anyway. She trudged through the doorway, footsteps still light and inaudible even in her carelessness.

Part of her wanted to leave her thoughts be, almost guilty for thinking she had the right to give herself peace after doing such a thing. She didn't deserve it, she deserved to feel every bit of despair.

The thought of his body, discarded in the corner of that room, no doubt already smelling, and the poor souls who would have to live with it, was too much for her to bare. They would see the blood-stained floor, and they wouldn't need to see the body in the corner to know it was there: the smell would be enough. And they knew Hermione had done it. Every single prisoner, apart from the bodies lied across the floor who Hermione couldn't tell were even breathing, had witnessed her murder Neville.

Hermione couldn't bare the feeling of the metal ring around her much longer, draining her mind of anything warm, clouding her own conscious with a confusing fog. She supposed it went nicely with the emptiness of her hollow chest.

Then she realised, even if she was to escape, she could never go back. Not with the death of Neville on her hands. No one would know any better, probably welcome her back with open arms but she wouldn't be able to handle it.

Would they understand? If she was to tell them she had no choice, no will, would they ever forgive her. The thought of Harry's face, of the whole Orders reaction. Even if they could, she could never forgive herself.

She would have to live with it for the rest of her miserable life. Whether it be spent with her friends or with Voldemort, building up the number of new deaths she would have to live with.