Phoenix stones and Stars

Chapter 2

Hermione studied the contents of her room, while Crookshanks clawed the pant of her jeans. She peered down at the orange furry face, the cats yellow eyes stared hesitantly up at her, almost as if he knew something Hermione didn't.

"Oh, don't look at me like that." Hermione said. Crookshank's meowed quietly, rubbing the side of his head against her ankle.

Hermione sighed, running her eyes over the clutter accompanying her room. Any clear space she would have had where stacked high with textbooks and muggle novels, a hobby that had followed her since her parents had gifted her, her first book as a toddler.

Ironically, it was a dictionary.

Her bed was made neatly, the sheets pulled tight against every corner, her pillows perfectly fluffed. There was not any indication that it had been used in a very long time.

The theory wasn't completely false. Hermione spent her days testing her limits when it came to rest, working and reading for as long as she could before, eventually, her body could no longer function, and she fell asleep where ever she saw fit. Sometimes it was the parlor sofa, or kitchen chair, or bathtub, most times was the cold panels of wood on the floor, only rarely did she actually use her bed.

And only rarely was she able to get more than an hour of rest before she was shook awake, told she was screaming and flailing limbs while unconscious.

The thin sheets that acted as curtains strung across her windows suddenly flew inwards, catching her attention.

A gust of stale-smelling air seeped through the small crack in the window, making the cover of a book nearby fly open, exposing a page.

She shook Crookshanks off her leg, walking over to the page, where a violent red line bordered a passage, something she often liked to do while reading.

She recognized the thin book as a composition of poems her mother had gifted her in 3rd year.

"Forever is composed of nows." The line surrounded in ink, read.

Another small breeze blew a curl into her face. She didn't bother to brush it away.

She whispered the words silently, tracing the page with the ends of her fingertips.

Five words that she had found interesting enough to outline. Something within her fell.

It felt like barbed wire had coiled around her chest and began constricting around it tightly, like a snake surrounding prey. She could practically taste the blood.

She knew what she needed to do, but wasn't sure if she wanted to accept it. Wasn't sure if she could.

If forever was composed of nows, she didn't wish to experience her 'forever'. What was an eternity if you could not truly live it? What was a life packed with never ending wars and fresh graves, seen through teary eyes?

She had to be the one to change her now, so she her 'forever' could be altered. Nobody was going to do it for her. Nowadays, nobody cared enough to pay attention to anyone but themselves. There was just no time, nor energy.

She acknowledged that her presence was not needed in the order. She was something they could loose. There where no people or branches of the resistance that would crumble if she vanished. She was replaceable. There was no one to place blame on, it was simply a fact.

She liked facts. She liked things she knew where truthful. Things she could rely on.

She had an advantage.

Hermione ripped the page out and shoved it in her pocket before closing the book, grabbing a purple beaded bag off of a nearby table. Opening it wide, she tossed the book inside, followed by the rest of her textbooks and novels, sweaters and the few scrappy pairs of shoes she had left.