Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

She ran down the hall, her heart pounding in rhythm with her quick footsteps. She knew she looked suspicious, although it wasn't even after hours yet; but she knew it was better not to be seen. Being seen evoked talking, conversation, questions. Always questions. Questions and more questions. Questions with obvious answers and questions with no answers. Questions like: What is that you are carrying in your hand? And questions like: Why are you carrying a razor blade in your hand?

She glanced down at the gleaming blade in her fingertips and shivered in anticipation. Her heart beat quicker and she ran faster. Almost there, she told herself. Almost ready to start.

Almost ready to end.

She rounded the corner and breathed out slowly. She had made it. She was not caught. Not that being caught would be that bad. She would be found eventually. And there was nothing anyone could do to her that was worse than what she was about to do to herself.

She whispered a few familiar words, sweet on her tongue, and waited for the door to open. It did, and she slipped inside, scanning her surroundings with vague distaste. This would not do. She needed something more dramatic, more majestic, less like the life she was leading and more like the one she was headed toward.

A few words, a few waves of her wand, and she was done. The dusty classroom was transformed into a haunting, yet beautiful crypt. The desks were gone and were replaced by thousands of white candles flickering gently in glittering crystal chandeliers; the walls and lush carpet were a deep crimson.

Her blood would blend in nicely.

She strode in slowly, almost regally, as a queen promenades to her throne - her head high, her eyes bright, reflecting the candlelight. As a prisoner walks to the gallows.

She stopped in the center of the room and turned abruptly. She whipped her wand through the air and the door shut itself. A few muttered spells, and it was locked. Nothing that couldn't be broken easily, but she didn't want her body resting here forever.

She rotated slowly, staring at the flames of the candles until they blurred in her eyes. She felt a tear slide down her cheek and realized she was crying. She sank to the ground, setting the blade aside, falling on her knees, letting her tears flow. She buried her head in the carpet momentarily and gave into the tears.

The moment passed. She rose slowly to her knees, her cheeks shiny with tears, her eyelashes wet.

"Tom," she whispered hoarsely, shakily. "I'm coming."

She suddenly stopped shaking, stopped crying. Her face hardened, her eyes glared with defiance.

She picked up the blade next to her feet, her hands steady, her motions controlled. She raised it high in the air and whipped it down, enjoying the hiss it made cutting through the air. She gritted her teeth.

She placed the blade above her wrist and closed her eyes momentarily, gathering strength.

She held her breath and sliced into her arm, carefully cutting a straight line. She bit her lip against the pain and watched, fascinated, as her blood trailed out of her wrist and ran down her hand, dripping onto the thick carpet. The sight of her blood gave her courage, and she slit a perpendicular line, ignoring the pain and reveling in the warm crimson blood rushing down her hand. Excited, addicted, she quickly carved a circle and a few more lines on her wrist. She stopped momentarily to enjoy her handiwork.

T O M

Her heart racing, hands quivering with hunger for more of her blood, she ripped her robe off and slashed into her calves, her stomach, her side, her thighs, her upper arms. She carved Tom's name countless times, along with random, deeper, more violent cuts.

She soon began to feel faint and knew there was not much time left. She did not hurt; she was beyond the point of feeling pain. She knew she would be with him soon. She collapsed on to the carpet warm and sticky with her own blood. She ran her finger along a gash in her stomach and traced Tom's name on the carpet beside her.

A wave of dizziness and sickness engulfed her and she knew this was the end. She was almost there. Almost to the end. Close to the start. She groped for the blade and held it in a shaking, sticky hand stained crimson. She lay there for a moment, reveling in the sensation of her blood flowing out of her.

Then she plunged the blade into her heart, closed her eyes, and smiled.