She draws the knife slowly across her wrist, to get a tingling sensation on her skin.
Without the world at her feet she had nothing. No world to be her oyster. No dreams to come through. Without her friends she had no moral support, and nothing to fall back on. And she would keep on falling.
She retraces the invisible lines again, across both wrists. She closes her eyes and inhales the night air.
There was nobody to catch her, and nobody to set her straight and send her off marching. There was nobody she could turn to, for nobody would listen to her. And she had no chance in a world that did not listen. For as bright and bookish as she may be, she'll never be accepted. She is the outsider.
She runs the flat of the knife across her cheek. She caresses it lovingly; ignoring the line of blood it leaves dripping onto her white nightgown.
For as long as she is an outsider, she cannot survive in the world she was taught to love. For she remained the only one in her group of her friends left alive. And they kept her alive out of spite, to torture her mentally. It was a curse to stay among the living, in the form of survivor's guilt.
She breathes in, deep and opens her eyes to see blood splattered on her nightdress. Blood. Red. Warm. Blood. The cause of her downfall.
She is an outsider because she is of muggle heritage. In the world that has been carved from the war, there is no room for bad blood. There is no room for an unworthy chit of a girl like her. And yet they keep her alive, show no open prejudices. They make it impossible for her to get a job. And she has heard every excuse. Over-qualified. Denied. More suitable jobs elsewhere. Denied. Need experience. Denied.
She places her wand on the floor next to her, next to the knife. She smiles.
There is only one who would accept her. Purely out of spite. It was him, her childhood tormentor. The one who had begun the final countdown to the final battle. The one who had betrayed them all. And she had loved him from the start. She had loved the way his temper flared and they way he put others first. She had loved his secrecy, and his hidden nobility. She had understood his past, and saw no fault to his actions. She had loved the way he looked at her with his eyes. Eyes she could drown in.
She can see the lake from where she sits, so welcoming and calm. She lays down a third object in her line. Poison.
She had come to forgive his sins, and had made herself his own private scapegoat. And he vented his rage upon her, verbally abused her with insults and descriptions of murder. Murders of her friends. And she saw no wrong because she loved him. He still hated her, as he always had. He would kick and scream and hiss at her, he would belittle and degrade her. She had left him a note.
She can hear the wind rippling her clothes. She picks up the wand and banishes it, along with the knife to his bedchamber. Into the envelope she has left him. The envelope which contains now her wand, a knife; and a small piece of parchment.
The parchment reads, 'You are my salvation, and I love you.'
She brings the bottle to her lips and drinks it in one gulp. Within minutes she is near death and as her eyes flutter closed for the last time, and her red rosy lips begin to fade in their colour; a sound is heard in the wind.
A small hiss, an imaginary whimper forever lost in time. And all you would hear were you there is that small whimper, that last cry of, 'Severus.'