I trace the faded grey marks that line the underside of my hand, a tattoo I've received from the endless amounts of study and writing that I have put myself through. I let my fingers roam across the thin lines of my palms, tempting myself to memorize the indents, to study the lines as if it were an essay. Life will never be the same.
Thinking back, I remember when I'd write my homework as if I were writing a soft lullaby for a child, delicately dotting my I's and crossing my T's. To me, this was my work of art. A Mona Lisa created by myself to show off to the world. I'd continuously fix it and correct any errors. My work was brilliant, and yet I wanted it to be flawless, without a single imperfection. What a waste. None of that matters anymore.
Unlike other girls, my body was never important to me. My body meant nothing to me, compared to my mind. If my body were broken and weak, it wouldn't matter, I could still create a million stories in my mind, I could still produce fantastic inventions; knowledge was my drug, and I was completely addicted to its toxic haze.
My body is fragile now, and what I wouldn't give to forgo my mind for the strength I need to continue living, to continue breathing. I don't want to think anymore. My thoughts are not of timetables, or magical potions; nor are they of courage and dignity. My thoughts are only for my friends, and what I have done to them.
I've always been transparent. I can't lie; my smile doesn't hide this fact. I can't, and yet I have now got away with more than what I have ever imagined, and this knowledge is slowly killing me. The drug that once got me high, that made me feel as though I was invincible, is now my curse.
My fingers dwindle lightly over my arms, attempting to ward away the shivers attacking my body. But I'm not cold; I'm just coming down from my high.
As my body shakes I try to focus on the grey marks on my wrists, willing my mind to think of the past, to remember my works of art, and the pain I went through to make them perfect, but my attempts are in vain.
I look out over the deserted room, trying to block out the images that assault my brain. Harry, Ron, Neville, Ginny. What have I done? What have I done?
I just wanted to know, my desire, my hunger for knowledge drove me to the one I knew had all the answers. Voldemort. There was a reason he wanted to rule the world, a reason he'd turned to the dark side all those years ago, and I longed to know.
I'd cry myself to sleep at night, furiously write notes to try and starve off this need. By the end my body was slowly breaking down, and I'd wake up in a cold sweat every night. I needed him; I needed him to fix me, to complete me. Without him I was nothing, my years of struggling a waste without this bit of knowledge.
...All he wanted in return was a meeting. What harm is there in a meeting?
I will my mind to stop thinking of what I've done, to attempt to remember the good times, but my mind will not do what I ask of it, and so I slump on the cold ground, the blood of my friends glimmering in the light, and rock myself back and forth, it was just a mistake... I didn't ask for power, I didn't ask for beauty, I just needed a little more knowledge, to keep me going... Until next time...