Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

Warnings: OOC-ness, death, murder

Note: Written for the Quidditch League Competition (keyhole, "I'm an idealist. I don't know where I'm going yet but I'm on my way" Carl Sandburg, genre: horror) and the Psychological!AU Competition (obsessive compulsive disorder).

Burn

Cleanliness had always been a must in their household. Her parents were both dentists and prided themselves in their top-of-the-notch sterile workplace and equipment, so it wasn't too surprising when a similar standard was set in their home. Their house was neat but not overly so, and weekly cleanings sufficed in keeping it manageable.

It's not like her parents were particularly strict about cleanliness, so Hermione wasn't exactly sure when this habit of hers started. The thought of bacteria had always repulsed her since she learned about them in primary school. Hermione felt a vindictive sense of justice when she cleaned, killing the revolting disease carriers. Sunday cleanings were heaven to her.

Just thinking about the billions of bacteria out there made her skin crawl, and several times she had burst into tears when boys chased her. Because to her, cooties were very real.

But as she grew older, her peers started to avoid her. Hermione knew the reason. Her intellect and desire to display it came off as off-putting to many people. She didn't mind though. There was no fear of spreading germs when there was no one to spread them to.

Hermione had already graduated high school and had been taking online courses for a year now. She was hesitant to even consider the prospect of whisking herself away to a big university packed with thousands of strangers. Sharing a dorm with another person would be a nightmare. Hermione could visualize the scene clearly. Clothes littering the floor, trash in every corner, a toe-curling odor masked unsuccessfully by the powerful, eye-watering spray of cheap perfume. A shiver of revulsion ran down the knobs of her spine, her lips twisting downwards in disgust.

Taking her classes online was the safer option.

Her parents weren't demanding of her, not understanding but knowing her desire to indulge in books rather than the company of others, worrying them in her earlier years. After all, she not only cleaned up after herself but went so far as to dust, vacuum, even sanitize the house, so it shouldn't matter if their daughter preferred to study at home when she already does so much for them, right?

To them, she was the perfect daughter, or at least as close to it as she could possible get. What they didn't know was Hermione didn't do it for them; she did it for her. A purely selfish reason to simply comfort herself.

They didn't know; they wouldn't understand the struggle she goes through every single day. The fear of touch loomed over her head every time Hermione woke up in the morning. The hours spent scrubbing her hands raw until they burned red in the bathroom.

She missed them, her mother's hugs. But Hermione was too scared to even hold her hand let alone wrap her arms around another person.

She wanted to not be afraid; she really does, but she can't control her reactions. It hurt to not have a mother's touch.

Her parents were smart people yet it irritated her that they couldn't even see what was wrong with their own daughter. A part of her resented them for remaining oblivious to her pain and suffering. The rational side of her knew it was best to keep them in the dark, to not reveal her true mental state. The threat of execution sealed her lips shut with its hefty promise.

Endure. Just endure.

A letter came in the mail, inviting her to attend a university.

It wasn't the first time, but it made her father pause and think. Now that Hermione looked back, he had been acting strange even before the letter arrived. She just didn't know the reason until now.

"Don't you think it's time to leave the house?"

"This college looks nice, and it's close, too."

"Why don't you go out with some friends?"

Her mother didn't notice. Then again, people tended to ignore what they don't believe to be true. Why turn in her daughter when she was perfectly fine, even when muffled screams in the dead of night in the room two doors down keep her awake? Why doubt her husband when he still loved her, even when he returned home two hours after he gets off work?

Hermione couldn't ignore it though. She could see the lipstick stain on the collar of his shirt, smell the lingering scent of stale hotel soap on his person. She didn't want to doubt him, but it was getting harder to force a smile whenever he returned home late.

Placing the last plate into the dish washer, Hermione flinched when her mother started yelling once more. Lately it seemed all her parents did was argue.

Stiffly walking past the two in the living room, nose wrinkling at the disgusting smell of cigarette smoke clouding the air, a new habit of her father's, she entered her bedroom, closing the door softly, immediately heading straight for the shower.

She didn't mean to see. She'd rather go on and not know, pretend to be oblivious.

Peeking through the keyhole at the moving bodies hidden in the master bedroom, Hermione felt anger and even the stirrings of hate rise within her. How dare he bring home a cheap whore and defile their image? No, this wouldn't do. She shakily stood up, her feet numbly taking her to the kitchen.

Her mother was out with her friends and wouldn't be back until late in the evening. Hermione was supposed to be away as well but returned to retrieve a book.

Gripping the knife in her hands, she made her way to the room where the illicit activities had quieted. Hermione didn't know how long she stood outside, but it was enough for the sun to have changed position. Her hand turned the knob of the door slowly. Unlocked. His guard was down.

It was fast, easy. Her father was the first to go. She couldn't overpower him after all. It was best to kill him in his sleep.

The woman was harder. She woke up as Hermione yanked the knife out of her father's still body. She was beautiful, Hermione could give her that. But the smudged eye make-up and bright red lipstick made her want to puke.

A whimper made Hermione snap out of her observation.

"Now, don't make this difficult for me," Hermione smiled condescendingly. "You ruined everything. Did you know? We were perfect. My mother, father, and I. Then you came."

Hermione frowned.

"Now I have to get rid of you."

Hermione inhaled sharply, staring down at her hands in horror. Gagging, she collapse to the tiled floor of the bathroom. A choked gasp escaped her lips as her body trembled violently. Blood. That was all she remembered. Too much blood. Hermione scrubbed until her hands were an angry red, the water from the tap a stained pink.

What will she do? She just killed a person. Staring unblinkingly back at herself in the mirror, Hermione reckoned she looked like a demented patient in an insane asylum. Hair a chaotic mess, eyes wildly scanning every corner. Hermione chuckled bitterly. Whatever happened to the perfect picture? A crazed cackle echoed eerily even as tears trailed down her cheeks. The giggle eventually tapered off, leaving the room in silence.

What will she do now? Where will she go?

Her eyes widened when she remembered the acceptance letter. That's right. Hermione could just go there.

But first, she needed to take care of something.

Fire. A burning, raging red consuming everything in its wake. She both loved and hated fire; it erased everything from existence but leaved bothersome ash behind.

Hermione closed the metal lighter with a click, squaring her shoulders as she left the house.

There was no need to feel guilt. She was making the world a better place. Let the world burn along with the scum within it.