Useless, Pitiful Sentiments

Author's Note: I have no idea what this is. I'm trying to kick out all of my angsty Tomione, it seems. I know ya'll wants some brooding lovin'.

I

Wide doe eyes were watching her best friend in horror. Harry was angry—livid. A storm full of blinding, deadly lightning; loud, deafening thunder; unyielding, endless rain. Hermione saw no end to his distemper. His magic was crackling around him, around her, cutting off her airways to breathe.

It was the sickening consequences.

There would be no relief.

Not until they dug the Sword of Gryffindor through the sad and pitiful remains—

"Harry," Hermione's small voice echoed through the woods.

Green blazing eyes burned—scorched her as the Chosen One whipped his entire body to face her. He was tense, muscles stretching, coiling, and ready to spill blood at any moment.

"What, Hermione?" Harry spat, like her name tasted of the foul substance of skele-gro. His lips were curled into an ugly, uncharacteristic sneer; baring his teeth like he would love nothing more than to rip out her throat. "What is it? What useless knowledge in that head of yours are you going to preach to me with?"

The young witch swallowed hard. "Give me the necklace, Harry."

He looked down suddenly, almost like he had forgotten it's entire existence, and she could see the heat of his hatred evaporating.

It was losing.

It was weakening.

Harry tugged off the pendent and slipped it in Hermione's hand.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he mumbled softly, his head bowed in shame and regret.

She just smiled softly. "It's alright."

And then she slipped the horcrux around her neck.

Frighten, confused, alone—

Endless oblivion—

He weeps—

She couldn't see. Darkness surrounded her. Cold, deafening—alone. So, so alone. Her eyes desperately tried to adjust to the blackness; but no matter, there was no light.

What's wrong with me? Softy spoke a child.

Hermione's eyes widen impossibly further as her head whipped around, franticly—violently searching.

YOU ARE INHUMAN.

Hermione clutched her ears; the cold voice boomed and echoed in the inky abyss.

YOU ARE A MONSTER.

Confused, she sucked in a deep breath. Hermione lifted her head defiantly.

"No! You are the that is the monster!" she hissed.

Toes curling; her body shiver; the darkness grew colder. Ridged. Numbing.

YOU ARE NOTHING.

No! Please! The small voice begged.

"Stop!" She shouted.

She felt her breaths grow shorter—desperate for air—the darkness thickening—impossibly—she couldn't suck in a breath.

ABSOLUTE FILTH.

The small child sniffed.

SAY IT. SAY WHAT YOU ARE.

Hermione felt hot, molten tears burning down her cheeks.

I'm—

She squeezed her eyes shut. The loneliness intensified. So much so, where she wanted—begged for the darkness to swallow her—to fill her.

So alone.

She cried.

I'm a nothing.

Fingers buried into frizzy, unruly locks.

"You're a monster, Tom," she hissed venomously.

The pitiful voice choked out a sob.

I know.

Hermione abruptly woke; her skin covered in a cold sweat. She greedily gulped in breaths, eyes squeezed shut; the weight of the locket between her breasts.

Cold.

So, so cold.

"Hermione."

She started, eyes wide, chewed lips apart, heavily breathing.

"I think you've had that thing on long enough," Ron's soothing warm, gentle voice surrounded her. The wizard stepped closer, his hand—so, so warm—and his freckles fingers swiped a hot tear from her cheek. "It's alright."

She let out a breathless sob.

She wasn't alone.

She wasn't inhuman.

She wasn't a monster.

She wasn't nothing.

She wasn't absolute filth.

But gods—did she feel it.

"Yeah," she sniffled. "Alright. Thank you, Ron." She tugged at the long chain from her neck—hands trembling.

Ron gave a weak smile. "I'll try not to be a huge git."

She smiled weakly.

Once he was gone, she curled into her pillows and wept.

She stared at him. He was like an angry bull; digging his hooves in the frozen dirt, eyes that only saw red—seething—air steamed from his nostrils. He was ready to charge. Ready to kill; to bore his strong horns right through her flesh; her blood pooling on the ground as the life slipped from her eyes. He would not have it any other way.

She was the red flag.

Red with rich, warm blood.

"Ron, please," her fingers brushed against the cold pendent. He shoved her away. "Please take," she gasped in a breath. "Please, take off the horcux." He only pushed her harder. Those dear eyes icy, envious, and wild.

Harry's breaths were loud, and he was trying to keep it together.

Ron's voice was haunting. "You know why I listen to that radio every night, do you? To make sure I don't hears Ginny's name. Or Fred, Or George, or Mum's—"

"You think I'm not listening too? You think I don't know how this feels?—"

"No you don't know how it feels! You parents are dead. You have no family."

Harry charged.

Their horns clashed together in a battle of dominance—hatred, and Hermione tried to pull them apart; to wrap her hand around that damned necklace, and yank it from Ron's neck. "Stop!"

"Fine then, go!" Harry roared. Ron's frozen eyes glared at his friend before he ripped free of the horcrux and threw it at her. Hermione stared, numb, senseless—abandoned.

"And you?" His breath harsh, still smelling like her poorly cooked stew as his eyes locked to hers. "Are you coming or are you staying?"

Hermione could only watch with moist eyes. How was he still saying this? Her fingers clung tightly to the pendent. His nostrils flare, as if he was still a bull, ready to see endless red.

"Fine then."

And then he was gone.

"Ron!" She called out, bursting from the tent, those hot tears running down her face faster, but he was gone.

She didn't want to be alone.

She looked down at the locket.

"I hate you."

She slipped it on her neck.

Bodies are burning—

Suffering with no end—

He chokes—

The darkness was still that; darkness. Never ending, Completely defying. It was relentless. With every breath, it felt like a sharp knife was jagged into her esophagus.

But there was no relief of the warm blood to trickle down her skin.

Her head pounded; Ron had abandoned her. Her throat closed. Her chest squeezed—constricting— it hurt.

It hurt so much.

She felt eyes—so many eyes—on her. She shivered, rubbing her arms uselessly.

WHAT ABOUT THIS BOY? This voice was sweet, it almost shocked her.

She looked around, noticing the a darker shadow—or perhaps the blackness around her was finally easing away. She could faintly make out a child.

OH NO.

A new voice. A terrible voice.

YOU DON'T WANT THIS BOY.

And it hurt. Hermione clawed at her chest, gasping in breaths only hurt her more—mutilated her entire being.

The shape of the boy was holding his ears, blocking out the sounds—

YOU WON'T WANT A BOY LIKE HIM.

A boy like me...

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut; her chest closing.

HE IS NOTHING.

Pain exploded from her chest, searing through her back, creeping rapidly to her front—vines with thorns constricting around her heart, wrapping it's way around her throat— squeezing, suffocating—

Harry looked at her sadly, holding out his hand. She stiffly took off the locket, and Harry placed it down on the table top.

There was a burn on her skin.

It smelled like burning flesh—

—burning of her heart.

Harry took her easily into his arms, twirling her around, swaying, dancing.

He wanted her.

A girl like her.

She was not nothing.

Hermione buried her head in the crook of Harry's neck. He rubbed soothing circles on her back.

Ron—

She lifted her head.

He was still out there.

She sniffed, and left the warmth, safety—security—of Harry's arms.

The horcrux was around her neck in an instant.

There was no more—

Not one thing—

He glares—

She saw him. The inky darkness faded into a world of grays. It was bleak, washed out. She felt nothing. Numbing nothingness. Voided.

A boy—perhaps not a boy—but not a man—sat in the far corner, alone.

His dull grey eyes were fixated on her.

I hate you too, he whispered.

"Look, Hermione!" Harry's voice called her out of the void quickly. "Ron," he sputtered. "Ron, he did it! He found the Sword of Gryffindor!"

She quickly looked into the blue glassy eyes. He was apologizing; mumbling of how stupid—insensitive—to was when he ran off. He was sorry. Silver; bright, shiny, polished; the horcrux glinted in her direction; almost as if it knew—

"That's great," she breathed. She sat up from the ground, dusting off her jeans. "Just—let me get the book." It didn't matter that she had already memorized it.

Inside the tent, she sank onto her cot, closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath; her fingers curled around the cursed locket.

The world will burn—

Obliterate—

He smiles—

His red eyes were on her.

Watching.

Stalking.

You're filthy.

She ignored him, fixing him with her own stare.

You're nothing.

Silence.

YOU ARE NOTHING.

The void of gray shuttered around her, as if it was vibrating glass; threatening to break—to shatter in a deadly hum.

I HATE YOU.

"I know, Tom."

The man bristled.

GET OUT!

She shook her head.

He grew more frantic. The humming grew louder.

LEAVE ME ALONE!

Again, the witch refused.

"You and I both know you don't want that."

The red eyes were shimmering, the humming was a rioting buzz.

Those eyes faded to empty grey.

Please...

Thousands of feeling suddenly flooded through Hermione's nerves, enough to make her dizzy, disoriented—confused.

The sword was in her hands. Cold. Threatening. Pushing. It knew.

Just end this.

Her eyes locked with his again. The grey void around them was starting crack viciously, releasing his aching soul.

She lifted to sword.

He shut his eyes.

She swung.

I don't hate you.

Exploding, cracking, breaking—

It's ending—

He accepts—

Author's Note: Yeah. So. yeah... The part when Ron leaves, I just quoted the movie. I guess—Yeah, no. I have no idea what this is. I have no excuses.

But I don't have any regrets either.