Author's Note: I wrote a second part to it, as Sam and (kinda) Taintless suggested. Another a/n at the end, so you can read now.

You walk in. You walk in the door, the letter I spent hours writing gripped tightly in your hand, and you see me. I half-wish you didn't come.

You run across the room to me and fall, hard, to your knees. You pull me up off the brutal stone floor where I lay, sprawled out, unable to move any farther than I already have. Not that far at all.

You hold me tight, so tight it forces air out of my lungs and I cough, a pathetic little cough – the softest sound I've made in as long as I can remember. I'm so weak. You loosen your hold on me just enough so I can breathe; still you hold on to me as if I'm about to float away without you. And I am.

You look down at me and smile, or try to. I see tears forming in your mesmerizing grey eyes and you try to blink them away, and I give you the best smile I can, even though I know it isn't much, because I want to give you something good to remember, something you can think about if it gets too hard. And it will.

I see you watching me, I see that it hurts you to hold me, it burns your skin. Is it because I'm unworthy of you? Is it because you truly are so high above me that you can't bear the touch of me, no matter how much you say you love me? Or do you not really love me at all?

I see it in your eyes that you're remembering. I can almost see the reflections of the memories through the usually cold grey mirrors you house. The Yule Ball, especially. I can see you seeing me in the dress – do you know that I still have it? That I saw you looking at me that night, and it made me feel like that dress was all it took to make you see that I was a real person. And I kept it. I kept it and I saved it and I still have it, in my trunk, my newly-packed trunk upstairs in the dormitory. And sometimes, when nobody's around, I'll take it out of my trunk and put it on again, just for a minute, and remember the feeling it gave me that Christmas. I miss that feeling.

I feel hot now. I'm burning. I'm so unclean that I'm burning myself just by touch. In all my wildest dreams I never thought I was this filthy. It's good, then. I made the right decision. No one this dirty can be allowed to live. I'll just contaminate everyone I love, burn them, too. It's better this way.

I'm wet, too. Probably my inner magic trying to put out the fire on my skin, protect me from my own burning. The only good part of me, cleaning up after the bad. It's no use.

I'm too dirty. No amount of clean blood can fix that, whether it's the small amount of magic in me or yours, the feelings between us. I thought you could filter out the bad parts of me, make me whole and clean and good again. I thought you were a superhero. I thought nothing was beyond you. But who knows. Maybe I was right, and you can. But you won't.

The memories are still flowing through your mind, through your perfect eyes. The eyes that have seen too much bad and not enough good. The eyes that have spent countless hours watching me. Getting dirty. I'm sorry. I ruined you, just as I have ruined everything else. I see flecks of brown now that weren't there before. All my fault.

So hot... so wet... I can barely see anymore, can barely see your beautiful face, the face that was perfect before I marred it with my unworth. I see darkness now, and flames that pierce it. Flames... so hot, the heat is unbearable... it's the heat of my own unworth, my own filth, burning me up from the inside along with anyone else who dares come near me and risk their own lovely perfection. I know, now, that it will be over soon. I'm being punished. Feeling what I do to the people around me, harming them with my dirty, dirty blood. They shouldn't let me.

And I can see again. I see, just for a moment, your face, clearer than I have ever said it before. And I don't know what else to say to you, after all I've done to you, to your perfection. So many thoughts, emotions, but not enough words to name them, nor enough time to speak the words. You're fading again. Soon, I'll be gone from this world, never to dirty another Pureblood again. Two words, I say to you, and I hope you understand. "Thank you."

Author's Note: And that's it. It doesn't completely go with the first chapter, but they're pretty close, I think, and remember - Hermione was pretty out of it at the time. Review responses below:

Mrs. Black - I'm sorry I made you cry, but I'm glad at the same time... thank you for reading.
Raye West - Thank you! I try.
Sam - I hope you don't mind I use your name... your penname is a bit longer, lol. Here's your other part of it, I think it does some explaining. I'm really glad you liked it, too. And I know what you mean - Dramione was meant to be angsty. Thanks for reading!
W1cked Angel - Heh, just what I was trying for. Thanks!
Lissy - Thanks!
sakuya-kaleido - Yeah, I write a lot of one-shots... they tend to come out better than my novel-length, anyway. I'm glad you liked it, though!
Brittany - Dramione was meant to be angst, and that tends to be sad. Thank you, I'm glad you liked it!
Taintless - I know what you mean about suicide fics, a lot of people don't handle them properly and use them as cheap plot devices, which is disrespectful to a lot of people. I try to portray it as best I can, without the usual "and then he saved her and they fell in love and she didn't die, the end" thing. I'm sorry if you find reason to condemn this chapter, though. Here's another chapter for you greedy readers, though! lol

And thank you to anyone who read but didn't review for whatever reason... I love reviews, but mostly because they let me know I'm being read.
With that said, reviews are, as always, appreciated!

Jamie