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Victim of the Fall	By : PrettyDesdemona Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 32726 -:- Recommendations : 5 -:- Currently Reading : 7
Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter universe or any of its characters. I do not make any money off this story. Only love!

Chapter List
- 7
- 8
- 9
CHAPTER 8

YOU HAD TIME

“How can I go home, with nothing to say?”

Hermione could see Malfoy’s nervousness easily from where she sat. He was breathing shallowly and his hands clutched the sides of the lectern, his knuckles were white.

That did nothing to assuage the apoplectic rage burning through her blood though. How could he? How could he stand up there, in front of students whose families, friends and peers had been murdered and tortured by the man he had pledged a binding oath to follow? It was nothing short of insulting, insensitive and cruel.

She noticed McGonagall smiling at him encouragingly. What had he said to the Headmistress that had changed her attitude so? What lies had he told to get into her good books? Hermione had never expected her to be so gullible.

But Hermione was smarter than that. There was nothing, nothing, that he could say tonight that could change her mind about him. She knew he was only doing this to get some of the old Malfoy glory back and restore his image. And it appeared that he was willing to do just about anything to do just that. He was so transparent. So what that his parents were in Azkaban? He probably didn’t give a rat’s arse. Hermione could only hope that her fellow students weren’t as naive as Professor McGonagall seemed to be.

Malfoy cleared his throat and Hermione looked around at her friends. Ginny’s eyes were narrowed suspiciously and Neville looked angry. The faces of the rest of the halls occupants were a split between several expressions. Some looked politely interested, others vaguely indifferent; but most, namely Gryffindors, looked as livid as Neville and Ginny.

Hermione turned to look back at Malfoy as he began to speak.

“My name is Draco Malfoy. I am a Slytherin and a former death eater.”

Many students in the hall gasped and Hermione almost choked on her pumpkin juice. Had he really just done that?

“Up until the end of last year, I shared my living space, my home, with the Dark Lord and my fellow death eaters. During that time, I saw my own parents commit murder as if it were nothing more than sport. I was subjected to the cruciatus curse many times and forced, sometimes under the imperius curse, sometimes not, to torture other death eaters and victims of the Dark Lord’s displeasure. I am an adult now and I was an adult then. I take responsibility for my actions and acknowledge that, though I believed differently at the time, I did have a choice. And I chose."

Malfoy paused for a moment as if to regain some lost composure.

“I think to assume that the war was begun by a madman and his followers is almost wholly incorrect. In my opinion, the war was begun, in part, by a corrupt Ministry that shuns the needy and desperate and offers no aid to those less fortunate than ourselves. Tom Riddle was one such person. But, though he lit the flame, he did not build the pyre. Those who built it should, I think, bear some of the weight of the atrocities committed in his name. The wizards and witches I speak of in this case are of course, the pureblood elitists. Without their ideals infecting our society like a virus, the Dark Lord would have had no fire to light.

“I hold this opinion not because I have been told to but because I have learnt. I grew up being fed pureblood ideals. I grasped them and held onto them, I chose to believe them. I saw no reason why they should not be true and if I did, I chose to ignore it.”

At this, he locked eyes with Hermione. There was no smirk in his face, only open honesty.

Oh, you’re good Malfoy, but you don’t fool me.

“Some of the things you may know of me are true and some are not. I will not, however, deny that I believed in my right to fight for a pure world. But never, did I believe that rape, murder and torture would be my weapons when it came to fighting; I am no sadist. I came to my beliefs after what I considered calm and sober consideration that led me into thinking I was doing right by the wizarding world. I believed us to be oppressed.

“The Dark Lord’s name was praised in my home, we toasted to his return every evening when we sat down to dinner. Consequentially, up until I met him, I believed him to be a visionary and a hero. I hoped, always, that the time would come when I would be able to serve my Lord and make my own small contribution to maintaining the purity of our race and when he rose, I pledged him my service. I did not know then, what his new world would look like, or how ugly it would be. By the time I realised this, it was not my fanaticism for his cause that made me willing to kill for him; it was the knowledge that if I did not, I would lose my life. I was not given a say, first by my parents and then by Lord Voldemort.

“The only person who ever offered me a chance was Albus Dumbledore.”

He regarded the hall gravely. His voice became stronger.

“And now, I say this. To my peers, those of you who have been force fed those same prejudices by your parents and the Ministry: do not allow yourselves to be groomed as I was. The rest of the wizarding world was spared a true look into the world Tom Riddle would have created. But I lived it for two years. I can tell you now that it was not the wholesome society he led us to envision. As a man, you were expected to murder and torture at Riddle’s bidding and if you did not, he killed you. As a woman you were sold to the highest bidder and married off to breed a new generation of death eaters and your daughters would be destined to the same fate. If you were not complacent, you were tortured and raped. I ask you, is this the world you would desire to live in?

“I am not here to convert you into sharing my opinions. If I were, I would be no better than Riddle. I am here to encourage you to do as I did not, to think critically, and to question what you have been taught because the system that forbids us from asking questions, not only robs us of our freedom, but also creates the perfect conditions for prejudice and bigotry to grow. A breeding ground for bloodshed and darkness.

“My promise to you tonight is that I will work to unite the four houses as much as my power allows. I will do my best to eradicate the prejudice I have spent the last seventeen years to trying to cultivate.

“Remember: a half blood, a pureblood and a muggleborn united to bring down someone who we long thought was the greatest wizard of all time. And they succeeded.”

Malfoy nodded to himself and made to move away from the lectern. Suddenly he looked up at the hall again.

“Slytherins? Befriend a Gryffindor. They really aren’t that bad. And Gryffindors? Let them. For the sake of our future. Don’t stand by and allow our world to raise another Tom Riddle.”

He stepped off the podium and made his way back to the Slytherin table. The hall hung in a deathly silence for a moment. There was no difference between any of the student’s expressions now. Each and every single one registered total, unadulterated, shock.

Professor McGonagall got to her feet and began to clap. She was soon followed by the rest of the staff and most of the students in the great hall. They applauded in Malfoy’s direction and the noise rose to a roar.

Hermione remained seated and did not clap as her peers did. She no longer felt angry. She felt sad. It was a very pretty speech, and she wanted to believe him, she really did. It felt like some of what he’d said had been plucked straight out of her mind and she even felt vaguely flattered that he had mentioned her and Harry and Ron. But she knew Malfoy. This was the boy who had called her a ‘filthy little mudblood’ for years, who had watched his aunt torture her, witnessed Dumbledore’s death and remained silent. Oh, he’d do as much as his power would allow, he’d do his best, but he hadn’t done anything when it had really mattered had he? No, to her Malfoy was just as guilty as he’d always been, no matter how eloquently he could turn a phrase.

Neville leant forwards on the table as Professor McGonagall thanked Malfoy and announced the beginning of the sorting. He looked between Hermione and Ginny.

“So what do we think?” He whispered as the Sorting Hat sent ‘Amis, Natalie’ to Ravenclaw.

Ginny shrugged, “I don’t know, I guess we’ll just have to wait and see if he puts any of what he said into action.” she said quietly.

Neville nodded, lifting his goblet to his mouth and turning to look at Hermione.

“Well it seems Draco really is his father’s son. I mean, if it had been Lucius up there, would you have believed him? No. You would simply assume he was spinning the same crap as he always did. Putting on a pretty mask for the public. And Malfoy seems to have perfected the art.” she said in an undertone.

Neville nodded solemnly. “I’m converted when it comes to the house unity stuff though. The war may not have gone the way it had if the Slytherins weren’t all set against us.”

Hermione sighed, “I guess that part made sense, even if the rest of it was offal.”

“So you think we should start hanging out with Slytherins?” said Ginny, disbelievingly.

“I certainly think we should try.” said Hermione with a shrug.

After the sorting was done, the food appeared on their plates and Hermione ate quickly and greedily, having not put anything in her stomach for three days. Neville and Ginny were chatting good-naturedly with Luna Lovegood who had come to eat with them at the Gryffindor table. Hermione retreated slightly. Her temple was beginning to ache and she finally remembered the bruise she had noticed before she left her flat. Logically, she knew it had not been caused by poking herself too hard with her wand. It was a result of the curse she had tried to use on herself. Yet another stupid move and she should have known better.

The only experience she’d had with curse marks was Harry’s scar, and that was permanent as well as having a quite a few uncomfortable side effects. Was this something she’d have to live with for the rest of her life? Had she caused herself some deeper damage that hadn’t been immediately obvious? Magic was unpredictable and volatile, there was no way she’d possibly be able to accurately judge what effect the curse could have had on her mind.

Bearing this in mind, Hermione looked up at the staff table and decided to do something that caused her so much anguish she almost sprinted from the hall in tears.

She decided to seek help.

She stood abruptly. Neville, Luna and Ginny looked at her questioningly.

“I’ll be back in a moment.” She stepped over the bench and began to walk up the aisle. Heads turned in her direction just as they had done in Diagon Alley and every instinct was telling her to turn tail and run. Her hands shook.

Professor McGonagall looked up and smiled warmly as she approached.

“Good evening Professor.”

“Good evening Miss Granger, how can I help you?”

“I was just wondering if you might have some time to speak with me after the feast. In private. In your office.” Hermione tried her best not to let the words catch in her throat.

“Yes, of course. Is everything alright Miss Granger?” Professor McGonagall looked deeply concerned.

Hermione tried to smile reassuringly. “Might I wait for you there?”

McGonagall nodded, seeming to understand Hermione’s silent plea to not make her do this in the middle of the great hall.

“The password is ‘Dante’.”

Hermione turned away. She marched back down the aisle, swiped her beaded bag off the table next to Neville, ignored her friend’s curious looks and left the hall.

She beat the familiar path up to the Headmistress’ office, grateful for the still silence of the stone corridors and the cool draught shifting through them that made the heat of her cheeks easier to bear. Hermione felt like she might just burst with all of the emotion she was suppressing. She just needed to get to McGonagall’s office.

She rounded a corner and saw the great stone gargoyle that was the entrance to the Headmistress’ office at the other end. She broke into a run.

“Dante!” she choked out and the gargoyle stepped out of the way, allowing her to climb onto the ascending spiral staircase behind it.

She held her breath, trying to hold in the sensations that were threatening to overflow inside her and spill out all over the stairs. They moved upwards, taking her to the great wooden door at the top. She burst through it, slammed it closed behind her, and sat heavily in one of the comfortable armchairs that sat by the fire.

The damn inside her felt like it was getting weaker and Hermione tried to distract herself by looking around the office. There were more books, less strange looking instruments and many bizarre sculptures decorating the shelves that lined the walls. The office was softer in colour too; its main theme was a regal looking purple that was comforting and intimate.

“Miss Granger?”

Hermione shrieked and whirled around to face the wall above the office door. Albus Dumbledore sat in his frame, regarding her with unmitigated pride, his eyes twinkling.

“How lovely it is to see you, I-”

He was cut off as she abruptly collapsed on the floor, cross legged, and wailed like a child. For him to speak to her, for him to look at her like that, like she was had just saved the world, like she was still Harry’s best friend and Ron’s girlfriend, like everything was still perfect... It was too much. Her head fell into her hands as she howled, trying to take shallow, halting breaths. Her face and body burned with the tension in her muscles. This wasn’t weeping anymore, soft crying like she’d been doing. This was hysterical yowling like a wounded animal.

“Miss Granger? What is wrong?” Dumbledore said with kind concern.

“Why do I have to be like th-this?” she hiccupped. “I h-hate it! I just want to be normal again! Why does it ha-have to be so yucky all the time? Every fucking d-day! I c-can’t go five minutes without crying! I do t-try to be better, I try to be s-strong and it just falls apart ag-gain!” She wiped her nose on the back of her sleeve and looked up at Dumbledore who, surprisingly, looked quite panicked. “I m-miss my mum and d-dad.”

“Miss Granger, I am going to go and fetch Professor McGonagall. I will be back momentarily.”

Hermione’s head snapped up to tell him not to bother but he was already gone.

Hermione didn’t want McGonagall. She didn’t want to see her Headmistress’ concern. She didn’t want the attention. She should have been able to manage it herself. Everyone else was handling it all so well, why was she the weak one? Everyone had experienced the war, everyone had lost loved ones, so what gave her the right to cry?

She leapt up, deciding that she couldn’t do it that night. She’d just go home, have a cup of tea and go to bed. She needn’t worry anyone.

But the door would not open.

Hermione heaved and pulled at it. She even pointed her wand at the doorknob and tried a whispered “alohamora” to no effect. Eventually, she resigned herself to waiting for her Headmistress and collapsed back into the comfortable armchair by the fire still shaking and hiccupping.

“The Headmistress will be on her way soon, Miss Granger, she is just seeing to the end of the feast.” said Dumbledore’s voice from behind her.

“H-how do you do that?” she asked, staring into the fire.

“Do what, Miss Granger?”

“Stay s-so calm.”

Dumbledore was silent for a moment. “Years of practice.”

“I can i-imagine.” said Hermione quietly.

After ten minutes, she finally began hiccupping herself to silence, comforted by the warmth of the fire. She drew her legs up to her chest, hugged her knees, closed her eyes and fell asleep.

What felt like seconds later but was actually almost a full hour, Hermione felt McGonagall’s hand on her arm, shaking her lightly.

“Hermione?”

Hermione’s eyes snapped open. “Did I fall asleep?”

McGonagall nodded. “Would you like some tea?” She went to busy herself at a tea tray by her desk without waiting for Hermione’s response.

After handing Hermione a cup, she sat in an armchair opposite her. “So how have you been?”

Hermione sipped her tea. “Fine.”

McGonagall raised her eyebrows cynically. “You don’t need to pretend Hermione, I’m much older and much wiser than you. I can see a church by daylight.”

“It’s been a little hard adjusting but... I just need to get out of this funk. It’ll get better eventually. Really, I’m ok, Professor.”

McGonagall sighed resignedly and Hermione was grateful to see the Headmistress had given up, for now. “So how may I help you tonight?

Hermione put her tea on a small table beside her chair. “Well, I wanted to speak to you because... I have an injury that is concerning me.”

The Headmistress frowned. “Wouldn’t it be best if you spoke to Madam Pomfrey?”

“No, I don’t think so. See, it’s from... A curse.” Hermione knew Professor McGonagall wouldn’t appreciate her being evasive but she just couldn’t say what she’d done out loud.

McGonagall narrowed her eyes. “What kind of curse?”

“I’d... I’d rather not say. It’s just... It’s left this.” Hermione swept her fringe up off her forehead to uncover the bruise. McGonagall stood up and walked over to her. She leaned down, grasping Hermione’s chin and turning her head into the light of the fire.

“Hmm. I don’t recognise this. Kreacher!”

Hermione was surprised to see Harry’s house elf appear in front of them.

“Yes Mistress?” he squeaked.

“Please fetch Professor Vulpes. Tell her it’s urgent.”

The wizened house elf bowed and disappeared with a pop.

Hermione sat quietly as Professor McGonagall lit the lanterns on the walls and fetched a tartan tin of biscuits.

“Biscuit, Miss Granger?”

Hermione nodded, aware that her Headmistress was trying very hard to contain her frustration that Hermione had not opened up to her or revealed what had left the mark on her temple.

“Chocolate or ginger?”

“Ginger please.” Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her seat as Professor McGonagall presented her with a biscuit on a plate. She nibbled the edge of it nervously.

Just as McGonagall began to sit down again with her own plate, there was a knock at the door.

“Come in!” McGonagall called out. The door opened, revealing the dark haired woman who had been speaking to Professor Vector at the feast.

“You wanted to see me Minerva?” The woman had a strong eastern European accent with rolling ‘r’ sounds and a soft musical lilt to it.

“Yes. Professor Vulpes, this is Hermione Granger. Hermione, Professor Vulpes is your new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

The woman’s eyes widened slightly as Hermione stood to shake the woman’s hand.

“You will call me Teodora. I will not answer to Professor.” McGonagall looked minutely annoyed but Hermione nodded.

“It’s nice to meet you Teodora.”

“Miss Granger, it seems, has run into a curse.” said McGonagall.

“Oh?” Teodora looked between Hermione and McGonagall politely. “Should she not be in your hospital wing?”

“It seems not. Hermione, come and sit down so the professor can inspect your injury.” Professor McGonagall gestured for Hermione to resume her seat.

Hermione sat, pulling her hair off her face again. Teodora leaned over her, taking her chin in her hand as McGonagall had done, and moving her face into the light of the fire. She studied the bruise for only a moment before turning Hermione’s face back to look at hers. The older woman held her gaze for a moment and Hermione was sure that she knew what had caused the mark.

Teodora turned to McGonagall. “My people have a potion for this. The Rusine. I will brew it tonight and,” she looked at Hermione, “you must come to me every night for two weeks to take it.”

“What caused it?” asked McGonagall.

“I am not sure yet. But this potion will help with the pain while I attempt to determine the cause. You are in pain, correct?”

Hermione nodded, even if it was not entirely true.

“Shouldn’t Professor Slughorn brew it?” asked Professor McGonagall.

“He will not know how.” Teodora replied.

Hermione’s heart thudded against her diaphragm. “What about the bruise?”

“The mark will fade over time if the potion is taken.”

Teodora turned to the Headmistress again. “I must insist that Hermione come with me. The potion will take four hours to brew. She must take some tonight.”

“Yes. Yes of course.” said McGonagall. “Hermione, I will see you in transfiguration tomorrow.”

Hermione nodded and smiled as she stood and followed Teodora out of McGonagall’s office. She could hear Dumbledore speaking quietly as the door closed behind her.

For a time, her and Teodora walked silently through the dark corridors before the older woman spoke.

“I will not ask you to tell me why you wanted to torture yourself. But I think you must speak to someone or this pain will get worse.”

Hermione gasped. “How did you know?”

“My people are not strangers to shame. Many witches and wizards have wanted to cause themselves harm before you. I know the signs.”

“Why will it unhinge my mind?”

Teodora gave Hermione a sideways look that was more amusement than annoyance at Hermione’s attempt to try and avoid talking.

“It is difficult to understand, I think. You are nascut din incuiati? Your parents are muggles?” Hermione nodded. “Well then you might see. Are you familiar with the muggle drug heroin?”

Hermione looked confused. “Yes, of course. But how are you?”

“I am corcitura. Half blood. My tata took that drug.” Teodora hesitated. “Those who are familiar with it will know how sick a man can get if he takes much of it and then stops. The muggles call it withdrawal I think. My tata told me it was as if the filter was gone from his brain and nerves and so he could feel everything, and everything hurt. This is what denatura would have done to you. When you cast the curse, you damaged your filters so they will waste away; and the pain of it would have sent you mad. Shame wants this. But Rusine will heal.”

“What is a tata?”

“Tata means father.”

Hermione felt immediately keen to steer the conversation in another direction. “Can you tell me about the Rusine potion?”

“It is made up of all things pure, because the denatura curse is... boala? Sick. It is sickness. It has the shavings of a unicorn’s horn for innocence; the petals of the Rosa Canina, the dog rose, for fallen beauty and the blood of the drinker, to cleanse her blood of shame.”

Hermione looked alarmed and Teodora laughed lowly. “Do not worry, little one, it will be a prick of the finger. It does not hurt. I need only three drops.”

Hermione’s mind began to tick, slowly, back into action. Her thoughts were picking up. “Have you thought about trying to adapt the potion? I mean, if what you say is true, then casting the curse on oneself slowly dissolves the filter. But cast it on someone else and the filter is completely removed, if only while the curse lasts. If one casts the curse over and over again, the filter will eventually begin to break down, right? Which will drive those experiencing it mad. So couldn’t it be used to heal the madness afterwards?” Hermione said all this very quickly, thinking of Neville’s parents.

Teodora looked impressed.“You are very smart woman, Hermione. But, it would only ease their pain because the filter is restored. If they have been driven mad, then it is done. Once the mind is unhinged, no magical or muggle medicine can hinge it again.”

Hermione frowned. “Yes I suppose that makes sense.”

They reached the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom and Teodora directed Hermione toward her office. As Hermione stepped inside, she felt as if she had walked into another country. There was no area of either the floor, the walls, or the ceiling that was not covered in colour. Instead of chairs, there were stiff cylindrical pillows on either side of a very low table that must have served as Teodora’s desk. Bookshelves and cabinets lined three of the walls and the light seemed to shimmer magically over every item in the room. This woman was certainly descended from gypsies.

“Sit.” Teodora ordered, producing a very wide, shallow cauldron from one the cabinets and depositing it on the desk as Hermione obeyed.

“It is a cazan. We need low cauldrons to brew on the ground over fire.” said the older woman over her shoulder as she noticed Hermione staring at the cauldron in confusion.

Teodora settled an armful of bottles and boxes on the floor beside her seat. She sat down on one of the cushions and gazed at her student levelly but Hermione’s mind was still lost in thoughts over the Rusine potion.

“So,” she began to add ingredients to the cazan almost absent-mindedly, “We will be here for two hours. Will you be silent all that time?” she smiled kindly.

Hermione took a breath. “I’m sorry. I feel a bit overwhelmed at the moment.”

“Good. So you feel shame and you feel overwhelmed. What else?”

Hermione scrunched up her face in thought. “I feel embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed? Why?”

“Because I did a stupid thing. And I didn’t want anyone to worry about me. And now they are. I feel guilty.”

“Ok. So shame, overwhelmed, embarrassed, stupid and guilty.”

Hermione laughed shakily. “Yeah.”

“Anymore?”

Hermione hesitated. “Heartbroken.”

Teodora nodded sombrely, “Heartbroken. Tell me.”

Hermione recognised it as a request to for her to open up. Her knee jerk reaction was to make up an excuse and move on but watching this strange woman brew her potion, surrounded by colour and dancing lights, Hermione felt like she wanted to talk. She wanted to tell it all.

So she opened her mouth, and watched in a detached sort of way as her life began to tumble out. She told Teodora how scared and worried she was about Harry; and about how Ron had shut down and broken her heart. She told her about her shame and guilt over what she’d done with George; and how she missed her parents so much it hurt. The two hours flew by as Hermione talked endlessly, telling Teodora about the war, hunting for Horcruxes and being tortured at Malfoy Manor. Once she began, she found she could not stop. At times, her tears flowed and her hands shook but she kept going and pushed through it.

At two minutes past midnight, she finally discovered she had run out of things to say. She panicked for a moment, noticing that the weight she had grown so accustomed to feeling her chest was gone. She had the insane urge to giggle.

“You are a very brave woman, Hermione.” Said Teodora, stirring the potion.

Hermione sighed. “I don’t feel brave.”

“No, but bravery is not about feeling no fear; it is about feeling the fear, seeing it, acknowledging it and doing it anyway.”

Hermione nodded. She felt tired.

“Give me your hand. I must take the blood now.”

Hermione extended her left arm, palm up, over the cazan towards Teodora. She flinched as the older woman’s fingers grazed the cut on the back of her hand. She looked up at Hermione with an unreadable expression before turning it over.

“Ah. I see you tried other things before the denatura curse. This is past magical healing but the Rusine potion will fade it a little as it is also a wound of shame.”

Hermione grimaced as Teodora pricked her finger with a short silver dagger and let three drops of her blood fall into the potion which turned from white to an opalescent blue. The older woman scooped a small amount of potion into a goblet and handed it to Hermione with a grin.

“It is not tasting bad. I promise.”

Hermione smiled weakly and drank. The potion slid down her throat like velvet and she found that it tasted only like vaguely sweetened water. It was very cold and she felt the cold seep through her body soothingly, as if before she was burning and the potion had doused it. It eased the tension between her shoulder blades and soothed the angry little girl that had been running around in the back of her mind for months, setting everything in there on fire.

Hermione looked up at Teodora over the rim of the goblet and beamed.

dh_reader - I hadn't originally planned for the George/Hermione action to be honest, but it just sort of flowed, and like you said, it felt natural. I like what it did for her character. It was the same for Draco's appearance. I had the idea for a guest speaker at the start of term feast and suddenly just went AHAHAHAHA DRACO! Lol. So I was also shocked haha. Lovely how the mind works like that huh?

Thanks so so so much for the support and appreciation. I want to hug you!! *hugs*

Asinfuck - Hehe cliffhangers are the best. Hope you liked this chapter!

deathraven - It was odd for me too, writing Hermione like that but I just had this moment where I went, "What have I done in that situation when I've been in a really bad place in the past?" and it seemed obvious to me. It was a desperate move for her and it made me sad that she got to that point but, we've all been there. Maybe not to self harm, but to that kind of desperation.

Tori - Oooh, I love how you see Hermione. I was thinking about it and kind of realised how she is going a bit dark lol. But not eveil dark, just crazy dark. Let's hope she can pull herself out of it at some point, huh? Thanks for the love!!

The quote at the beginning of this chapter is from Ani Difranco's song You Had Time. Her music has served as a huge inspiration for this piece. I own nothing. Thanks Ani!
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Victim of the Fall