Scars That Heal (Dramione Fanfiction) [COMPLETE]

8 - Pain and Suffering

*Trigger Warning - Mentions of Self-Harm*

Smashed glass cutting against shoulder bones, thunderstrikes in a darkened sky... Blood everywhere... Soaking into velvet curtains, and lightening opening wounds like a silver blade... Knives, thrown in anger against a wall, sprayed with crimson Mudblood... Mudbloods, worthless, useless Mudbloods... Weak and wandless... Never allowed to wield magic again... Mudbloods, who bleed and bleed and do nothing but bleed...

Almost automatically Hermione jerked awake, drenched in sweat and tears, and walked to the Tower. Her mind was still in turmoil, but the reflex movement meant that she was out of the stifling environment of rest and comfort in seconds. As soon as she sank to the floor, Hermione's heart was slowing and her breathing was measured. She was in control now. She was Hermione, and she was calm. The still air of the Tower was punctured only by the sounds of her living: breaths, still carefully counted, and beats of her heart. As she was so calm already, Hermione walked back to the dormitory. The dreams always exhausted her, and she sank into another sleep within a few minutes.

Ripping fabric and skin, flesh hollowed by knives... More blood, Mudblood pouring onto the oak flooring.. Slicker than oil, dirtier than a stagnant puddle... Pooling Mudblood, worthless to the figure who laughs as she cuts more words...

Again, Hermione woke up. She felt better instantly, but was frustrated. Why could it not leave her to recover for an hour or two? Hermione felt tears twist in her throat and she could hear the blood - Mudblood, she thought miserably - pound in her ears. Hermione gave a resigned sigh and walked back to the Tower, with another book in her hands.

It wasn't a psychology book, far from it; she carried an elegantly illustrated copy of The Magic Faraway Tree, by Enid Blyton. It was a purely sentimental book that she brought with her every year to Hogwarts. The characters were naïve, and the plots tended to repeat, but Hermione was always reassured by the fact her shallow Muggle stories never changed, and it made her feel relaxed. The Faraway Tree series was her guilty pleasure. She settled down to read about Jo and Beth and Franny again. The words washed over her, and Hermione found she barely had to concentrate at all - most of it was etched in her memory - but the repetitive nature of the tales made it as comforting as a blanket to her bruised mind.

After about an hour of reading, the hatch slowly opened. She looked up from the pages of the book and Malfoy climbed in. He nodded to her awkwardly and cleared his throat as he stood up and Hermione replaced her bookmark.

"I, erm... C-Can I sit here for a bit? I need to... calm down for a while, and, erm..."

"Were you going to hurt yourself again?" she said steadily. Malfoy's cheeks stained pink, and he replied,

"Well, yes. I need to distract myself before I get the urge to again." They looked at each other, one standing, one sitting, for a few more seconds.

"Sit quietly for a few moments while I finish this paragraph," Hermione said, and continued reading. When she was done, she put in her bookmark and looked at Malfoy.

There was a wild look about his face. Nothing that can be described specifically, but something she picked up on nonetheless. A desperation, a carelessness. It can be both disarming and motivational, dangerous and fleeting: it scared Hermione a little, but she wasn't going to tell him that.

"When did you cut yourself last?" she asked.

"The last time you caught me," Malfoy said dully. He pulled a long silver knife from his pocket. Hermione froze. It had an ornate handle, one she knew only too well. The blade glinted, and she felt her dreams becoming more familiar in her mind again.