A/N: So, weirdly enough, the idea for this Fic came to me in the shower (it'll make sense in a bit). Anyway, the pairing Hermione/Luna is a better 'opposites attract' kind of thing than Dramione any day, so I decided to write it! Please review!

Scars

Chapter 1- Death's Door

She wasn't the only one. There were others like her, the ones who had sunk into a deep depression, long after the war had ended.

It had been this way for Hermione, ever since the initial euphoria had worn off, after the weight of what she'd done hit her.

And it had started. She'd scratch at the skin on her arms until it was red and raw and bleeding, she'd stop eating for days on end. She shut herself off. Ron and Harry couldn't help her, they worried, and she became more and more withdrawn.

And now she stood in the scalding hot water pummelling her from the shower, with her knees drawn into her chest, still scratching at her arms, a whole year after the war. An onlooker would notice the way her spine stood out vividly from the skin of her back, how her elbows were pointed and sharp. How her eyes were haunted, hollowed out from nights of lost sleep.

She drew in great, choking sobs, her whole body shaking convulsively. It never stopped. How come it never stopped? The pain, physical and emotional. The scars, inside and out.

Her long fingernails dug into her forearms again, drawing fresh red blood that spiralled down the drain of the shower.

No one could see her.

Ron had tried to help her. Him more than Harry, really, which was fair enough. Harry had work to do, his own ways of keeping his mind off things.

But Ron hadn't stopped, not until she'd started pretending for him, setting up a pretence of happiness. She'd smiled, and had insisted on going back to Hogwarts for her 7th year.

So that she could suffer alone.

The water was too hot, far too hot, keeping her mind off her parents, who she hadn't been able to find. Keeping her mind off Fred, who she hadn't been able to save. And keeping her mind off Ron, who she loved, but was hurting more and more every day.

She traced a pattern in her arm with a fingernail, blood staining the shape of a Dark Mark that quickly washed away.

She used magic, every day, to hide the scars. There were some on her face, too, even down her neck. She shuddered, curling tighter into a ball, letting more tears roll down her face.

Why was she like this, when so few others were? George, of course, was as bad, if not worse, and Percy, although still dignified, had a temperament that could be considered crazy. It was the tapping. The drumming of the fingers against chairs and tables. His nervously shifting eyes and his twitching fingers.

But she hadn't lost a brother.

Her parents were still alive, she just hadn't found them. So what had happened that had made the pain concentrate on her, manifest itself into her darkest memories, like a parasitical Dementor, eating away at her soul from the inside.

She got up, her legs shaking under the weight of her upper body, and, with fumbling, shaking fingers, turned off the tap. The flow of water stopped, and she immediately shivered as cold air rushed toward her. Her shoulders were hunched as she stepped out of the shower, picked up a towel and wrapped it around her.

As she hobbled into the Dormitory, her legs shaking and weak, she didn't look up. Her gaze, unfocused and pained, was pinned to the floor.

"Hermione?"

That voice, it was the voice of a flower, of a small happiness in a dark time. Ginny. Who was always smiling, thinking happy thoughts of Harry, and her family, and Quidditch.

Ginny had handled it well.

"Hermione?" Ginny's tone increased in urgency, as Hermione swayed uncertainly, once more unable to support her own weight on legs that looked like twigs, easily snapped.

"I'm fine," Hermione croaked.

But she wasn't. She always timed her showers perfectly, the times when she would allow herself to let got entirely, to be overwhelmed by the depression. And those times were when Ginny was gone, when she was at Quidditch practise, or when she was doing extra work for Charms.

Unable to stand any longer, Hermione crumpled to the floor, and Ginny ran over, her brown eyes wide and fearful in alarm. It was clear that she had no idea what to do.

"I'll go and get Madam Pomfrey!" Ginny ran from the room, and Hermione collapsed in on herself again, curling herself into a ball on the floor of the Dormitory. She knew she had to get up, to grab her wand and perform the charm that would convince Madam Pomfrey that she was fine, that there was nothing to worry about. But she couldn't move. The pain was paralysing.

Her eyes wouldn't close though; they stared, as though they were that of a corpse's. The thought only reminded her of the other unseeing eyes, the ones she had seen on the floor of the battle, the bodies that were still and cold.

She wasn't dead, yet. Her breathing was shallow, and almost imperceptible, but it was still there. The beat of her heart was light and fluttering, but it didn't stop.

Sometimes she wished it would stop.

How easy it would be to just let go, to just give up on this life altogether. Sometimes she wanted that so bad. Instant relief from all the pain.

She remained motionless for such a long time that her thoughts slipped into a haze; not quite sleep, she hadn't slept in such a long time that she might have forgotten what it felt like, and she ceased to blink entirely, ceased to do anything except breathe in short, sharps breaths that would never quite fill her lungs enough.

So it hardly surprising that Madam Pomfrey screamed upon seeing the curled figure on the floor, when she arrived.

"Oh, my God," Ginny was saying.

Hermione could feel cold hands along her wrists, feeling for her fluttering pulse. Then the hands moved to her face, along her neck, assessing the damage there.

"She's only just breathing," Hermione heard Madam Pomfrey say, almost calmly, but with a tremor in the cool, practical voice, "But only just. We need to get her to the Hospital Wing immediately."

Hermione closed her eyes. She was at death's door.

Finally.