patchwork imperfection
She counts her blessings- one scar at a time.
Her third thought, before letting unconsciousness cascade down from her peripherial vision, was that she was ugly. Her first thought was the pain, screaming intense pain, followed by her second thought- she was going to die. Her life was flashing before her eyes and she didn't even realize that actually happened.
When she wakes up, many hours later after the joy of victory has come and gone, her first thought is pain. Her second thought, is that she's alive. And her third thought?
That she's still ugly.
The sheets of her bed are white and the walls are white and so is the laminate- this is supposed to look fancy- floor. Color comes in the form of a too cheery painting on the wall, the same one that sits in nearly all the rooms at St. Mungo's (and perhaps they're not identical but they're all still one in the same).
The only other color is the door, a deep brown, save for where it is open the tiniest crack, allowing blue light to peek through. Lavender has a strong urge to leap up and shut it, or open it, just do something.
However, she knows if she did that it was very likely that her entire back would split open in fresh pain, which most likely accounted for the reason she was flat on her stomach, arms apathetically at her sides, cheek squished against the pillow. Although it's probably for the best, (she's always had a nasty habit of picking at scabs) she wanted desprately to move.
She frowned frustrated into the pristine pillow and salty tears leaked unintentionally from her eyes. Pain, ugliness and uncomfortableness. She just wants to go home.
...
At somepoint, she thinks she realized that she'd be scarred. Even before the healer told her so, perhaps even before she sucumbed to unconsciousness nearly three months ago. But she never thought they'd be like this.
White strips of flesh criss-cross her back, starting from behind her right ear all the way to her hips bones- and those are only the large ones. Several spiderweb ones tangle themselves across her legs and a few down her right shoulder.
She looks in the mirror, praying to see even a shadow of the girl she used to be, delicate as the flower she was named after. Instead, all she sees are lines in blinding white.
...
She's ashamed, so she hides. Then, she's ashamed for hiding and it's all just one big circle, isn't it?
She finds herself a job at George Weasley's joke shop- floundering in the passing of one of its co-owners. She enjoys it because well, she gets to dress up in bright (read: distracting) colors and wear grand scarves and make-up that may or may not be too accentuated for her face.
She may look like a fool but she doesn't care, after all sure as hell feels like one.
It's a growing list, of her new qualities: ugly, embarassed, fool, coward.
The last one makes her skin crawl and temper flare and whole body heat up at the indignity of it all. She's a Gryffindor and sure as hell she'd be everything but a coward. Still, anyone with an ounce of bravery would have the mettle to face the person who in all likelyhood saved their life. Facing Hermione Granger though, will mean facing herself and she's not so sure she's ready for that quite yet.
...
Salvation comes slowly and comes unexpectedly. Lavender never expects Seamus to show up in the joke shop as the store closes on a cool Saturday evening. She wants to run and hide, find refuge in disguise. But he's dragging her to the pub, insisting on a drink for old times sake.
(Because she's all but forgotton, a time before scars, when partying was more than acceptable- alright, acceptable is a stretch but it was the norm nevertheless)
"Aw c'mon Lav," she cringes at the name. Lav was gone, she thought, gone to a world of war and torture and werewolves.
"Lavender," he tries again, "aren't you warm?" he asks, concerned. She shakes her head stiffly, adjusting the pink scarf around the black turtleneck.
"I'm fine," she insists. "Really," she adds when a look of severe doubt crosses his face. She sighs, "This was a bad idea, I'm sorry- I'll see you later, Seamus."
She flies out of the bar, leaving several sickles on the table and a glass of untouched Firewhiskey. Seamus watches her go, despairing over the girl he once knew.
...
Unclear excuses and mumblings of "I'm fine" and solitude are the new fall fashion for her. Turtlenecks are still present, now a wide range of colors. Sometimes they're varied with scarves and sometimes she simply wears her wizarding robes everywhere, just to hide from the world.
Seamus is as he's always been- persistant and stubborn. He's dragged her out more times than she would have liked and she still leaves early, before she allows herself a smile or for the heat of the pubs to overcome her.
It's all turned vaguely routine and it nearly makes her laugh- less than a year ago any routine made skin crawl in anticipation. She wanted something, something to keep her occupied. Sneaking around forbidden corridors had always been fun- accompanied by a boy or not.
But now she was forcefully dragged out. And when she wasn't, she ghosted around the shop, a fakefake smile plastered stupidly across her face in the presence of customers. But when it was empty, it was just her and her self-pity and George and his half a soul.
It perhaps, was a bit sad and perhaps, a bit pathetic. But it was familiar and schedules and routines gave her a task.
She was grasping at straws for familiarity.
...
She goes out with Seamus again, under the promise that he doesn't bring her to some awful, too populated place. She's filled her smile quota for the day.
Her friend frowns and takes her wrist, apparating them away to the center of London.
She opens her eyes and it's not somewhere she'd expect. St. Mungo's- the site of her first few weeks following the battle. She gives Seamus a questioning look but he gives a quick, somber shake of his head and shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans, leading her inside.
The place is slightly chilly in the fall air and the white walls make her nervous, being led silently upstairs.
"Seamus, where are we going?" she finally whispers. He stops in response, in front of room 467.
"We're here," he responds, opening the door slowly. The room is brightly lit, a large window facing the bustling muggle city. Flowers of all sorts line the foot of the bed and a photo album has been placed on the nightstand.
And on the bed, Parvati Patil sits up wide awake, carefully coloring a picture.
"Parvati!" Lavander yelps, rushing toward her friend, and scooping her into a hug. The girl stiffens like a board and Lavender let's go quickly. Her year-mate regards her with the big, doe-like eyes of a child. "'Vati?" she questions. Parvati doesn't give any indication of having heard her and resumes her coloring. Lavender backs away, horrified.
"Seamus?" she squeaks. The boy wraps his arms around her as she asks the question she's not sure she wants an answer to: "What's wrong with her?"
"She- from the battle. According to Padma, she was hit with some sort of spell by Nott-"
"Theodore Nott?" Lavander asks hoarsely, interupting.
"No... His father, I think. This is the best she's been in a long time. She was comatose for couple weeks and it took a while before she began to even recognize Padma again-"
He stopped again, not because Lavander had interupted but because she'd pulled away from his arms. She walked tentatively to the edge of the bed again, peering at the picture her friend had been drawing.
Staring back at her was a picture of a Grim. Parvati stopped drawing and looked up at her, a big aloof grin on her face as she showed her picture to the unfamiliar girl at her bedside.
Lavander clasped the nightstand, involuntarily sinking to her knees. Tears treamed down her face, falling carelessly to the floor. How many months had it been now? She claimed to be this girl's best friend yet she'd been too busy pitying herself to know what had happened.
A sob overcame her and she soon found herself crying in earnest for the broken girl before her. Seamus came over, allowing her to bury her face in his chest. He guided her out of the room, out of St. Mungo's before apparating her home.
She fell asleep that night with tears still fresh on her face.
...
It takes a week before she works up the nerve. She puts her hair atop her head first, much of it spilling out of the attempt at a tight bun due to sheer volume. She picks up the shirt next, slipping it gingerly over her ruined body.
When she turns to look at herself, she winces and decides perhaps not short sleeves for the first day. So she slips on the long-sleeves, resisting every urge to grab a scarf and wrap it around her bare neck, sheilding it from view.
But she stares long and hard at the scribbled drawing of the Grim Spellotaped to her mirror, takes a deep breath, and scurries out of the flat before she can change her mind.
George looks surprised when she arrives at work.
"Wow, Lavander," he mutters as she slips on the bright colors of her apron. Immediately ashamed, she stares at her feet.
"I know they're.."
"Gorgeous. You look stunning m'dear," George says, a rare genuine smile etching itself across his face, however small it may be. Lavander runs her hand along the back of her neck and across her collarbone, feeling where the new skin has formed, raised above the old.
Before she walks out to help the first customers of the day, she glances at herself in the bathroom mirror and the blinding white on her neck seems faded- now simply a healthy glow.
And it's a step, however small.
...
The bell on the door rings on the door of Broomstix and Seamus places the Comet 290 on a set of pegs before turning around to greet the customer: "Hello, how can I- oh!"
"When are you off?" Lavender asks him, shifting from foot to foot. Her hair is down but her arms are exposed in her blouse; she silently begs him not to say anything about it and to his everlasting credit he doesn't, keeping his eyes trained on her face.
"In an hour or so- why?" he asks, thrilled though perplexed at this change of events. She rubs the back of her neck self-consciously and bites her lips.
"'Cause we're going out."
"Says who?"
"Says me. And you will because you're far smarter than I ever was."
And it's not a solution, but it's a start.