Black and Blue, a harry potter fanfic

Black and Blue

Disclaimer: Not mine. I make no money from this (I just get excited when I see my stories posted because it means I'm not completely incompetent when it comes to computers).

A/N: This was written pre-HP5, so please ignore any discrepancies regarding that; I can't be bothered to change it all, even though I read the entire 766 pages on Saturday.

A/N 2: modified 14/5/05

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It is mid-September of seventh year – the most important year of Hogwarts for us. It's warm, signalling the reason many of the students of the school are spending their Saturday doing homework outside in the grounds. Except Hermione Granger, of course; outside is too far away from her precious library. Not that it matters. Don't think I'm being nasty or anything; I am simply making an observation of a girl I have known the habits of for six years.

I'm not really working; how can I? The Divination homework was ridiculous, and Trelawney is nothing but a fraud. Even the third-year Hufflepuffs can work that out. I finished that stupid work twenty minutes ago and am now merely wasting time doodling nothing in particular in my notebook. I am paying it little attention. Truth be told, I'm watching you. No, scratch that; it makes me sound like an obsessive stalker, and we both know that that is the last thing I am. I am worried about you; concerned about the person near to me.

Observing. That's the word. You're so fragile…so thin. When did you last eat properly? Summer? You remind me of a glass ornament placed precariously on the edge of the mantelpiece. The slightest touch, the slightest breath, and you'll fall, shattering into tiny pieces on the floor.

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You're smart, second in the year to the aforementioned Gryffindor, though not by much. You never seem to have problems with schoolwork. Probably because you were sensible and took Arithmancy instead of Divination. Last year you tied with Ron Weasley's girlfriend for everything except for Care of Magical Creatures, and that was simply because you missed the lessons with the Knarls due to a Quidditch accident. One of your own Beaters hit a Bludger at you, sending you to Madam Pomfrey, who sentenced you to stay in the hospital wing for a fortnight afterwards.

You like the library. I know this for a fact. You can work in peace there when you're not tutoring me in Potions. I really struggle with it; I'm one of the best at Herbology, though. You never struggle academically.

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Your hair's blond, like mine, except it looks silvery when the moonlight catches it. Mine's more golden, and our eyes are similar, though yours are grey and mine cornflower blue (or so someone once told me). Even in summer you retain the pale colouring that is the trademark of your family. We spent two weeks together when your parents were in Russia, summer just gone. You came camping with me and my parents in France; all that time in the open air and you never tanned in the slightest. Maybe your father put a spell on you.

Yes, you are white, but when alone your arms are red. My red is in my cheeks, caused by laughter, icy winds in winter, hot sun in summer, exertion. I redden quite easily, and naturally. You do not. I wish I could stop the red appearing on you, when you are alone. You are never red with me, and I wish you never were. And I think (though I have no way of telling) that the red has spread.

Black and blue. Whenever you return from your home – I mean house; rarely do you refer to it as 'home' – you are these. Your father? I believe so; even though you never tell me so, I know he is a cruel man. It is he who dislikes me for being myself. Have I made these colours more intense? Or does he have no need for a reason anymore? I can easily believe both.

Some Gryffindor first-years are playing 'Tag' by the lake; they look like they're having fun. Such a simple game, but tremendous fun. One boy nearly falls in the lake. I don't recognise him from this distance. It's irrelevant anyway; I am observing you.

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I really enjoyed that camping trip; my parents in one tent, you and I in another. Not that we ever went any further than holding hands in the night. I always promised myself I would never lose my virginity until I was married. I know you did too. It's quite a comforting, reassuring thought. We'd both be pure. I hope it's with each other.

Yet even though it was fantastic, I knew there was something not quite right about you. When we went for the ten-mile hike your mind was elsewhere. You weren't paying enough attention to the path in front of you, and you tripped over that big tree root. Mum had to wait till we found a pure stream before she could treat your cut hands that you'd automatically flung in front of yourself to break your fall. Even though she's a witch, wounds still have to be clean before you heal them. The dirt gets trapped under the skin and it gets infected if you don't.

But you were already cut. You haven't come out and said it in as many words, but I'm aware you don't go out of your way to hide the fresh cuts that are constantly appearing on your arms, growing daily in number. I know you're cutting yourself. I only wish you felt able to confide in me, to tell me your pain, so I could help you, but I know you won't. You've been brought up to repress emotions, to rid yourself of weaknesses; to be a hard, cold bastard, in short.

Excuse my words – I very rarely swear; only when severely provoked. Which is rare. I hate your father for what he has done to you. I wish I could take away the pain for good, and therefore your need to deliberately drag a blade across your own pale skin until you bleed. It is my greatest wish. I want you to be able to be yourself with everyone, not just me.

I want you to be happy.

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You've been pushing me away this term. Did summer never happen? It's as if it didn't, the way you're behaving. We met in the room near McGonagall's classroom last night, where we always meet. It was dark, the only light coming from a dirty oil lamp in one corner. I couldn't see you properly at first, while my eyes were still adjusting to the dimness.

When they had, I realised your sleeves were rolled up to your elbows. You were silently admitting to me what you have been doing to yourself. You were still bleeding. The dagger was on a nearby table. I could see the blade was still wet. Wet with your blood, which you had willingly drawn out of your body. You gave me a small smile, but it was filled with pain. "I should tell you I love you," you said softly. "But I'm not supposed to be able to. Love you, I mean. Love doesn't exist in my family. I'm no different."

"Yes you are!" I countered fiercely. A clock in the corridor chimes loudly. Nine o'clock.

"I have to go. People will wonder where I am." You picked up your dagger, charmed it clean and slipped it back into your pocket. "Goodbye."

I watched you go. I'm scared for you. You're doing a History of Magic essay for Binns, or maybe the DADA one for Lupin and Snape. Odd that those two, old school adversaries, are working together. I remember Snape when Lupin first came to teach at Hogwarts. Harry Potter is the only other person to have received a deadly glare of such epic proportions from Snape.

You've finished it and I watch you head indoors. I'd rather stay outside and enjoy being able to do this in the warmth while I still can. Autumn has set the trees ablaze in reds, oranges, golds. It is a breathtaking sight. I gaze at it until we have to go indoors for dinner.

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I worry when you don't show for dinner. Somehow I just know that something is dreadfully wrong. Then your owl comes soaring into the Great Hall while we're eating. I can't eat any more; I'll be sick if I do. The knot in my stomach tightens unbearably as the owl lands by me. I can't stop my hands from shaking as I remove the letter and read it, in your handwriting. The page is splotchy; you were (are?) crying.

I'm sorry everyone. I'm tired of feeling nothing. Goodbye.

You sign your name at the bottom. I know what you've done. I know why. Could I have stopped you? I should have known, after last night in that room. The way you said, "Goodbye". Now I think about it I can hear the utter finality of the word. I should have realised. You never use that word: "It's too final," you said when we first started seeing each other. There must have been a way to get you to open up, before it reached this stage.

Somehow I force myself to hand the note over to Snape. He brusquely requests Lupin go to Madam Pomfrey and alert her to the situation, before telling me to come with him. We don't know what we'll find when we get to you.

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You're on your bed. This is one of the few times a girl has ever been into a boys' dormitory tagging along behind a teacher.

Red.

Everywhere.

The covers are no longer green, but stained with your blood. You're barely conscious, murmuring incoherently, the palms of your hands are bleeding, and you've sliced both arms open, top of wrist, along the vein, to just past the elbow. The dagger is glistening, on the bed, having slipped from your weakened grasp.

Snape recovers quickly, quicker than I do. He mutters a temporary sealing spell and then lifts you into his arms as though you were nothing more than a ragdoll. We practically run to the hospital wing. I am in a dazed, trancelike state, my brain unable to process what I have witnessed. The shock has numbed me; I feel nothing.

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I'm in a chair by your bed. It is nearly midnight; I have slept for three hours. It is probably the shock. You are in a coma, Pomfrey tells me. You may not pull through.

I may lose you.

My hand is holding yours, willing life back into you. I hope you are dreaming of something nice. Then you might come back to me. You do know I love you, don't you?

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I go for a walk the next morning. Snape practically forces me out. "You need fresh air," he says sternly. I am no longer crying, as we walk along. It is eight in the morning and I have spent the night next to you, partly asleep, though mainly awake in the chair. You have not changed all night. I can easily think of you as merely sleeping, even though I know you're not.

We stop walking. Your act hits me like two hundred Bludgers travelling at 200mph. Simultaneously. I drop to the ground, scraping my hands and knees on the gravel. I feel no physical pain because the emotional pain of tsunami proportions washes over me, engulfs me. I am crying now. Snape (such odd situations lead to finding a bitter man's compassionate side) kneels down beside me and gathers me, bleeding, into his arms, comforting me, soothing me as I weep and howl.

Eventually the tsunamis die down. I take the handkerchief the teacher offers me. "Why did he do this?" I whisper.

Snape shakes his head sadly. "Draco was broken a long time ago. Maybe we can put him back together again, but we can't keep him that way. He is a broken glass ornament with a piece missing."

I frown. "I don't understand." I am too distressed to follow this seemingly obscure analogy – though I was using the same one only yesterday. It seems a lifetime ago.

"Someone has deliberately taken the piece away. That piece is love. The one who knocked the ornament to the floor and cruelly removed that piece is Lucius, his father." He turns to me, his intense, obsidian eyes boring into mine. "The piece has been found – quite accidentally – but an ornament cannot be rebuilt without something such as glue to hold it together. Preferably Superglue. You are the Superglue. Draco needs you, Hannah Abbott. Without your support, he will fall apart, never to be mended again."

"I love him. I'll never leave him," I tell him. I mean it and he knows it. I'm a Hufflepuff. Loyal. Someone you can trust and rely on.

"Tell Draco that. I know he loves you, but he's been betrayed. Hurt beyond our comprehension. Broken. Help him express that. Help him express his emotions. His love."

"If he wakes up," I point out, surprised at the bitterness in my own voice.

Snape nods. "If." He slips his arms round me once again as the tears return. This time I know he is crying again. What if Draco is fast asleep next to me until he dies? Have I lost my fragile glass Dragon ornament for good, smashed cruelly, and stolen from, by Lucifer himself?

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THE END