( A/N - Hi, this is a Harry Potter FF, no character belongs to me. JK Rowling owns all the copyright. Please read and review after, for me to know if I should keep going! Thank you! )
She walked through the long and winding cobblestone streets of her safe haven, a little village in southern France. The fading sunlight n the horizon was shining down on her, its faint rays making her brown hair glow like liquid fire running down her back. It has grown very long during the past few months and she wasn't about to change that. In truth, she missed her cute little bob. It was easier to tame and it left the skin on the back of her neck bare and cool. But she's afraid that if she returned to the familiarity of it, the safety of her current refuge would slip away from her, like water escaping the grasps of a clenched fist. It always felt fragile, this escape that she had secured for herself, as if any moment if she gets too comfortable or too complacent, it would break, and all the horrors of her past would come crashing down on her like the furious waters of a broken dam. With that picture in her mind, her throat constricted and she quickened her pace, her tiny feet leading her to a small house that is the very opposite of her palace-like residence in Yorkshire where she was from. But that house was from a different life, a life that she has been running from for almost an entire year now, a life that she missed, but would probably never go back to. She grabbed the doorknob like it meant the silver lining between life and death, twisted it, and pushed her way in. Once inside, relief coursed through her and she dared to lift her chin to face the waning afternoon light, breathing in lungfuls of air in an almost greedy fashion that her mama would surely frown upon. But she didn't care anymore about what her mama thought. And when that realization registered in her mediocre brain, she realized that she hasn't cared for anything but her survival for a very long time. Anything else, all the things that used to matter to her, even her previous self: money, status, privileges – they now seemed trivial.
She was trivial. That must be how she seemed to everyone else during her years at school. The thought consumed her like fire consumes a petrol-soaked piece of dry wood. Suddenly she felt her stomach lurch in an unpleasant way and she had to run to her humble sink to wait for the impending deposition of the meager lunch that she had that day. Thankfully, it didn't come and she sagged with relief. It was always this way, when she gets upset. Her body betrays itself and tries to get rid of the nutrients that are keeping her alive. She didn't like it; it burned her throat and made her mouth taste funny. It was disgusting, and it reminded her of what Tracy Davis used to do to keep her petite frame in shape. She may be vain, but she knows her limits.
But it kept on happening; every night when a bad dream wakes her up from a fitful sleep, her first instinct is to puke. Every time she is reminded of her situation and what is left of her life, her throat twitches, wanting to rid herself of everything in her stomach. She fought. It was one of the things she knew how to do. She tried not to get upset, to control her thoughts and focus on anything but her demons. It is starting to work, but it doesn't get any easier as time passes by.
These days, it did not take very much to upset her. Detachedly, she thinks she knows what might be happening: she's skimming the borders of depression. The realization was like a tight, cold grip on her heart, but she knew that before she succumbed to any frailty, she must fight. Exactly how does one fight off an emotional illness, though? Or is it psychological? Is she finally, after running and being chased, after almost being raped a couple of times, after losing three jobs in Paris, after being hungry for weeks and weeks, after begging on the streets and being kicked, spat at, and felt up, after integrating herself into muggle society willingly, which she never thought she would do, going crazy? Will insanity be the end result of all her struggles? Is she so infinitesimal to matter to any higher power, that her battles with her demons would be overlooked and dismissed just like that?
It was, all of a sudden, too much to bear while standing. She curled up like an infant on the wooden floor by the sink, her thoughts swirling in her head like a hurricane of memories and reflections. She tumbled in and out of consciousness, aware only of her loudly complaining stomach but was too tired to do anything to ease the ache. And so she stayed there on the floor, eyes closed and tears streaming from her eyes, landing on a little pool that gathered on the surface by her left cheek. If anyone from her previous life came across her at this very moment, no one would possibly recognize who she really was. For one thing, she has thinned out, and she wasn't even fleshy to begin with. For another… Well. No one would ever venture into guessing that this poor girl wearing rags and with patches of soot on her face was the former Slytherin Queen, Pansy Parkinson.
( A/N - Hoped you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it! )