disclaimer: still young, still poor, still not JK.
a/n: I hope you like it. :)
PART ONE.
'...the hill still left to climb is just so high,'- jack's mannequin
You've got four scars in the palms of both of your hands- two raised perforated lines and eight perfect pink crescents in total- that you've given yourself. They're still a little raw now, and ache deep inside to the touch and they're on your hands and you can't make them go away. No amount of washing and scrubbing and wishing will make the smooth pink 'u's go away, and even if you couldn't see them there you would still feel them, anyway.
They're etched far further than skin deep; scratched into where you scratched them yourself, in a darkened classroom with nothing but your tears and your blood and your ragged breathing and the raising of someone else's wand and flashes of light and-
It hurt.
It was flash after flash after flash of bright light and, 'Where is 'e, d'you 'onestly fink we dunno that you know where the bugger is?!!', and you being thrown around like a doll with your blood rolling off your fingers and drip drop-ing onto the floor as you clenched your fists tighter and tighter and tighter so that you wouldn't scream.
And some other times it was in the courtyard, and you were surrounded by people but you were still alone because those people were jeering Slytherins and mocking Hufflepuffs and were sorry excuses for people anyway, but this time it was you and his wand and his breath in your face and, 'Don't you bloody fink I'm not gonna do your pretty lil' face in if you don't say nuffin', girl... 'ats all you got, anyway, eh? Bleedin' deaf, dunt talk a'all... Muggle lovin' family...jus' a pretty lil' face, yeah?"
There would usually be some sort of jinx from his wand a few even from the crowd but you would still be standing there, hands in the pockets of your robe and one eyebrow defiantly raised because you weren't going to yell or cry or break down in front of that lot. But the blood pools in your pockets and you want to say,
'Mute. Mute. That's the word for when you don't talk, dipshit, not deaf,' even though there's no point because he would probably only catch every fourth word (or third if he's feeling particularly astute) of that anyway, and it would just be another sectumpsempra to the arm or leg for you.
But most of the time, it was just you and your nightmares, full colour movie reels of bright lights and long faces and a world where no one was real and there was blood everywhere and teeth and tears and pictures of handsome boys with green eyes on graves and a Weasley family plot and dead first years and hooded faces and dementors and crescent marked palms of hands and red hair and scars and blood and tears and blood and sweat and blood and lurking in corridors and blood and-
"Ginny!"
You sit up with a start and tear your eyes away from the fire, glancing around and blinking the sleep that was forming away from your eyes. Hermione Granger is standing behind the couch, looking uncertainly at you as she twists her fingers this way and that, this way and that.
She looks different- her face is skinnier and longer than you remember, her hair is tied sloppily into a bun on the top of her head, and her clothes are ripped, and she is splashed with blood. There are dark circles around her eyes and there are lines inside the circles, and her fingernails are long and lined with dirt.
"Hermione Granger," the words slip out before you can stop them, because you're sitting on the couch with your head turned to look at a girl who you haven't seen for over a year, and you're not entirely sure who this stranger is. You're not on first name basis.
She looks surprised for a moment, then comes around the couch to look at you with thousands of expressions flickering across her features at lightning speed. Confusion, happiness, sadness, concern, worry, fear, pity.
And you don't want her pity, not one bit. Because growing up in a family with too many siblings and not enough money, you've learnt not to bother wanting things you do not need, and you do not need pity.
"How're you feeling?" You ask groggily, and your voice is hoarse from yelling and exhaustion as you move your feet off the couch so she can sit next to you. She opens her mouth and then closes it again, and shakes her head. Once, twice. Three times. She doesn't speak.
"Wha-?"
"Your hands!!" You stare blankly at her and blink. Once, twice. Three times. She comes closer and touches your wrist delicately, and then recoils as though thinking better of it.
"What's wrong with your hands, Ginny?! Sweet Merlin-" she looks down at your hands and your eyes flick down to them too.
"Oh." That's when you see it, dark and sticky, oozing out of your subconsciously formed fists and staining the floral upholstery of the couch, and you wince at the stinging as you unstick your nails from the reopened perforations on your hands.
Hermione is sobbing now, and you think for a moment that it should really be you crying, because they are your hands after all, but after all the sleepless nights and tears you've already shed, you're not sure that you can actually cry anymore.
So you flex your hand a little, and Hermione makes a strangled noise and stares, horrified, as you wipe your hands on your already grimy jeans and reach out to give her a hug. She gasps, twice; two ragged inhalations of tears and air and life, as she wordlessly steps into your hug, and you close your bloodied hands behind her back, just at the shoulderblades. Again you are met with some hesitation in your head- this girl is surely a stranger because the Hermione Granger you know would not willing touch someone with bloodied hands and open wounds without fixing them up, first- but push it away.
Confused, hazy Ginny Weasley of the aftermath is replaced for a little while by the strong and resilient Ginny Weasley of the DA, and the adrenaline kicks in as Hermione sobs into your shoulder and you stand there, patting her on the back and 'shooshing' her and trying to get her to calm down. But it doesn't work and you take the two steps back to the couch and scoot the cushions over to where your blood is not and sit her down.
But she doesn't stop, only pausing to draw great rugged gasping breaths and sniffs, but her head collapses onto her knees and you know there's nothing that you can do. So you sit there. And you wait.
And you will yourself not to fall to sleep again because there might be other people- injured or the shocked or maybe other members of the DA- who will need you.
"Gin?" You know that voice. Perhaps a little deeper and a little rougher than you remember it to be, but you know that voice.
"Ron. Ron. Ron," you suck in air fast as you look at your brother, and he offers you the shadow of one of his typical goofy grins- full of teeth and as big as his face will handle- and sweeps you into a hug so tight it hurts.
"Ow, Ron, gerrof, that bloody canes!" Your voice sounds far too light to be existing in this strange aftermath, and you swat Ron away almost playfully. You scold yourself internally, because he looks so tired and so in need of a hug.
"Well, sorry, Gin, but I think this is an occassion where you can be seen with your brother in-"
But you cut him off as you hug him, this time, tight around his chest as his hair grazes the top of your head and you are certain you feel some wetness land in your hair. But his time, it is he who pushes you away, presumably because he's spotted Hermione crying in great wracking sobs on the couch, and he jumps the back of the couch to sit next to her, pulling her head onto his shoulder and wrapping an arm around her neck, and she cries into his singed tee-shirt. He looks to you with big sad eyes, just as lined and circled as Hermione's, and you nod briskly, understanding perfectly.
"I'll go look for... I'll...I'll... see you tomorrow, Ron," you say quietly, and turn to walk out the portrait hole. You take a few steps and are about to push the painting open when his voice stops you.
"He's in the kitchens, Gin. He was looking for you."
You turn to look at him, frankly amazed that he knew what you were talking about, and nod, managing a small smile that he returns half heartedly.
Then you turn around and keep walking and don't look back.
'see no shadows, 'cos the shadow's all there is.'
end A/N: it's short, I know. Update'll be soon. Reviews'd be great (I like amalgamating words). Also, quotes at beginning and end is are from Bloodshot by Jack's Mannequin. Listen to it.