Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

Monochrome

Harry Potter – Rated: T – English – Angst/Romance – Lavender B. & Seamus F.

"Stimulate the heart action," an unfamiliar voice filled with authority pierces the haze cloaking your mind. It's completely void of emotion other than urgency. "Check for cardiac rhythm disturbances."

Soon afterwards, you become vaguely aware of your head being thrust back, lowered until it's below heart level. An unmistakable swish of a wand, a silent murmur of an incantation, and a blinding heat sears through your body. Involuntarily, your body jerks upwards in agony, jaw hanging open in an imitation of a voiceless scream.

You can almost feel curious, calculating stares burning into your skin, reopening each and every one of your wounds and scrutinising them as if you are a lab rat; something insignificant, born to die.

"She's still awake!" you vaguely hear another voice, deeper and more agitated, drifting among the hazy fog enshrouding your mind. Recognition stirs briefly within your soul. That voice…

The excruciating pain returns before you can pull the shreds of your mind together enough to identify the owner of the voice. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to yell at them to just finish you off; to put an end to this senseless, intolerable pain…

But you don't, because you're a Gryffindor and Gryffindors are supposed to be brave, so you shut your eyes tight and embrace the pain as it consumes your soul.

"You're a little roughened up, but don't worry, dear. We'll get your scars cleared up –"

But you're not even listening anymore. You're lost in your own world, with Madam Pomfrey's gentle yet brisk words dissolving into a monotonous lull echoing in your ears.

Fixated on your reflection in the full-length mirror, you take a step forward. And another. And another.

Soon you're staring face to face with your own reflection, close enough to scrutinise every single pimple that dared to tarnish your nearly-flawless skin – or at least, previously nearly-flawless skin. Now your formerly porcelain-white skin is tinted a dull shade of grey – the colour of slush you just wish would go away – most likely from the lack of sunlight-induced vitamin D, and bruises are blossoming oh-so-beautifully across it. They spell out a cruel, sadistic message twisted in blue-black, as if taunting you to destroy the mirror just to eliminate that horrendous image from your line of sight.

Suddenly hungry for more, your eyes rake the length of the mirror in a masochistic, almost insatiable desire. Cuts and lacerations dance in an almost hypnotising pattern down your arms, tingling with the remnants of Madam Pomfrey's numbing spell. Those are still tolerable, you tell yourself, breathing heavily in an effort to maintain your emotionless demeanour. Those will fade away in time. Your arms will look normal again.

But no amount of magic or makeup will ever heal the long, jagged, angry red scar stretching from your temple to your jaw, mottling your once perfect features forever.

The walk back to your hospital bed is in an ash-grey silence.

"Tell me what you remember, Lavender," the therapist speaks softly.

You don't remember much, you tell the therapist in a bland grey monotone. You remember having a best friend of Indian descent, who threw her twin sister aside to giggle over crushes and the hottest gossip with you below creaking staircases. You vaguely recall her visiting your hospital bed when you were still faintly stirring from the incident.

There was a boy who was a tad moronic. You don't remember his name, you say as you fiddle with your fingers, but you know you used to date him. Strangely, all your memories of the two of you together consist primarily of slipping into a secluded corner, hands tangling in the other's hair as tongues fought for dominance. And there was another boy, too, a dark-skinned one that was easy-going and generally friendly to everyone. He drew a picture of you and titled it 'Perfection' for your sixteenth birthday.

You can't help but feel a nudge at your subconscious as you incline your head a fraction of a degree when the therapist asks if that's all. A miniscule twinge in your heart whispers that there was another boy that you've forgotten to mention. The only one who never visited you throughout your hospitalisation.

Hours later, in the twilight of darkness, your eyelids snap shut to a black-and-white film of living nightmares.

Finally, finally, it dawns upon you that you'll never be who you used to be again.

It's only a matter of time before the last day of the month rolls around, and your world fluctuates between three boldly different, yet strangely similar, hues: black, grey and white.

It's the night of the full moon. Madam Pomfrey's reassurances that you're completely human have fallen on deaf ears, and you flit through the day in anticipation, acknowledging with a grave terror that tonight, you will discover whether or not Greyback's bite has turned you into a werewolf.

You decide, albeit with a rapidly convulsing body, that it's much, much better to die at your own hand than turn into a werewolf and be ostracised even more than you already are. No, what you need is a quick way to end it all…

The thin, sticklike piece of wood feels oddly slippery as you twirl it between your fingers for the last time, taking a moment to reminisce all the times you raised it to duel and not even bothering to stifle the dry laugh that escapes your lips when you realise that half those times, you lost the duel.

You've always been useless. What makes you even more useless is the fact that it took breaking to realise that fact.

Your sleek fingers caress the wand as you raise it to the throat. You might not have Parvati's wits or Hermione's eidetic memory, but you've memorised the fatal incantation that will leave your throat a wide, gaping gash oozing gallons of thick red blood. At such close proximity, it's impossible for you to miss.

You never got to say thank you to all the friends that stood by your side, up until this moment. They've never cared about your looks, or how ugly you are. They've always lingered faithfully by your side, especially Parvati, and not once have their smiles wavered. You don't deserve their kindness, you think with a pang of nostalgia in your heart.

And they shouldn't be hindered by an ugly, hideous, revolting nuisance like you.

You close your eyes, inhaling sharply in an attempt to quell your nerves and calm your heart, which is thumping so rapidly that it's practically ricocheting off the walls of your ribcage. There's no point fearing what was coming all along.

And in a single, heart-stopping second, your mouth whips open and the fateful word rolls off your tongue. "Diffind-"

"Expelliarmus!"

Ignoring the scream wrenched from the very depths of your soul, the wand slips from your hands and clatters to the floor, too far away to be in reach.

By the time you come round, clutching your head in utter agony, only two words whispered from the lips of Madam Pomfrey remain in your mind. Seamus Finnigan.

"Lavender," the therapist intones, a small, encouraging smile gracing her pinkish-grey lips, "this is a dollhouse." She raises her wand and flicks it in a single seamless motion, and instantly, a dollhouse half your size appears, complete with too-symmetrical walls, lush gardens and lifelike multi-coloured furniture that your eyes simply can't perceive in any hue other than grey.

She stows her wand back into her robes and leans back into the sofa. "You see, I've come to realise that you tend to associate objects and emotions with colours. Perhaps instead of simply telling me what you're feeling, you could change the colour of the walls every day. I've heard from your professors that you're exceptionally talented in charmswork. Think of it as… practice for when you're finally discharged into the outside world."

A thin streak of sunlight diffuses across the room and envelopes the two of you in a freezing warmth that feels so blistering cold to you at the same time. Still, despite the sense of foreboding descending upon you, you agree to do it.

The moment your eyelids flutter shut, every muscle in your body stiffens. There it is – the twisted face coated with wisps of fur, upper lip drawn back to reveal a row of sharp fangs, mirroring the malicious, bloodthirsty glint in his eyes. The same face that haunts your every nightmare; that you can successfully suppress for brief periods of time during your waking moments, only for the moon to rise and signal another sleepless night of screaming and tangling yourself in your sheets.

Immediately, your chest, where those claws slashed you, explodes in sheer agony. You double over, hands instinctively shooting up to clasp your temples and teeth gritting in a desperate attempt to hold back the shrieks poised at the tip of your tongue, threatening to spill out at any minute –

You open your eyes and paint the wall black, because you remember dying.

The second of November marks the day of your discharge from the hospital wing. You're not going to miss this place of white tainted by black. It reeks of the cloyingly putrid odour all hospitals have. It's been almost six months since the war ended, and sometimes your mind is so attuned to being on your guard that you find yourself swivelling around, face blanched white in terror, whenever you hear footsteps behind you.

Your best friend – Parvati, you hazard a guess at her name – grasps your hand tightly in hers, as if trying to reassure herself that you're very much real. She breathes animatedly into your ear about how much fun the two of you are going to have, rooming together in London. Just like the old times, she murmurs, almost managing to drone out Madam Pomfrey's stern health-related warnings and instructions.

That phrase scares you. You're not the old you. The new you hangs onto an irrational sliver of hope that one day you'll wake up to discover that you're the old you again. The old you lived in a swirl of glamour and glitz, laced with the giggles and fleeting kisses that being a beautiful, popular girl entailed. The new you lives in a swirl of bleak monochrome, laced with depression and slight memory loss.

She knows, and you know that she knows. But sometimes, knowing just isn't enough.

Later that day, during your therapy session, you open your eyes and paint the wall slate-grey, because deep down you've acknowledged that you can't turn a blind eye to your clipped wings as easily as Parvati can.

Your meeting is purely by chance.

Parvati finally manages to coax you out of your dark – but no less cozy – hiding place, claiming with her eyebrows set in disapproval that you're becoming a hermit. No one will laugh at your scars, she insists, and you finally give in to her incessant pestering.

Clad in nondescript Muggle attire that's dull and drab, just the way you like it, you traipse down the London street with your hands buried in your pockets. Everywhere you go, hushed whispers on the street follow. The hastily murmured words, no matter harsh or sympathetic, cling to you relentlessly, curling around you and infecting you with their cold grey venom.

Your heart plummets into a bottomless abyss, knowing that Parvati was wrong and they must, must be talking about how ugly you are. That girl round the corner whispering and giggling to her friend must be sneering about her scars. You quicken your pace, wishing with every ounce of energy in your body that you can just return home.

"Oops, sorry," you mutter as you collide headfirst into someone. Determinedly averting your eyes from whoever you bumped into, you lower your head and start walking past the stocky figure, reckoning that escaping is the only way to avoid the horrified gasps and pitying glances that you're constantly plagued with.

"Hey, wait a minute." His voice takes the wind out of your sails, and startled, you skid to a halt. That voice… That all-too-familiar voice…

"Lavender Brown?" The stocky figure whips around and lifts your chin with a finger, until you're forced to stare right into his captivating baby-blue eyes.

Your heart starts palpitating faster than ever before. It's not possible, and even as you rack your brains frantically, the backup system in your mind to verify information seems to be malfunctioning, but…

"Seamus? Seamus Finnigan?"

"Fancy seeing you here!" Seamus flashes a grin at you. "Been a while, hasn't it?"

You're sitting in a quiet café across the street from the spot where you met, and as you clutch your mug as though it's a lifeline, swilling the murky brown liquid within, you can't help but notice the little changes that have already taken place.

You vaguely recall that he used to dress like a slob, with his hair always ruffled and his attire perpetually dishevelled. Now, his sandy-brown hair is neatly slicked back to the extent that it even glimmers under the dull sunlight, and he's clearly made an effort to don plain Muggle clothes and stay as inconspicuous as possible.

It's not the only drastic change, either. As he slurps his coffee without a care in the world, you can see him eyeing you warily, and you immediately register why. Usually it would be you, the loquacious girl, effortlessly commandeering the conversation, while he listened, lips curling up into an amused smirk. The two of you would giggle and laugh in perfect congruity, soprano and bass.

But today, the roles are reversed and he fills the empty silence with good-humoured grousing while you make stilted conversation with stiff, jerky arm movements.

You part ways with a firm promise to meet up again, and as you trudge back to the small flat you're sharing with Parvati, you realise with a sudden jolt that it's the first time you aren't seeing the world through filters tinted monochrome.

At your next therapy session, you open your eyes and paint the wall light grey, because you remember him.

For a while, your world shifts to a lighter shade of grey, bordering on white. You're not sure why, but your therapist is certainly pleased. Parvati is absolutely ecstatic, clearly already visualising the day that her best friend reverted to her old self. Ever since that fateful meeting, Seamus has constantly been by your side, offering you support and a shoulder to cry on.

You're almost there. You can feel the constricting, slippery threads of darkness recoiling at the sight of light, and as you struggle against the bonds that bind, you can sense that they're loosening.

And for a moment, you actually think that you can be normal again.

Then you find the picture. It's a framed, moving painting of a very, very heartbreakingly familiar girl, with glossyperfectflawless white teeth, mesmerisingperfectcaptivating orbs reminiscent of chocolate, and a confidentperfectassured demeanour that even Prefects envied. Engraved at the top of the golden frame is the word 'Perfection'. The girl has her head tossed back, silky blond waves cascading down her back, smiling, ever so carefree.

The frame slips from your slackened fingers and shatters into smithereens on the ground. At least it resembles you more now.

But the damage has been done. At your next therapy session, you open your eyes and paint the wall gunmetal grey, because deep down, you know you're less than perfect, and convincing yourself otherwise will only make the scars dig deeper.

No one will ever love you if even you don't love yourself.

How very true.

He becomes your only comfort in your darker moments, wrapping you in an intimate fear-assuaging embrace and resisting your violent thrashes against the overpowering thresholds of his arms. And every time he helps you through the perpetual blackness of yet another nightmare, your heart swells until you swear you can feel the cracking of your ribcage before imploding on itself in a tidal wave of intense, heart-wrenching emotion.

"I'm sorry." And you lie in his arms, pearlescent tears trickling down the sides of your face, like a jaded feather coming to a rest.

"Don't be silly," he breathes in your ear, lulling you to sleep. "There's nothing to be sorry for."

And yet those two words are constantly muttered even in your sleep.

You're down to the very last wall now. Eleven other completed dollhouses lounge in the corner, their eerie reflections of each other looking to elicit recoils and looks of sympathy from any casual onlooker. Each wall is dyed a varied hue of monochrome – splotches of white-grey mingling among the dark oceans of black, telling tales twisted in darkness. The sight in itself is evidence of how completely, utterly broken you are; of how you'll never, ever be the same again.

Your eyelids flutter close, knowing with a sickening dread that this is just the end of a routine and the start of a new, identical one. Deliberately, you test yourself, bringing Greyback to the forefront of your mind, waiting – amid all the throes of agony – for the flash of pain. For the mélange of indescribable emotions that always surface whenever you acknowledge how weak you are. It's an automatic reaction that you've grown accustomed to. But today, there's nothing. A new absence within you. A numbness.

Instead, you're greeted by mental images of Seamus. Seamus, Seamus, Seamus; Seamus smiling down at you; Seamus whisking you into a suffocating hug; Seamus insisting on carrying your groceries like a gentleman and glaring daggers at everyone who even so much as glances your way. It's an influx of Seamus, too obstinate to overcome and too tenacious to evade, to the extent that your mind is choking on the name you've endeared yourself to after so long.

You open your eyes and paint the wall white, the edges tinged with the lightest, most delicate yellow, because it is the colour of Seamus and the light you've been seeking for so long and pure, unadulterated hope.

The sun rose as it always did, spilling a blazing pool of crimson and gold over the vast land.

But there was another light that day, a light of hope...

... that lit up places the eye can't see.

A/N: I do not own the ending in italics. It wasn't my idea. And yeah, post-war SeamusLavender is overdone and clichéd, but I don't care (much).
I chose the Severing Charm over the Killing Curse because I don't think Lavender would've had it in her to perform such a dark spell, especially after the war.
I know the fic's weird, but please review :)

Done for: The Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition (Round 2)

Prompts used: clipped wings, (Dialogue) "I can honestly say that I do not care." and less than perfect

Lyrics used: "My heart is broken
I'm lying here
My thoughts are choking on you my dear
On you my dear"
–"Together" by Avril Lavigne

~TLoC

{Caerphilly Catapults Beater 2}