[I'm honestly so sorry about this]

Now that she'd started, she knew she had to finish.

She watches her fingers - unnaturally pale in the silvery puddles of moonlight - as they dance over the bright teasing metal of the razor.

She's used to it now.

She is tired.

Exhausted.

The mental pain is easier to deal with if she's hurting physically.

She's watching herself do it.

One.

She drags the blade over the innocent flesh of her wrist.

She's done this time and time before.

The blood bubbles up lazily; she watches on with empty eyes. Two.

She wants it to hurt.

She wants to feel...

The blade catches her skin.

She feels her hands tremble. She lets a choked sob crowd her throat.

Three.

The silvery scars from before taunt her as she lets her gaze chase away her thoughts. There is a blackness overriding her senses; a dark fog, trapping her, crushing her slowly...

She doesn't want to.

It's hurting.

Four.

The blood looks black in the moonlight.

She feels bile burning in the back of her throat as she forces herself to concentrate.

Only a few more.

Then you'll be free.

She can't do this.

It hurts.

Five.

She must.

She chokes back tears; swiping the razor brutally over her skin. The pain is agonising now.

She can barely see; everything is shrouded in a thin layer of scarlet.

She can't.

Yes.

She can.

Six.

She doesn't want this.

She doesn't want to.

It hurts her.

She's hurting.

She can't stop now.

She can't.

The sickening squelch the blade makes as it sinks into her skin almost distracts her from her goal.

She wants to stop, to put the razor down and leave.

She can't.

Seven's the magic number, isn't it?

She takes a shuddering breath, swiping the razor one last time against the ragged flesh of her arm.

Seven.

She should feel free.

She's succeeded.

She looks long and hard at the black blood ebbing away.

She's losing herself.

She takes a breath.

Washes the blood away.

Cleans her hands with antibacterial soap, with a nail brush.

One. Two. Three.

Her hands are red and raw.

Four. Five.

Her fingers begin to bleed.

Six. Seven.

She relaxes.

Ignores the pain.

"Hermione? Are you in there?"

She takes a deep breath.

Rolls down her sleeves.

Rubs at her eyes.

One. Two. Three.

Four. Five. Six.

Seven.

She takes a breath.

Steels herself, armed with a fake smile.

"Coming, Ginny!"

Success wasn't meant to hurt, was it?

Was it?