Scars and Love
A thick, black rope was knotted loosely around her wrist. She looked glumly at it, and wondered if she would find a pale tan line if she took it off. But then, she saw the icy paleness of her skin, and realized she hadn't tanned at all in the last few years, hadn't seen the sun, and definitely wasn't privileged enough to have tan lines.
She had scars, instead. They were dark and jagged, slashes of crusty crimson that adorned her wrists, forearms, calves and even her feet. They stood out starkly on the white skin, and glimmered with a single purpose- reminding her of things she would rather forget. She was obsessed with them. The ugly marks were a drug to her, an addiction that she could not cure. Looking at them filled her with horrific memories that sent her on a high. She rolled back into her glittering black world, and saw people hanging from bushes and dead from trees.
It didn't frighten her anymore.
She glanced at the brown lines on her fingers. She counted them everyday, trying to remember how long it had been since the rope had been knotted on her wrist, and she had been thrown into this pale-walled room. It had been five years, as she reminded herself everyday. She was twenty two years, seven months, three weeks, four days old. She had to remember. The counting kept her sane.
She counted everything- the wrinkles on her palm, the scars on her wrist, the specks of blood on her legs, the welts on her stomach, and the grimy tiles in the room. When he came to her every night, she counted the number of times he pushed into her, the number of times he breathed, and the number of seconds until he was done. It pushed her mind back into perspective. The machine-like nature of counting appealed to her. She was a machine- a rusty piece of iron that pushed itself on and refused to think, because it knew that if it did, it would go mad.
Am I mad?
Decidedly. Mad enough to love the pain, mad enough to yearn for more. Mad enough to wonder what Harry and Ron were doing-
But she didn't remember them. She didn't; she pushed the thought away, and started to count the scars on her forearm.
One, two three…
A door creaked open. She looked up. He looked down.
Four, five, six…
She saw a tall frame, a cruelly chiseled face, pale eyes and a slick sweep of whitish hair. She saw a nonchalantly contemplative expression, and traces of a sneer etched on a face that assumed one at the slightest provocation.
He saw a thin, anorexic girl, with papery skin and a painfully thin face with large, black rimmed eyes, shot with blood, lips bitten a dark scarlet and a wild plume of hair that fell out in all directions. He saw a painful body wrapped in a white sheet and covered with red marks.
'Hello, Granger.'
Seven, eight, nine…
'What are we counting now?'
Her voice was rusty with disuse. 'Forearm,' she whispered, raspily.
'That's wonderful, my dear.' The slightest of sneers. 'How many have you reached?"
Ten.
'Ten,' she told him, quietly.
He smiled. 'We're getting clever at counting, aren't we? We're becoming better and better at it. Till where can we count, Granger?'
'Twenty four.'
'You're right. It was twenty four last time, my precious. Funny how we learn new numbers each day, isn't it?'
She didn't nod. But her eyes appealed to him. Her narrow legs twisted under the sheet. He knew that even in her madness she wanted this.
'Lie there, my darling, I'm coming to you.'
He took off his clothes with careful deliberation. Her large, blank eyes stared straight at him. They had been painfully blank since the culmination of the war. A curse, he knew. It was strongly believed to have an Obliviating curse.
When he was naked, she removed the sheet from her body. Her eyes were looking straight at him.
He bent down.
oOo
Twenty…
Hermione winced. He was pushing harder now. A strong, animalistic lust had reared in him. She could see it in the fiery passion of his eyes, the bestial twist of his lips. One crooked tooth protruded like a fang. She knew how he used it. She had seen, felt it…
Twenty one…
His hair was matted slick with sweat. When she saw him like this, she could tell something was wrong. She could break through the confines of the curse that had done this to her and see glimmerings of things which were wrong. Something was wrong with her, wasn't there?
Twenty two…
His body was cleaved to hers, his hands gripping her brittle hip bones with a ferocity that scared her and drew her out to her maximum responsiveness. It hurt her body. It didn't pain her soul anymore.
Twenty three…
I don't have a soul anymore. It can't pain, she realized. You don't feel the pain when they amputate your foot. You don't feel it when they amputate your soul.
Twenty four…
And the physical pain? She loved it with a sickness that was addictive. When she left, she would slice her skin. Her hip, she decided, this time, where his hand was. The silver knife would slice into the ripe flesh, and she would feel the pain and it would bleed. She would find a vein and pierce it.
Twenty-
She stopped, confused. This was different.
Twenty five?
What-
Twenty five!
Another rush of memory. Another nugget of knowledge. How he taught, so slowly, so patiently. It was twenty five, now…
He fell on top of her, exhausted.
I love him.
Love?
What's that?
oOo
'She's fucking mad, Draco.'
'I know,' he said, indifferently. 'But she learns, with patience.'
'What do you teach her?'
'Counting.'
'Counting?'
'Yes, Blaise, counting. She learns, over time.'
'Does she remember anything- anything?'
Draco thought for a moment. 'Yes,' he admitted, 'But she doesn't want to. So she forces herself to forget. The curse isn't active anymore, Blaise. It's herself- her own mind that's pushing her into that hollow. All the strength she had before the war is shattered. It hurts her so much to be broken, but she doesn't remember anymore.'
Blaise shook his head.
'Like I said- she's fucking mad.'
In her room, Hermione was staring at the ceiling.
I love him.
I love M- Malfoy?
Maybe…
She looked down at the newly inflicted scar on her hip. Beautiful, so beautiful.
Pretty red marks…the drops of blood sent her high. She could see glittering pink mice in the trees, people hanging from the bushes.
She began to count them again.
Twenty five?