Dear Diary,
I've been told writing to you might help but I don't see how. Can you make the pain disappear? Disguise the ugly scars I now bear? Rid me of my memories? You can't and I know that and this why you can't help me. No one can help me. My scars cannot be disguised due to the nature of them. Werewolf injuries are permanent and impervious to magic, the healers told me, with their pitying looks. You can see in their eyes that they're secretly relieved that it is not them sat where I am, bandages wrapped around my neck, a permanent white scarf. Or perhaps they're more akin to a noose, I can't decide.
I am in constant pain yet the healers don't understand. It's not a physical pain but something within me, making my writhe in an agony that healers cannot grasp. They tell me that it could be a symptom of PTSD, but I can see that they can't tell me how to stop it, to stop the pain. And if the healers can't help me then is there any hope for me at all?
Love, Lavender
Dear Diary,
St. Mungo's has finally released me on the condition I attend a therapy group. They believe this will help me overcome my fears and anxieties and pain but I don't see how talking to a group of people about problems they don't understand will help. How can they know? Sure, we all suffered through the battle but they weren't mauled by Fenrir Greyback, a vicious beast of a man who still gives me nightmares every night. How can they know how I'm feeling and sympathise? They haven't a clue and I don't want them to know.
I don't even want to talk about it.
I've decided to attend one meeting, just to please the healer and then not go to anymore.
Love, Lavender.
Dear Diary,
The therapy group.
I thought I would sit there unaffected, distant and detached from everyone, not willing to listen to their problems, too busy focusing on my own.
But I was wrong.
I found myself awed by the willingness each member showed. A few I recognised from Hogwarts, but all were strangers to the girl I was now. I wasn't that Lavender Brown anymore, the girl obsessed with my hair, my looks and Ron Weasley. The girl who was attached to the hip of Parvati. I was so far removed from her now and I hope that came across to them all, despite my silence.
I listened intently to each of their stories, of their hopes and fears, problems and solutions, both good and bad. Despite each trauma being different, we had all suffered on that day, each in our way. It made me realise how selfish I had been in my pain, thinking I was the only one.
I know I said I would only go once but I now find myself itching to go to the next meeting.
Maybe the healers were right; therapy is for me.
Love, Lavender.
Dear Diary,
It's been nearly a month now since I began attending the meetings and I'm now finding myself leading our talks. In that hour, I somehow forget about my pain, my scars and I allow the feeling relief wash over me, as though my body is pleased I am talking about my issues.
Dennis Creevey spoke today, about the loss of his brother, the impact it has had on his family. He's not the same boy I remember from school; the way he carries himself is like a man with the world on his shoulders, his brother's death weighing on him heavily. He spoke about feeling like a failure for not saving Colin; that it was his job to save him, protect him. I watched in silence as he broke into silent tears and I felt my own trailing down my cheeks.
How could I have been so selfish? I withdrew myself, ultimately because of the scar on my neck, yet there is Dennis, body wracked with sobs as he recalled losing his brother and the emptiness he felt. I felt physically sick as I sat there, watching him cry. It was in that moment that I vowed that my scars would not affect me, that there are more important things in the world than looking pretty.
I see that now and it's all thanks to Dennis.
I hugged him at the end of the meeting and wiped his tears streaked face and I told him we were all there for him. And as I watched him attempt to smile, I knew helping him was what I wanted to do. I wanted to help all of them, like they had helped me.
Love, Lavender.
Dear Diary,
We gained a new member tonight.
I had just been about to speak when the doors creaked open and there stood Oliver Wood, a scowl on his face as he made his way into the room, limping slightly and wincing in pain. As the rest of the group stared, I cleared my throat in order to gain their attention, knowing he must have uncomfortable.
I shot him a small smile before addressing the group, allowing a former Hufflepuff to talk first. As I listened, my eyes wandered of their own accord to the former Quidditch player, his brow furrowed as he furiously picked at his fingers.
He reminded me of myself the first time I joined the group; disinterested, distant and closed off. Like he wanted to be somewhere else. I was still looking at him when he caught my eye and I smiled at him again, trying my hardest not to frown when he looked away. He was the first to leave
I found myself playing with my hair in that meeting, something I hadn't done in a long time.
Love, Lavender.
Dear Diary,
Oliver asked me out for drinks after the next meeting. Oliver Wood.
Do I go? Do I refuse?
Alicia, the group leader told me I should say no. That relationships between therapy members are never healthy. That it ends up being a toxic connection, usually played out amongst a background of alcohol and drugs. She says I should stay way clear of Oliver; that he's going through his own thing, different to my problems. She says it won't end well for him, that the signs are there.
But I find myself ignoring her reasons, denying her claims.
We're all going through something, that's why we attend the meetings. And we're told that talking it through with others, being around people helps with our recovery. So how is a social drink after work any different?
He asked me, despite the scars on my neck. He acted like he didn't even notice them.
I'm going to say yes.
Love, Lavender.
Dear Diary,
I kissed him. I can't even blame the drink because I only had Butter-beer. But I kissed him and Merlin, was it wonderful.
He's intoxicating. His presence consumed me and I breathed him in, all of him. We ended up at my flat and in my bed. Lips over my body, my scar as I couldn't help the murmurs of 'fuck' leave my lips as he took me to heights I'd never known.
I woke up this morning and bit my lip as he was bathed in a faint glow, the previous night flashing before my eyes. I slipped out to make up coffee and breakfast, a smile on my face as it registered he never left. That he stayed.
He stayed with me.
No one had ever done that before.
Love, Lavender.
Dear Diary,
This will be my last entry.
I know I was reluctant to write to you in the first place but you have helped me, despite my doubts.
You have watched me cry and break down but then you have also watched me grow and become me.
I am so grateful to you, for everything.
But now I found someone else like you.
Someone who listens to me, lets me cry and break but allows me to build myself back up, to be me. Oliver is the one, whatever that means in this crazy new world.
He's like you, except I can feel his arms around me when I'm upset, feel his thumbs wipe away my tears, feel his lips ghost over my own, over my scars. I can feel him heal me. I can feel his comfort.
He is like you, but he is also more. Much more.
So, this is our goodbye, my dear friend.
Thank you. For everything.
Love, Lavender.