A/N

I realised that I haven't actually done a disclaimer for this yet, which apparently I need to do. So yeah, I don't own Harry Potter. No siree I do not. However, I do own the majority of these characters (because I made them, as I am a terrible person who writes far too many OC's) but the peeps in the original HP series are not mine, not even a little bit.

So yeah, now that we've got that over and done with, let's return to the angst-filled, somewhat-terribly-clichéd world of Rose and her friends so that I can violently destroy my characters and my feels.

I think I get more into this story than the majority of youse reading it, perhaps due to the fact I have no idea where I am going with this. I mean, even I am unaware wether Jenna is dead or not at this point in time.

Perhaps this is not the best way to write a story.

Awkies.

Last week's super-happy ending for those of you who don't remember what the hell happened (I think my attitude about this issue is far too cavalier for the content of this story):

Jenna lay on the ground, whimpering, surrounded by a pool of her own blood. Long, deep cuts ran the length of her body, passing down her arms and over her chest, staining her white shirt red.

I dropped to my knees in front of her, covering my mouth with my hands in an attempt to contain my sobs.

'Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god. It'll be okay – everything, everything will be fine.'

But as I surveyed her broken form, her shredded shirt, and her closed eyes couldn't help but realise that no, everything was not going to be alright.

I roughly raked my fingers through my hair, clutching it as though it was the only thing tethering me to reality. My other hand hovered above her splayed arm, knowing I needed to help somehow, but uncertain how to do so. There was just so much blood. I couldn't tell where one cut ended and another began, they all just ran together in a gruesome artwork of red and white. I shakily reached for her wrist, feeling for a pulse. My fingers slipped along the still –warm blood as I searched for that dull throb, that sign that there was still a chance for her.

For a few hopeless seconds, nothing. But then I felt it, a slow, sluggish beat, growing dangerously dim. But still – it was there.

Kneeling by her side, hands shaking as I scrabbled blindly for my wand on the ground next to me, unable to take my eyes off her, as if doing so would hasten her death. When I found it I gripped it tightly and raised it over her body. I hardly recognised my own hands, dripping with red as they were. It was only then that I realised I had no idea how to help her. We learnt hardly any healing spells; the majority of what we did was attack or defence related. Healing magic was highly advanced, and anyway, we usually had Madame Pomfrey to fix us up.

That just meant that right now, my friend was dying and there was almost nothing I could do to help her.

I don't know when the tears had started, but they were flowing freely now, running down my face and onto Jenna's arm, washing away the blood to leave pale pink streaks.

I couldn't stop the memories of another time, another place, when I had been just as helpless as I was now, as nine-year-old me knelt beside the motionless body of my brother. I had screamed at my mother and father to do something, to help him, as I clutched at his shoulders. They had only stood, eyes downcast, knowing they could help him and yet unwilling to do so.

Because of me.

I had held him until he died, until his last, shuddering breath left his body, crying into his chest.

The person I loved the most in the world died in my arms because I wasn't strong enough to help him. And even after five years at Hogwarts, here I was in the exact same situation.

I could almost imagine Jenna as me, watching on as her parents died, wanting to become stronger, wanting to avenge them. And yet now she was the one lying on the ground as her life-blood bled out of her.

I couldn't let this happen. I couldn't.

Racking my brain I thought through all the spells I had ever learnt, all the ones I had even heard. Anapneo? Ferula? No! Shivers, why was this so hard? The only spells I could think of were ones that wouldn't help at all in this situation.

Oh god. Jenna was going to die and it was going to be my fault.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I thought back through my visits to Madame Pomfrey. There had been one time, when I had accidentally fallen off my broomstick and cut my knee open on a rock. I remembered that when she healed it I felt my knee go suddenly hot then very cold, as though the skin was knitting itself together. What spell had she used? Did it start with H? Or was it R? I couldn't remember! Every second I took, it was as though I could feel Jenna's life draining from her. What was it?

I covered my face with my hands and began to sob even harder. It was no use. Even if I could remember the incantation, I didn't know how to cast it – I hadn't even been looking at her as she did so, too intently focused on the trail of blood sluggishly running along my knee.

I was useless. I couldn't help my brother, and now I couldn't help this little girl who lay in front of me. Why had I spoken up? Why had I said anything at all? If I had just let McGonagall order us all down to the dungeons, Jenna would be fine.

She was dying and it was my fault.

I grasped her hand between mine, shoulders shaking and tears dripping over the edge of my cheeks to splatter upon her motionless body. I watched as the shallow rise and fall of her chest began to lessen, as her already-limp hand slipped from my grasp, as death stole her away from her.

And I screamed.

Somewhere in the back of my mind there was a voice, telling me that I needed to be quiet, that I couldn't attract attention. But something inside of me had broken, a fragile piece of my heart that had shattered when my brother had died and that I had only just managed to put back together. Was that was had really driven me to fight so desperately for Slytherin's right to join the battle? Was this all simply to prove to myself that I had gotten stronger, that I could protect what I loved?

If it was, then I had dearly payed the price for my foolishness, over and over and over again.