Title: Crawling.

Warnings: Slight language, violence, PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder), OCD (obsessive-compulsive disorder), paranoia, depersonalisation, various phobias, self-mutilation, suicide... and several other things. Basically, read at your own risk. If any of this bothers you, please don't read this. I hope I've handled this delicately, but I can't be sure.

Disclaimer: (sigh) Nope, I don't own Harry Potter.

Setting: Sometime after HBP.

A/N: This fic was named after my favourite Linkin Park song. It's a great song, and I thought it sort of fit the mood.

The first chapter is sort of abstract, but I assure you, it's supposed to be like that, seeing as it's from Luna's point of view, and her mind's a bit damaged at the moment.

Please review, and tell me if you're interested in reading more!

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Prologue-

Memories come like dreams, flickering through. You try to touch them, but when your fingertips linger, they swirl and disappear. You know that they're there, though, just out of reach. And you know that you could grasp them, if only you wanted to badly enough.

The people here scare you. Their voices are calm and gentle, but they send chills down your spine. Their eyes hold no compassion, just a blank sort of emptiness. You don't answer them, just stare back, and they leave, reproachful looks on their faces.

You like to be alone. That's how it's always been, as far as you can remember. You don't like the darkness, though. It presses down, suffocating you. Darkness takes away the insecurities the light has and leaves you enshrouded in thought. You don't like to be left alone with your thoughts. They scare you.

Each night, you can hear the voices in the hallway fade to a whispered muttering and you know they've turned the lights off, in every room but yours. Yours stay on. Always.

The walls feel different here. You can't remember how they should be, how they were, in that time that you're not quite sure is real... but it wasn't like this. These walls are cold and white, and made of a substance maybe halfway between wood and brick. The floor beneath your bare feet is tiled; seventy-four by one hundred and twelve. You know that; you've counted. You count.

The people here try to talk to you. Their voices are velveted in false sympathy and lies. They tell you it was all in your head. You're sick, they whisper, with cold eyes. Sick. But we can help you to get better.

You don't want the pills they give you. You can't control yourself, when they do, and you know that's part of their plan. To get you to relax your guard. And you know that you can't let that happen.

You cling to the last memories you have. There are black robes, swirling around and around in the moonlight. Scarlet eyes, flashing dangerously. A woman, with hair of woven gold, holding you close. A starry, pointed hat. A shock of red hair.

Something dark shimmers at the edges of your vision, and you suddenly realise how very, very tired you are. You hear their voices at the door, lowered to a whisper, and you know they're talking about you. But for now, you don't care. You close your eyes, giving in to sleep and haunting green eyes.