Warning: This chapter contains cutting. This story is not for younger children. I hope that this will be a darkfic with character deaths, sex, blood, gore, etc. If you don't like that kind of story, please don't read this.
Have you ever felt the bite of the cold edge of a blade as it slides over your skin? Have you ever felt the sharp pain as the blade parts your skin and your blood pours out, staining the gray steel red? I have. I take out a blade nearly every day and seclude myself in my own room. I slide the blade down an arm, across a leg, and watch as the blood runs in rivers down my body.
Most people cut to find an escape, or they cut in defiance of the precepts that bind them. Some people cut to find release. I wish my reasoning were as simple as that.
I cut to see if I will heal.
For five years I have cut my body, but there isn't a single scar to show for it. In my second and third year at school the cuts would bleed for a bit. By the next day they would be scabbed over and by the day after the scab would fall off, leaving pink skin that disappeared by the end of the day. In my fourth and fifth year at school, the scabs would fall off leaving behind pale skin the same color as the rest of my body. It wouldn't leave even a trace of a cut. Now in my sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witch Craft and Wizardry, I was still cutting.
At the moment I was sitting on my bed, knife in hand, debating whether I should check. Should I check to see if I would still heal?
I hadn't checked in over two months. It had been summer, and summer at the Weasley house with Harry and Hermione over was not a good time to be playing with knives. So I had waited.
I don't crave the kiss of a blade, and I am not dependent on its charms like some of those who cut. I am merely curious. I need to know if my body will continue to heal. This was the only way I could be sure.
Last year I had been hit with a bludger during Quidditch practice. It had broken my arm; of that I am positive. Ron and Harry had sent me to Madam Pomfrey to get my arm healed. By the time I had gotten to the hospital wing, all I had to show the healer was a bludger shaped bruise. It was almost as if I hadn't broken my arm in the first place. I had to know if this year would be different. Would I still heal myself?
My freshly sharpened blade parted my skin in a long red line. The blood pooled in my knives wake, but didn't fall. I stared at it, the life force of my body, visible for all to see.
I only realized that I had licked my lips by the wet trail they left over my cut. I licked my lips again, expecting to taste the salty substance coating my tongue, but was disappointed. My lips were wet with only my own saliva. I looked down at my arm, at the red line that should be gushing enough blood to stain the white sheets I was sitting on. Yet somehow, not even a drop had flowed. I stared at the cut in astonishment.
The cut was slowly disappearing. Somehow it was healing before my eyes.
I don't think I'm human. Not anymore.
A knock sounded at my door, but I ignored it. I ran my fingers over my arm, over the skin that looked exactly the same as it had before I brought my blade to it. The only evidence that I had cut myself was the slight red tinge to the end of my knife.
The person at my door knocked again and I snarled back at the sound.
Loosing myself in the anger I was feeling from the intrusion of my solitude, I didn't notice what my hands were doing. It came as a surprise when I flipped my knife in the air and caught the blade deftly between two fingers. With a careless flick of my wrist I sent the knife flying at a discolored spot on the door. The blade imbedded itself directly over the spot and I gasped in surprise. I went over to look at my knife. It was imbedded to the hilt.
I lost my anger with the person knocking and answered a terse, "What?" when they knocked a third time.
"Ginny," a girls voice called through the door. "Your brother wants you to come down to dinner now."
I could hear footsteps receding from my door. I laughed quietly and yanked the knife out of the door. Hermione hadn't said a word to me all summer, and three days into school she finally realizes that I exist and is giving me orders directly from my brother's mouth.
Ah, Ron. Now he is a wonder. He gets me my own room because my nightmares scare my roommates, but otherwise ignores me. Tom could possess me again and be petrifying people with a Basilisk, but Ron wouldn't notice me. His life was all; Voldemort did this so the ever-wondrous Harry did this in retaliation.
Well the ever-wondrous Ginny is going to dance on Ron's and his precious Harry's graves. But, for now, I might as well play along and go to dinner. It wouldn't do to have Ron get curious.
I grabbed my large black cloak off the stand and slipped it over my shoulders and pulled the hood up to cover my hair. I walked out of my room, down the stairs, and out of the portrait hole, cloak billowing behind me.
I had bought my cloak for ten Galleons nearly three years ago when my body began to change. At the same time I was turning into a woman, I was changing into something inhuman.
My hair had been first. Instead of it being the usual Weasley orange, my hair had darkened to the color of almost dried blood. People had started giving me strange looks in the halls and started asking me why I had dyed my hair. I needed to hide it before Ron or his friends found out. I decided to keep my hair up in a bun with a large hat covering my head whenever I left my room. Unfortunately, my hair wasn't the only thing to change. My entire body was changing.
My skin started to lighten and shine in the dark when I was thirteen. I noticed one night when I looked in the mirror and saw myself glowing. I had gone into Hogsmeade and bought my cloak the next day. Ten stolen Galleons later and I was never seen without my cloak on again. No one, not even my mother, had seen my body since.
The cloak had a hood that covered my entire head so my hair and my face couldn't be seen by anyone. It was floor length and a size too large so it concealed my body. Plus the cloak was black. I could easily hide in the shadows or slip into the night with no one the wiser.
I walked down the steps to the entranceway, my footsteps quieter than a ghosts', and stopped short on the last stair. I had forgotten to spell my eyes before I left my room!
Quickly fumbling for my wand, I did a spell on my eyes to make them brown again. Usually my eyes were either the same red as my hair, or a dark midnight black. It was another change my body had gone through, but luckily, a simple spell would keep my eyes brown for most of the day.
I walked into the Great Hall and swept past the Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and Huffelpuff tables and gracefully sat down at my house table.
I picked up a red apple and the knife next to my plate and spent the next twenty minutes peeling off the skin.
Why had I been able to throw the knife with such precision? Why had I felt the urge to taste the blood that fascinated me so much? Two questions that needed to be answered. Two questions tied to a third: What am I?
I wish I knew.
I walked into Potions class in the morning to find both the sixth and seventh year Gryffindor's and Slytherin's standing in the front of the classroom milling around and really confused. It seemed that Professor Snape hadn't arrived yet but had left a note on the board saying 'do not sit down'. The potions master wasn't pleased with Dumbledore's new idea.
This year Dumbledore had decided to try something new. To further interhouse relationships, all classes would have a mix of two different years. The first years would have their own classes so they could get used to the school, but the second and third years, fourth and fifth years, and the sixth and seventh years all and to share classes. Therefore, I had potions with the sixth and seventh year Slytherins, and the Sixth and Seventh year Gryffindors.
"All right class," Snape snarled, stalking into the room and slamming the door behind him. "I have to pair each student with an opposite year, opposite house. When I point to a desk and say your name, sit there." Snape started walking down the isle of desks calling out names as he went. I ignored him and went to sit at the desk he pointed to when he said my name. I promptly put my head in my arms and went to sleep. Not bothering to sleep at night became very tiring after a while.
Twenty minutes later an elbow rudely awakened me in my side and a hissed, "Wake up, we need to work on the potion."
I looked up at the board and read off the potion ingredients that we needed for the potion. I stopped short at the words, 'five drops of fresh human blood' and prayed that my partner wasn't squeamish. My body wouldn't let me give blood.
I turned to look at my partner and sighed. Draco Malfoy was sitting beside me, cutting up a root for the potion. He was engrossed in his work so I took the time to study him. He was wearing all black, as usual, but was wearing a black hat that completely covered his hair. His skin was paler than last year. It was almost the same shade as my skin. It was almost uncanny how similar in color our skin was.
"You're giving the blood Weasley." He turned to look at me, a very pale eyebrow raised. His very light gray-blue eyes stared into the darkness under my hood. I think he was trying to see what I looked like.
"No. You're going to have to give the blood Malfoy." I hissed back.
He slammed the paring knife onto the table and turned to look at me. "Listen Weasley," he hissed, his voice an ominous promise. "I have a skin disease that doesn't let me give blood. Either you give the blood or we fail this potion." He turned back to his root, clearly expecting me to do exactly as he said.
"I can't give blood, Malfoy." I whispered to him. Should I tell him why? Maybe we have a similar skin disease. Maybe he could help me with my problem? Yes, and maybe pigs could fly.
Malfoy slowly turned to look at me, a look of pure venom filling his eyes. "Look Weasley. I'll make it simple so your tiny brain can handle it." He picked up the sharp knife we had been given to take our blood and slashed it across his wrist. A little blood pooled on his arm, but the cut healed too quickly for any blood to fall.
I stared at him. I couldn't help it. It seemed that his body could heal injuries as easily as my own.
"You see Weasley. I can't give blood. You have to." He snarled and turned back to his root again.
I smirked at him, though he couldn't see it through my cloak and picked up the knife.
"But Malfoy, I have the same skin disease." I whispered. This time he dropped the paring knife and turned to look at me.
"What do you mean, Weasley?" He hissed. "If you are just messing around-" His words stopped short when I brought the knife to my own wrist and let him see the cut heal almost immediately.
He alternated between staring at my wrist and staring into the darkness under my hood, a perplexed look on his face.
Finally he opened his mouth. "Do you know what you are Weasley?" He asked in a shocked voice. I shook my head mutely. "Listen. Meet me at the trophy room at midnight tonight. I want to talk to you." I nodded and turned back to our ruined potion.
"Oy! Why is my sister sitting next to Malfoy?" Ron had just figured out that I was in this class and was sitting next to his nemesis. I'm surprised it didn't take the idiot longer to figure out.