A/N: Sheesh, if I keep writing such disturbing stories, people are going to start thinking I'm either insane or a manic depressive....I'm not, really! I'm a very happy person, I'm quite content with my life, my family, and my home, and I'm quite honestly not depressed at all! I'm just....creative or something, I guess. How else would I be able to write morbid things? *laughs* Well, anyway, time for the disclaimer. I own nothing except the idea...unless someone else has written that first, too. Everything else belongs to J.K. Rowling.

I remember all the blood there was the day we lost Ginny. There wasn't really a large amount of it spilled from the slim, pale wrists, yet it seemed to fill the entire room with it's sickeningly sweet stench that every creature knows by instinct. The smell still fills my nostrils when I think about it, which is often. Mrs. Weasley's panicked screams still ring in my ears, haunting me in my sleep. The sight of the brown carpet stained crimson by the life liquid dripping out of open wounds still greets me every time I close my eyes.

No one ever once suspected a thing. They never saw the scars kept hidden by her robes on her arms, nor the pain and depression forever haunting her young eyes. It wasn't because they didn't love her; on the contrary, everyone adored her. Human nature just kept their eyes closed. No one likes admitting that someone they love has problems. Even I didn't want to admit it for a long time, and it wasn't until her mind was beyond repair that I realized the tragedy could have been prevented.

They tried to save her, of course. I remember the tubes connected to pale arms, wrists wrapped in gauze. I remember the odor of the potions they poured into her frail form, potions that were assured to save her. They said the cuts weren't very deep; she hadn't done a very good job of trying to kill herself, apparently.

They saved a physical body. An empty shell of a human being. Now, she sits alone in a padded room in St. Mungo's, the single window shielded by bars so she can't get to the glass, so there's nothing sharp to tear her flesh upon. But even iron bars can't block out a reflection. A face in the glass is the only company present in that cold, colorless room. Faded blue eyes and ghostly red hair are two of the few colors she can recall, all through that windowpane.

This is where I sit, day after agonizingly long day. The doctors think I am staring out the window, but there's nothing to see out there. I stare at her. I wonder why no one helped her before she was lost to them forever, and I look down at the plastic hospital bracelet on my scarred wrists. At the computer print that emotionlessly, mockingly, coldly states one name:

Virginia Weasley