Honorary Slytherin

Chapter Four: The Breakdown

She found it was quite like drowning. Not that she would know what drowning was like, having never been close enough to it. But when she pressed that smooth, icy cold blade to her skin, she had the feeling that she was drowning. That feeling of lightness, dizziness, yet at the same time an unfathomable weight crushing down on her. Drowning. Metaphorically, one could say she was drowning, drowning in her sorrows, drowning in self-pity-drowning all the same.

Cutting. Hermione Jane Granger was cutting herself. Or about to, anyway, as she hadn't quite worked up the stamina to actually dig that metal into her skin just yet. She was seated on the tiled floor of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, which was thankfully vacant for the time being, with a pocket knife that she had confiscated from a Ravenclaw fifth-year. When she had demanded he hand it over, she hadn't considered the fact that she might be endangering herself, that she might use it for something as intense as self-destruction.

Come on, Hermione, you can do this, she thought, building herself up.

But what she really wanted was to talk herself out of it.

She knew this was a problem. She really did. Hermione knew that people who cut themselves were considered dangerous, and needed to find help. At the same time, she knew that cutting was a coping mechanism, that so many people did it, that if she saw her own blood, she wouldn't feel so bad. She had to hurt somehow; everyone else was.

Grit your teeth. Close your eyes. Now squeeze them shut. Grip the handle. Feel that blade? It's about to cut you. Come on, just do it.

Eyes flickered open. Pale hands trembled, a deathlike hold on the intricately carved handle. Blood. Deep red, maroon blood seeping out of the tiniest nick on the velvety skin of the underside of her forearm. Not too close to a vein, but in the middle of two cerulean rivers, pumping blood throughout her body. Hermione stared at the cut.

Shock.

She couldn't believe she had done it. Hermione had actually done something unexpected, something utterly unpredictable. A trickle of blood flowed down her arm, which she was holding close to her face, inspecting her work. The blood ran down her arm, just like a raindrop on a car window; few twists, fast, and easy to follow. She remembered how she used to stare out the window of her mother's car when it rained, watching the little droplets race across the window, guessing which droplet would win.

But there was only one cut. No other little blood drops to race. So she had to make another. And another, because those two cuts were still lonely. And even another after that. And another, another, another until she couldn't tell where one cut was in relation to the others, because the blood was so thick it concealed where she had already cut.

Basically, she went crazy.

So many cuts, so many that she had to cry. Cry at her own stupidity; how was she to know that she wouldn't be able to control herself. Pushing herself off the floor, Hermione stumbled over to the cracked porcelain sink, viciously twisting the cold water knob and shoving her arm under the heavy stream of water spouting from the faucet. She watched in a drug-like stupor as the water that had already hit her arm turned a pale red, almost pink as it swirled down the drain. It was like acid, like hallucinating. Was she really here?

Maybe I went overboard, Hermione thought worriedly, maybe I'm losing too much blood.

So she relied on her brownie scout talent, and shrugged off a shoe before slipping out of a Gryffindor red knee sock. Wrapping the sock around her arm, she hoped to stop the blood flow, or slow it down at the least. It wouldn't work for long, and she needed to get a bandage or something- something that she kept in her dormitory.

She scooped up her Mary-Jane, the one she had taken off, and grabbed the open pocket-knife, relishing in the audible click it made as the blade slid back into the handle. She was in such a hurry to get out of the empty bathroom that she didn't notice what was standing right outside the door. A Slytherin.

Yes, he was one of the nicer ones, but a Slytherin all the same. He had been on his way down to the dungeons, to the place he called home for three-quarters of the year, when he heard sobs coming from Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. Not unusual, considering Moaning Myrtle took residency there. But the sobs weren't Moaning Myrtle's high-pitched squeals of self-pity. They were breathless sobs, sobs of fear and confusion. Every few seconds the sobs would be punctuated with a small whimper, and that caused the Slytherin to stop. What was going on in there?

Blaise Zabini stood, ear to the thick cedar door, listening as the person in the bathroom crashed around, listening to the familiar splash of water as it hit the bottom of a sink, and the even more familiar sound of something hindering the water's flow. Just like someone had stuck their hands underneath the water. Just like that, except not. Blaise continued to listen, continued to hear the unrecognizable sobs, until he heard approaching footsteps from the other side of the door.

Blaise sprung away from the door in shock as Hermione Granger staggered out, curly hair wild about her head, eyes rimmed red from tears.

The blood-soaked sock.

How could he possibly miss it? Yes, it was red to begin with, but no one, with the exception of the blind, could miss the dark stain spreading out on the sock.

Natural instinct came first, and before he realized it, Blaise said, "Granger, we need to get you help."

"I don't need help, Zabini! Goddamnit," Hermione screeched hysterically, more tears coursing down her cheeks. She was crying and bleeding and bleeding and crying, all in front of Zabini.

"Granger. You do," Zabini said softly, and before he knew it, Hermione had launched herself into his arms, gripping his biceps as if she was going to fall off the face of the other.

She was trembling. Shaking like a leaf, shaking like a frightened animal. And she couldn't stop it, so naturally, Blaise noticed.

"Z-Z-Zabini," Hermione stuttered out through her tears, "I didn't mean to do this much, I didn't mean to go so far...." Hermione shoved the sock away from her arm and stepped back from Blaise, showing him her mutilated skin.

Blaise couldn't say a word. Except a small, surprised 'oh', nothing would come out. And if it could, Blaise knew it wouldn't come out right.

"I just feel so dizzy," Hermione said lightly, blinking like a newborn kitten.

Witch, Blaise thought, she's a witch, I'm a wizard. "Hermione, your wand," Blaise said, as if he had just figured out the meaning of life.

"Hmmm," Hermione moaned sleepily. She was going to pass out. No, no, scratch that- she was going to drown.

"We can fix it with your wand! My wand! I'll just...just fix it," Blaise mumbled, pulling out his wand and setting it gently on Hermione's arm. "Réparation de sang," Blaise said more forcefully, watching as the cuts seemed to fade into Hermione, sinking away until there was nothing left but dried blood.

"Um. Thanks," a very pale Gryffindor said, slowly backpedaling away from Blaise.

"Can we forget this ever happened," Hermione asked feebly, starting to drift slowly away from Blaise, to which she received a murmured 'sure' in return. But Blaise would never forget.

And neither would she.