Coping

Angry red lines mar the otherwise unblemished skin of my arm. A tiny droplet of blood trickles from one of the gashes. I catch it with the tip of my tongue and relish in the metal taste. The pain is already starting to faint, leaving nothing but a light sting. A reminder. An anchor to keep me grounded until next time.

It started as early as first year. I realised that scratching my arm with a quill when I was working on a particularly difficult problem helped me focus. It calmed my racing mind until things became clearer. It helped.

Back then, the skin never broke. That never happened until third year. I was stuck with an arithmacy problem and resorted to my usual remedy. In my agitation, I pressed down too hard and the quill went through my skin, drawing blood to the surface.

I was amazed by the power of that simple act. It was so much better than just scratching. On the first Hogsmead weekend, I got myself a small knife. It has been my constant companion ever since.

Whenever my racing mind becomes too much to bear, I draw a painting of red on the canvas of my skin. Every line is drawn slowly, reverently. I savour the pain as the knife caresses the same trace over and over again, until finally, a thin line of red appears. I only stop worrying the skin when there is enough blood to get a taste.

I always let the cuts heal by themselves. So far no one has left a scar. A simple glamour charm hides my little secret from the others. They wouldn't understand. How could they? They don't know what it means to be me.

Perfect Hermione. Hermione the model student. Hermione who always knows everything. Hermione who couldn't possibly fail in anything. They don't know what it feels like when your mind is going so fast it hurts. When your thoughts race and you can't sleep and you can't eat and yet everyone expects you to smile, so you have to put up a brave face to please the world.

I know I'm not the only one who does it. The others are mainly Ravenclaws. Sometimes Slytherins. I don't know about any Hufflepuffs or other Gryffindors. Not that that surprises me.

I am a good observer. Over the years, I have seen Terry Boot and Padma Patil and an older Slytherin girl. Usually, I only notice the scars. They don't carry them openly, they hide them with glamour, just like me, but sometimes the glamour fails. Once, I saw Terry in the library, drawing lines on his wrist with his potions scalpel. It is reassuring. It tells me that this is good. This is right. It helps others just as it helps me.

I look at my arm again. The blood is gone. The gashes are fading to red lines. Time to put on the glamour. Time to return to the common room. It wouldn't do for Harry and Ron to wonder why I take so long in the bathroom. Time to go back to life. To normal. Time to put on a brave smile and cope.