Jigsaw

Chapter 2: The Truth About Broken Glass

The Sorting and feast seem to drag on that night. She sees Harry and Hermione sitting together, both looking somber; sees the empty place where her brother used to sit. She sits as far away as she can, ending up beside Colin Creevey. He knows, of course. Everyone knows. But she keeps her eyes on her hands, a clear sign that she does not want to talk. And he doesn’t push her.

But on her way to the Gryffindor tower, Hermione grabs her arm. She turns around to face her and sees a face lined with concern and grief.

"Ginny, Dumbledore wants to see you."

She gives Hermione blank look. "What for?" She, of course, knows what for.

Hermione drops her eyes. "I’ll take you there. I know the password to his office."

~*~

"Do you know why I asked you here, Miss Weasley?"

Ginny looks at her shoes. Black boots that lace all the way up to her knees. She finds herself very interested in the laces.

"I asked you here because I feel you may need someone to talk to."

Again, he is met with silence.

Professor Dumbledore sighs and slides his half-moon spectacles higher onto his nose.

"Your father – and your brothers – were good men. They died fighting for the cause. Your brother, Ron, died defending his two best friends. I think he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. "

She swallows a sob and nods.

"I encourage you to confide in someone. Anyone. Perhaps someone from your own house. Perhaps a teacher. Even me. But bottling up your emotions can be very dangerous."

She does not tell him that, to her, it seems as though she has no other choice. She has never had an intimate friendship with anyone at Hogwarts, aside from Ron, and occasionally Hermione. But Ron is dead and Hermione is just as torn apart as she is, so how can Ginny expect her to console her?

Dumbledore offers her a lemon drop, but she declines, even though she has eaten nothing today.

And he wishes her a good night.

~*~

She stands in the shower, letting the hot water rain down on her cold skin, warming it. It pounds against her flesh, a gentle massage. She braces herself against the wall with her arms, closing her eyes against the current of water. It is then that her eyes fall to the skin on the underside of her wrist.

There, several thin gashes run across her arm. They are only surface wounds, not very deep at all. But they contrast starkly with the pale white pallor of her flesh.

The pieces of the plate lay before her as she kneels on the ground. The tears are finally subsiding, leaving her eyes stinging and her cheeks tight.

She looks down at the broken glass.

Not fully realizing what she is doing, her fingers close around one of the shards.

She lifts it, poises it above her arm.

She pushes it down and drags it across the flesh of her wrist, and watches as blood blossoms to the surface.

~*~

Ginny is pulling her robes out of her trunk the next morning when she hears a small chink sound. She looks wildly around, before her eyes settle on several small, silver razor blades, laying on the scarlet carpet.

She remembers finding it. The day after the broken-plate incident. She had been searching through her father’s old collection of Muggle objects when she had stumbled upon a pile of the thin things. Glancing around nervously, she had put them in her pocket.

Now, she stuffs them hastily into a pair of green socks that the house elf Dobby had given her, hoping no one else had noticed them.

But she keeps one out, feeling its coolness against her palm. She slides it into the pocket of her robes and straightens up like nothing has happened.