Covering Up

Hermione woke in agony as a searing pain flared across her back. She shivered as the cold evening breeze swept across her unscarred flesh, and felt the sweat on the lash marks draw the breeze. It stung so badly, it made her feel dizzy and weak.

Hermione's arm lay in front of her face, and she twisted her wrist carefully to see the time. Eight p.m.

Damn.

She was in no hurry to move as her body was stiff and sore, muscles frozen and cramped after lying on the floor. Her back threatened to make tears come to her eyes from the pain.

She waited a moment before struggling to get up, swearing hoarsely as she did so. The fire on her back blazed brighter, and she flinched as a particularly strong stab of pain shot through her back.

She managed to pull herself into a sitting position, her back upright and chest stretched outwards as her head rested on the back of her bed. She panted, exhausted from that exercise, sweating and shivering at the same time. Gradually she calmed and stared at the ceiling dazedly, trying to concentrate on making the pain cool down.

Tomorrow was the day she had to be at platform nine and three-quarters. She had all her things ready to go, all but herself. She had no idea how she would get up on time tomorrow, and get herself ready. It had never been this bad before, and she had never wanted to protect her friends from the truth so much before. Heat flickered at the back of her eyes, and she shivered.

And she was sick to boot. Hermione knew she had a fever, but didn't dare move. She should probably get something for it, but for now, she didn't really care. And her healing potion she made was gone. She felt despair, and almost wanted to... she didn't know yet, what she wanted to do to herself, but it needed to hurt, it needed to be destructive.

No. She shook her mental head at herself, shocked that she would even think those things. She knew what most abused teenagers did to themselves, and was scared at the thought of just being a statistic, a number tat someone looks up to do a project.

She understood why people were suicidal now. Before she had always scoffed at the notion, saying that every life has value, and that no one should destroy themselves. She hadn't understood then. They wanted to feel the blood that ran through them flow out, release tension, punish themselves for mistakes and out of guilt, knew they were going to die and wanted to be in charge of the situation.

Hermione dozed off, still staring at the ceiling, still musing over suicide.

The next morning she was woken from her uncomfortable sleep by a pounding on the door. She raised her head dully as a voice spoke, gruff from sleep, "Get up now, you're going to be late!"

Hermione jumped and flinched at the same time, fighting to ignore the pain in her back. She saw the time and struggled to a near-standing position, still hunched over a little. There was no way she was gong to miss the train; she had to go back to Hogwarts.

Hermione moaned and sunk to her knees at the door, fainting and hitting her head on the doorknob. It hurt. She panted for a moment, body pressed against the door and got up again, taking some clothes as she headed to the bathroom.

She took a bath (she wasn't sure she could stand in the shower) before she dared to look at herself in the mirror. She still felt ill and weak, but her back felt much better after all the blood and sweat that dripped off the lash marks came away.

Hermione stepped out and changed gingerly, avoiding the mirror. She bound up her sore wrists, and wore large bracelets to cover them. She was thankful for the knee socks that would cover her ankles and bruised legs and scratched feet. She yelped as her knee gave a large twinge of pain; it was dislocated. She swore, and avoided it, locking her leg which gave her an annoying limp. Memo to me: Do lots of sitting.

She took a deep breath and faced the mirror, preparing herself for the worst. It wasn't bad, she thought, touching her swelling black eye. Stupid doorknob. Harry and Ron are never going to believe that excuse.

She was abnormally pale, and looking very frail and almost... scared. She considered her reflection thoughtfully, as she applied tanning lotion and cover-up. Her eye looked much better, but still a little purple. She sighed, making a mental reminder to cast a glamour on herself the second she stepped on the train.

A voice echoed up the stairs and she jumped again, cursing herself for being so paranoid.

"Time to go! Your things are in the car, Hermione. Come down."

Hermione took a sip of water, grabbed the rest of her stuff and headed downstairs, going slowly, still dragging her sore leg a little.

She climbed into the car and they set off, neither parent giving her a second glance.

At King's Cross Station, they got out of the car and brought everything in for her, acting like the perfect caring parents they prided themselves on being.

Hermione hugged them and got on the train quickly, hoping that Harry and Ron would be as late as usual. She found an empty compartment and sat down, trying to balance herself on the seat so her leg didn't bother her and her back didn't get touched. She hated the feel of the sweater against her slashed back, and wanted to take it off. She brought her feet up and lay slowly down on her side, her head resting against the window. She shut her eyes and fell instantly asleep, her memos forgotten.

"Should we wake her? She looks so peaceful."

"No, she looks like she needs the sleep. She looks really sick."

"You think? Poor Hermione. Probably caught it at - Where'd she go this time, Harry?"

"Uh, Paris and Rome, I think. She does so much travelling. Her parents must do really well as dentists."

Hermione blinked and opened an eye to stare at the raven-haired boy across from her. Her mouth curved into a smile but she made no move to get up.

"Careful, Ron, she looks like she's awake. We'd better behave."

Hermione snorted and opened both of her eyes to stare at them. "Ron," she croaked, her voice hoarse and cracked, "aren't you supposed to be in the Prefects' carriage?"

Ron grinned at her. "I told McGonagall you were sick and couldn't make it. She said I could come visit, but," he checked his watch, "I need to be back in ten minutes. 'Nother game of Snap, Harry?"

Harry shook his head, staring at Hermione. She shifted a little uneasily. He knows, or he's guessing what you're really sick with, a part of her mind stated factually.

"I'll play," a friendly female voice by her said. She saw red hair and grinned again. "Hi Ginny."

"Hey Hermione."

Harry continued to scrutinize her, not breaking his gaze as his eyes swept over her leg lying at an awkward angle and focusing on her wrists. He paid special attention to her face, right at her swollen eye.

Hermione flushed and started to get up, unable to keep from grimacing as she did so. She felt really dizzy, but managed to pull herself into a vague sitting position. Ginny reached out to grab her as she nearly fell, and Hermione flinched before she could stop herself. Ron was too busy counting out cards to notice, but Harry did. They exchanged a worried glance.

She caught herself and settled back into her curled up position, laying back down on the seat, praying she wouldn't do anything stupid like that again before the train ride was over.