Scrap Parchment

Scrap Parchment

By: The Fitchburg Finch

Chapter One: Cleansing

She scrubbed desperately at her skin, running the coarse sponge against her ribs harshly. It was a moot action, that of raking the sponge so violently against herself. The spot was bare, red and sore from the inordinate onslaught of soap and scouring. She didn't stop though; she couldn't. This was the only way for her.

If she kept on scrubbing, just scrubbed a bit more, there was a chance of something marvelous happening; there was a chance she might feel clean again.

Stopping momentarily, she grabbed the bottle of lavender body soap and squeezed a generous portion onto the callous sponge. The wisp of scented air that shot out as she pressed against the bottle made her eyelids sag. There was a time when that soap was all it took to put her into an irenic state not dissimilar to a coma. Too much had happened since then. She had seen and done and had done to her far too many things for something as simple as fragrant soap to pacify her now, and so she continued to scrub.

The marble surfaces and porcelain sinks in the prefect's bathroom reflected the coldness she felt in her chest. Pulling on a white terry cloth robe she stepped towards the mirror and looked at her reflection staring listlessly back at her, wet hair hanging heavily on her shoulders, heavy lids falling over bloodshot eyes. When had she become such a stranger to herself? When had her reflection taken on such a drastic change? She wondered momentarily when it was she had actually last recognized the sight of herself. Sighing heavily, she collected the wet towels she had thrown thoughtlessly to the marble floor and made her way into the hallway.

"Hey," she heard from behind. She jumped at the voice. He was standing in the hallway waiting for her. She had expected it, but it startled her all the same.

"What are you doing here?" she asked casually, walking by without even looking.

"You weren't at dinner," he replied, blocking her path. "I was worried."

"Well as you can see," she said, staring at him defiantly. "I'm fine. Nothing to worry about." She pushed at his chest, trying to force him out of her way. He wouldn't budge.

"I'm still worried," he said with narrowed eyes. She avoided his gaze carefully, and knowing full well he was too stubborn to let her pass whirled around and walked the other way.

"You're hiding something from me," he called after her.

"You're imagining things," she shot back, and pressed on down the dimly lit corridor, dirty towels in hand.

He remained several feet behind her as she walked back to the dormitory, telling himself it was time to turn in for the night. A little voice in his head said it was because he wanted to see her safely back to bed.

He tried to ignore that voice.

"...And then after you've stirred counter clockwise seven times, you add the dragon's blood at two drops per...are you even listening to me?"

"Huh?"

She was staring at him again. He hadn't meant to drift off, it just sort of happened. After all, the circles around her eyes were even darker today. Puffier. Her eyes had never hung that way. Not even during third year when she was meddling with the laws of time travel to manage an ungodly course load had her eyes hung that way. How did she expect him to pay attention?

"Having trouble sleeping?" he prodded. She slammed her hand down on the table angrily.

"Don't start," she warned.

"Don't you try telling me nothing's wrong," he said through gritted teeth. The superficial façade she had been putting up was causing his anger to boil at an entirely different degree.

"Don't you try telling me something is."

They glared at each other for several uncomfortable moments. He found her stubbornness unnerving, and resented that she felt the need to keep something from him. When she finally broke contact and continued reciting the passage, he exhaled loudly to stress his lack of appreciation for the current state of their secretive relationship.

She was hiding something from him, and he didn't like it. True, she had been acting her normal self around him, smiling and laughing and prodding him on his studies. But there were subtleties he had caught on to; imperfections in her delicately woven plan to wall him out of that which hurt inside her, and he couldn't ignore them.

"Pay attention!" she snapped. He had been staring at her right hand shaking nervously over the page in its grasp. Instinctively, he reached out and covered her hand with his own, clammy as it were, and gently squeezed. Quieting at this, a cryptic look came over her delicate features that he could not place. He searched her dark eyes for a clue, silently asking the questions he was forbidden to speak. Slowly, she pulled her hand from his grasp, and continued reciting.

He awoke with a start to a sweat soaked shirt and a familiar stabbing at his temple. Tossing away the sheets he sat upright and gasped for air.

It had been a dream, nothing more. He took in each breath like sweet nectar and shuddered as the wind blew through an open window, connecting harshly with his dewy chest. Getting up, he reached for his glasses and then stuck an arm under the bed and pulled out one of his many homemade sweaters. Emerald green and smelling richly of pumpkin pie, he pulled it over his head and let the scent envelope him. It was snug around the neck, but helped against the cold. Knowing sleep would not welcome him back so easily, he put on his glasses and set off for the common room.

The moonlight walked him down the velvet stairs. It was dark in the common room, shadows playing off the many chairs strewn about lazily. He watched his step carefully as he made his way towards the brick fireplace in the center of the room. Upon reaching it he found that he wasn't alone.

A curly brown mane smiled back at him from the floor as Hermione Granger stared into the ash and soot before her, completely unaware of his presence. He watched her for a moment, sitting there quietly, gingerly running a finger up and down her left arm, before taking a seat on the floor beside her. It was hard and unforgiving, the floor, and he shifted uncomfortably several times before lying with his feet sprawled out before him, propping the weight of his chest up against one elbow. Hermione remained still during his transactions. It was as if she had been expecting him. They stared into the silence together, dark shadows between them whispering secrets so softly that the other could only be teased with hushed details.

"Want to talk about it?" she asked after a while.

"No," he replied firmly. "You?"

"Nothing to talk about," she said simply.

"Funny, I don't believe you," he said, trying to maintain a level of calmness in his voice that was betraying his feelings of disdain so well.

"Tell me Harry," she said, obviously attempting to steer the attention away from herself. "Why are you down here in the dark in the middle of the night?"

"No reason," he stated quickly.

"Funny," she said. "How come I need one?"

"You're very stubborn," he shot back.

"So are you."

They sat and stared at the empty fireplace for what felt like a few minutes to Harry. He knew it had been much longer when the sunrise peering through the common room windows bade them good morning.