The Abuser

Scarred (Year 7)

I'm not evil to the core. What I shouldn't do I will fight. I know I'm emotional. What I wanna save I will try. I know who I truly am. I truly do have a chance. Tomorrow I'll switch the beat, to avoid yesterday's dance.

- Fairly Local by Twenty-one Pilots

........

I turn the silver tap, releasing the tinkling stream of water from the small restroom sink. I breathe a deep sigh of exhaustion and relief as the cold rush of liquid sooths my aching and scared hands. The sleeve of my plain shirt slips up, revealing the fresh scars that have been drawn onto my smooth arm. "Blood Traitor" is spelled in crooked, barely legible words; a parting gift from my dear aunt-to-be, Bellatrix Lestrange. Why is every single message and action inflicted upon me meant to demean who I am? To destroy my dreams and belittle my worth and humanity? I am more than this; I am a fighter. These words cant- and wont- bring me down. My thoughts make a desperate attempt for bravery, but the idea of my once evident strength seems ludicrous and flighty. 

A summer at Malfoy Manor can do that to a person, I figure. When Snape carried me from the Astronomy Tower in early June, I have a feeling that no one would have guessed how the still body of that beautiful girl would appear just barely three months after. Beautiful, at least outwardly, I am no longer. Thin and gaunt from weeks of little or nothing to eat, my right shoulder covered in werewolf bite-marks and deep slashes, hollow cheeks and lank hair, dead eyes scarcely revealing the fire still burning in my soul; I am the literal picture of illness incarnate. My entire body is marred; be it in the form of cuts, bruises, or lasting scars, my experience with the Death Eaters is written over my whole being. My body is, however, nothing but a shell. A husk containing far more precious members; my mind, heart, and soul. Then again, not all of these have remained untouched either. My mind is weary, confused, sometimes journeying along the brink of insanity, but at least it feels resolved. And resolved I am; determined to leave the past behind me, to forgive and forget; to keep on fighting. As for my heart, well, it has been broken anew every day since I woke from my coma-like bite-induced unconsciousness. Fortunately, a broken heart can heal; knitting itself together like the enchanted wounds derived from the quill of Dolores Umbridge. It always seems to be picking itself up out of the dust, finding comfort and peace, and left with only a faint remnant of the previous horrors still etched upon it. My soul alone remains the purest. I have not let the darkness turn it black. I never swore allegiance to the Dark Lord, and though I paid dearly for my choices, I have risen from the gloom bearing far less damage than Draco. But now I'm just physco-analyzing, which is never a good habit to commit one's self to.

I give a final, long, stare at the girl on the other side of the mirror, and she gazes defiantly back at me. Sallow, lined, and hollow cheeked, she could hardly be recognized as DeLuce: the feisty seventh year about to return to Hogwarts. No, this creature symbolizes something much deeper; much more powerful. A will to survive and a fight for freedom. I would not crack, even when every Death Eater at the table had taken their turn with me, I did not break or bow to the Dark Lord. Sighing, I cover my wounds, drying my hands on a white towel. When I think about it, there was a time when had I fantasized Draco and I drifting through the terrors of battles and misery, mysteriously untouched by the horror because of our powerful love. What a joke. I shake my head, turning the nob to the small door, and exiting into the main corridor of the Hogwarts Express.

The train is uncharacteristically silent this year, and no surprise. With the return He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, scarcely a single first year has been enrolled, and most of the other students' parents have bundled them up at home, "safe" from the watchful eyes of the Death Eaters. None of us are safe... I remind myself, creeping shyly along the rumbling train in a desperate attempt to avoid contact with any of the other students. Both Draco and I are skipping our prefect's duty for today's ride; we are to tired and beaten down to patrol. I fumble numbly for the door of our small compartment, slipping in as quickly as I can. Draco sits like a dead boy, staring vacantly at empty space and fingering his Prefect's badge. Wordlessly, I settle down next to him, drawing my feet up to my chest and cradling my body with my arms.