2CJ again, hello.
Thanks to qC for the review and fav! I'll get right on it, I swear.
To the eight people whose PMs I haven't replied to: it's not because I hate you, it's because I literally have no energy to do ANYTHING and it's taking a whole lot of forcing myself to write this chapter as is.
ALSO: this is being written for both the Psychological!AU Competition under Anxiety, and the Read Between the Lines Challenge under Hermione/Cho.
Reminder that this fic is centered a lot around mental illness fuckery, gendersexuality fuckery, past traumatic events fuckery...
Specifically, this one has two non-explicit panic attacks and implied self harm, please don't read if that will bother you.
Reminder that this is written by someone who doesn't self harm, who doesn't have GAD/PTSD, who isn't trans/nonbinary, and who doesn't have an eating disorder.
xxCJxx
It's not a scream so much as it is animalistic fear ripping through someone's flesh in the only way it knows how, and it sends tension pulsing through your heart faster than your heartbeat can catch up.
"Harry! Harry, breathe!" Someone's desperate voice from the room next door, which should sound crystal clear, as the walls here are almost thinner than parchment, but it seems distant...muddled...as if you're drowning, and the voice is coming from above the water.
As quick as it came, the fear rolls off, and you untangle your legs and stumble into the boy's room.
Hermione and Padma are already in there, rubbing soothing hands on trembling shoulders and running calm fingers through knotted black hair. Ron's holding a glass of water, presumably for Harry, uselessly, while Neville seems to be looking for his bag of calming herbs -"Where is it, it should be here, I always keep it here!"- but Blaise.
Slytherin, slightly padded where the others have bones and muscle, is watching from his corner. His arms and legs are folding in on himself, something shining nervously in his eyes, and you can't help but feel sorry for him, the outsider when he once was a king.
You lock eyes with Ron. "You can go," he mouths kindly.
Something compels you to crook a finger towards Blaise, questioningly. maybe it's because you remember that once, a long time ago, you were a queen, too. Do you want to come? He looks helpless, like he can't untwist himself without breaking something.
You walk over to him, and peel his arms away. His skin is cold, and his arms are lifeless. He follows you like a child outside, into the kitchen, where you can still hear Harry shuddering through the aftermath of his attack.
He nods, crosses his arms again like a shield. His body is guarded, and his eyes scream for help, but you don't know how to give it, so you spend the rest of the night in silence, looking at the floor, the rubbish bin, anywhere but his eyes.
.oOo.
All day, you've been on edge.
Tightly wound, compact and small.
Sleep doesn't elude you tonight, it throws a middle finger in your face before you even enter your bedroom.
You're in the kitchen before Ron is, milk poured but untouched.
He doesn't mention the nail-sized crescents carved pink in your wrists.
And his fingers ghost, reminiscently, over roped scars on his forearms from ages ago, back when you were falling from your throne and he was beginning to rise.
.oOo.
You remember terror, blind and white, gripping your bones, but you don't remember what caused it.
You remember Ginny finding you wedged between your bed and the wall in an impossibly tight knot, but you don't remember how you got there.
There's a blanket around your shoulders and orange juice cupped between your trembling hands, and a residual tension vibrating underneath your skin.
She's returned with Harry, who gives you a sympathetic pat on your shoulder. "Congratulations, you've just had your first panic attack."
There's a grim, almost sarcastic celebration involving ice cream and orange juice ("You'll thank me later," says Ginny) on the couch.
Is it wrong that what strikes you the most about all of it, however, is Hermione's scream when she got back from Therapy, and the bone crushing hug that still lingers over your arms?
"You loved her, didn't you?" You ask Ron. It's almost three.
He looks surprised at the question. "How could I have not?"
.oOo.
Knives aren't allowed, nonono, they're not, they're not!
There's a smudge of blood on the inside ankle of Blaise's trousers, and you swear you've never so much have heard a "Sectumsempra!" whispered.
But people grieve in different ways, and the angry welts and Incendios from long ago prickle sadly on your lower back.
He's been having a hard time fitting in the flat, even though all of them are puzzle pieces to different puzzles, and all of them are jagged and disoriented like him.
There's so much you wish you could say, but you won't.
You're a horrible person, a terrible person, but maybe this is what he needs.
.oOo.
Who are you?
Who was Cedric Diggory, who was Terry Boot, who was Kevin Chen?
Who were the faceless men in violet robes you imagined marrying one day, under a canopy of butteflies?
Are all of these people erased, Evanesco-ed into oblivion now?
Because you swear you saw the same shine in Hermione's eyes, you felt the same warm and uncertain flutter in your chest when she offered to let you read her Top Secret manuscript for a book she's writing, as you did with those boys from Hogwarts.
"Do you ever regret breaking up?" You ask Ron. The words fall like lead weights.
He sighs, and you feel as if he thinks he's too simple a man to grasp his feelings and put them into words of suitable eloquence. "Hermione and I...we're friends in a way that I could never be friends with Harry. I dunno whether it's because she's a girl, or because we're almost polar opposites, but...I guess we confused this weird friendship thing with romance. And now... now she's becoming so self-destructive, that even if I wanted to date her, I wouldn't, because she'd only end up fucking me up with her.
He shrugs. "I'm not sure if that makes sense or if it sounds like a load of shit, but-"
"Oh no, it makes perfect sense."
"I wonder why I thought you were a soggy bitch in fifth year," he says before catching himself. "Fuck, sorry. Shouldn't have said that, Cho."
"S'okay." You wish that you were falling in love -is it love?-with him instead of Hermione.
He's a good sort.
Note: try to be hydrated after a panic attack please! Also rest! Being surrounded by people may or may not be beneficial, depending on who you are. Also, if you think someone is self harming, you should tell someone and not do what Cho does because what she does is a bad thing.