Brokenness (Luke) [TW - self harm]

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School was both a curse and a blessing, and Chrisy couldn't figure out which it was more of. Here, she was bullied, and had no friends, but she didn't have to deal with her parents and could draw and paint whenever she wanted. At home, there were no bullies and nobody to taunt her, but she had no freedom, and was constantly nagged by both mother and father on the subjects she failed (which, truth be told, was mostly everything, for in their eyes, a fail was anything less than an 'E').

They had found her sketchbook during the holidays; she hadn't been careful enough, and they had confiscated it, throwing away the few sketches she had already completed. Hours of work were tossed in the trash, and a lecture had followed.

Now, back in Hogwarts, she felt like she could finally breathe, but the numbing sensation had disappeared, and now she felt the real weight of everything that had taken place over the holidays. On her lap was a simple notebook, one meant for classes, but it was the only ones she had left, and she had attempted the start of what was to be a water-painting, but the joy had not been there, and she had spent the last half hour staring at the base sketch.

It wasn't a cold day, but Chrisy was wearing a long sleeved shirt, something out of the ordinary for the Ravenclaw, but necessary to hide her latest coping mechanism. Subconsciously, she rubbed at her arm, letting out a soft sigh as she continued to stare at her notebook.

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Summer had been less than satisfactory for Luke. Whilst he'd achieved the trouble he'd wanted for Lyra, it had not been enough trouble to be complete. His parents' attention had not been swayed to him enough for him to become the favoured child - something Luke had expected to have happened over night.

Apparently, this was not the way things worked, and Luke had been sent back to the drawing board to come up with a better idea. Something of a more permanent nature...

But, now that school was back, Luke had only one thing on his mind - his Chrysanthemum. Luke had not written to the witch over the holidays, though he'd made a start on a letter on many occasions, only to find himself lost for words. How could he ask her the things he wanted to know, without being there to see the way her lips explained, formed each word. How could he expect an answer with no visualisation of the effect his questions had, and the emotions that revolved around the subject.

So he had thrown each letter away, in to the fire pit in the garden, watching the paper wither against the heat until it was only blackened ash, with no recollection of the words unread.

Luke had been wandering the grounds, restlessly, as he tried to recount Chrysanthemum's movements of the last couple of days. It was turning up blanks for her location today, but as he passed the greenhouses, he noted the door slightly ajar and moved closer to investigate. As he reached the glass, Luke couldn't help the small smile that touched his lips, before he quickly entered the glass building. "Chrysanthemum! I've been looking for you everywhere!" Luke insisted - the truth of those words much more of a reality than anyone would actually realise from those words.

But, before Luke could move any closer, he noted the fact she was wearing a long sleeve t-shirt. Something that she didn't do usually, and besides, it was warm. Especially so in the greenhouse.

Then, Luke noticed the way she didn't look as comfortable as usual in herself, and the artwork before her. His senses heightened with a feeling many would associate with worry, but Luke didn't register the feeling in itself - only the build up of feeling with no specification.

And... the book. It was not an artist's pick of a book. The three things combined brought a frown to the features of the Slytherin, and he moved closer, kneeling down before the witch and scrutinising her a little more.

"Something is wrong." Luke stated, it wasn't a question, because he knew. But, he did expect an answer. An explanation, as to what was going on. One way, or another, he would find out, too.

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Her pencil was between her fingers, as it usually was when she was considering details to add, but her mind was far away from the art before her. Instead, she was thinking back to her summer holidays. There had been one good thing, at the very least - she had met a younger year Hufflepuff, Humphrey, if she wasn't mistaken, and he had seemed quite willing to be her friend. Good things didn't last long for her, though, and so she was already wondering how long it would take before that friendship crumbled.

Stifling another sigh, Chrisy twiddled with the pencil, trying to turn her attention back to the drawing, but she hadn't touched in the last hour, and once more, she found herself regarding it with disdain. Who was she to think that she was good? No, her parents had a point; art would get her nowhere far in life.

But, if studies didn't work out for her, and art was not a possibility, where did that leave her?

"With nothing," she murmured, to herself.

A noise caught her attention, and for a moment she winced a little at the mention of her name before the recognition of the voice made her turn. Luke. Who else would call her that without a sneer in their tone? His words registered, and she blinked a little, confused. He had been... looking for her? In all her years of living, Chrisy had learnt one thing, and that was to be distrustful of everyone and anyone who was nice to her like that, and automatically, she braced herself for the turn of events, the day Luke turned against her.

But, for now, if he wanted to be nice, she wasn't going to say no. "Hello, Luke," she said, softly, trying to make her tone light as she forced a smile.

Before she quite knew what was happening, he was kneeling in front of her, and the closeness made her ease back a little, although she was against the wall and there wasn't much space. "N-nothing's wrong," she said, attempting - and failing - to sound certain. "I'm fine," she added. Even to her, though, her words did not sound convincing, but she smiled wider, hoping that, at the very least, she could avoid the subject. Without realising her left hand moved, protectively holding onto the right arm, where the most scars were.

"How were your holidays?" she asked, attempting tp change the subject.

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The smile that came with the greeting was faked - Luke could see that, and the cogs in his mind were turning around this information with the information he had already. Though, cogs would be much too slow for the thought processing of Luke's mind.

The response to his statement made Luke frown. "You're lying." He told her, his voice trying to stay soft, but frustration was creeping in. Luke did not like having to ask for something twice, be it the spoiled childhood he'd been given, or the problematic function of his mind, Luke expected the right answer.

But, with Chrysanthemum's answer came the movement - subtle as it might be - of her left arm to her right. Subconscious movements of the untrained mind, leading to the exposure of consciously hidden secrets. Luke's eyes had followed, and they stayed, lingering, on the hand holding her arm. Something was wrong, and Chrysanthemum was trying to hide something.

Slowly, Luke's eyes moved from Chrysanthemum's hand up to her eyes. Concern - as most people would recognise it - showed in Luke's eyes. "What have you done?" Luke asked, his hand moving to her left - gentle in his touch as he pulled it away from her forearm. Trying to counter the protective measure Chrysanthemum had just taken, to get her to open up.

Once again - as conversation turned to him - Luke ignored it, instead focusing on the important things in that moment. The fact that... Chrysanthemum wasn't okay.

"Show me." Luke added, his voice a whisper in that moment. Anyone who did not know Luke for what he was would likely mistake his words for friendly concern. Of someone who wanted to help. And... with Chrysanthemum, perhaps they were the real emotions of a boy who could not feel.

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She had never been a good liar, and even as his words made her wince, Chrisy knew that he was right, but even worse, he wasn't going to avoid it. The thing about being a bad liar was that people saw through it eight out of ten times, and almost always, they chose to ignore it and not bring it up. Or, if they did, a little shrugging and refusal to comment about it made them back off, something Chrisy both appreciated and hated.

Appreciated, because obviously she didn't want to talk about these things. But, at the same time, she needed to talk about it; she was just too embarrassed to, and nobody ever pushed her towards it. That meant that, for as long as people were okay with her lying about it, she never spoke and never shared, not even when her heart was crying for help.

If she herself didn't care, why would others?

The question made her insides squirm in the worst possible way. "Nothing," she tried to say, but somewhere between the first alphabet and her mouth, it got caught, and all she managed was a semi-grunt, and a shake of her head to accompany. She retreated even further mentally as Luke reached out and forced her arm away; when had she moved to cover the sleeve? He was gentle, as he always was, but the physical contact made her heart speed up in all the wrong ways, causing her not panic but worry, and an almost anxious feeling, still acquainting it with being hurt. Even more so, she felt raw, vulnerable, something that she hated.

No, she had to be strong. Had to hide it all and box it all away, so that nobody saw. If people knew she was that weak, that easily defeated, she wouldn't know what to do. So, she forced her smile wider and shook her head once more. "I... I haven't..." As she tried to speak, her voice wavered. She couldn't bring herself to say she was fine, but she also couldn't get herself to admit something - everything - was wrong.

That was why she had resorted to this in the first place. The feeling of being trapped was just too strong and too much, hounding away inch by inch at her sanity, until all she wanted to do was scream. She had channeled it into her art, into all her drawings, making them light-hearted and innocent to counter all she felt on the inside. But when her parents had taken away her sketchbook and paints, there had been no other way to release all that she had pent up, and it rose to a crescendo, blocking out all other thoughts except that one - to get rid of the hurt she felt.

There had only been one solution that she had found. Outward hurt got rid of inner hurt, and so those long showers she took became more and more frequent, and so had her use of those long-sleeved shirts that sat at the back of her cupboard untouched for months at a time.

"Show me."

Could she? It was not a question if she would, because there was no doubt about it, she wanted help. But the first step would be to open up and tell someone, and that meant losing some of her pride, the only thing she had left that was hers and hers alone. Her parents could take away her art but they could not remove the pride she felt whenever she completed a piece, and they couldn't remove the whatever remaining dignity she still possessed, and to show her scars would mean shredding whatever amount was left.

But she had to, and Chrisy knew it. She trusted nobody but herself, but this person before, this mostly stranger, had somehow been there for her when others weren't, and if she could put her trust in one other, it was him. So, taking a deep breath, she nodded, affirming that she would, and then very slowly pulled back her sleeve, exposing the scars - some fresh, barely days old, others from the first time she did it a couple weeks ago - on her forearm. Not daring to make eye contact with the Slytherin, she instead kept her gaze on the floor before her, and waited.

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No answers came.

Noises that were likely supposed to be words.

Broken sentences.

No answer.

Luke's patience was wearing thin by this time, but he pushed every ounce of his being to stay in a calm state of mind. To not raise his voice. To not force her in to doing something. No, the witch before him was important to him. She was not Lyra who could be pushed around from pillar to post and bent to his will. Chrysanthemum was much more than his sister could ever be, that much was for sure, which meant he would hold his patience for her.

It took all of his will not to prompt the witch before him, simply sitting in silence, watching and waiting for her to come up with an explanation.

It would have been painful for another human being to watch, but Luke simply waited for the changing expressions on Chrysanthemum's face to change. Trying to read them, but falling short on some of the expressions and their meaning.

That was, until she rolled up her sleeve.

The marks that littered Chrysanthemum's arm were not what he had been expecting, and almost at once Luke's hands moved to either side of her arm, ever so gently pulling it towards him so he could see much more clearly what this was. He did not touch the marks, but his eyes could take in the information he needed. The marks of a razor blade, swift in the work, deep enough to inflict pain, but not deep enough to bleed out. Carefully calculated.

Pain, but not death.

Luke understood both subjects quite intently. Pain was a tool used to gain answers from others. Inflicted for another person's gain. Death... the power of taking someone's life... ending the suffering they believed they had endured, when really they had ceased to be useful. He knew how to inflict both, on others, but he did not know why a person would self inflict such feelings upon themselves.

Moving slowly, Luke took hold of the sleeve she'd pulled up, and pulled it carefully back in to place, trying to make sure he did not catch the healing wounds. Even after they were covered, his eyes were still upon Chrysanthemum's arm. It didn't make sense to the Slytherin. Why would someone...

His eyes moved slowly to Chrysanthemum's face, searching for answers as his lips moved to form a single word.

"Why?"

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Again, there was silence, and Chrisy subconsciously held her breath, waiting. For judgement. For harsh words. For laughter. For a scoff. For... something, anything, but all she got was what she had given him, and that was nothing. No words, no sound, no noise, just the quiet rustling of the leaves around them. What was he thinking? She wanted to look towards Luke and try and get a read on his expression, but she couldn't bring herself to lift her eyes; she couldn't bare to see him.

And then, she felt the gentle hands on hers. For a brief moment, she resisted, automatically tugging back her arm, but then she relented, and allowed the boy to examine her arm. He didn't touch her wounds nor her scars, but she could feel his eyes on her, and she let out the breath. If he was going to judge, he was going to do it now, and Chrisy couldn't help the nerves that bounced around on her insides, making each gulp of life-giving air hurt, as though she was allergic to the very thing that kept her living.

For what felt like years, she sat there, arm in Luke's hands. Then, slowly, she felt the tugging of her sleeves, and dared to tilt her head slightly to watch the Slytherin pull it down, covering the marks of lost battles, and relief flooded her system as a part of her told her that it meant he wasn't going to tell. It was short-lived, though, for she still could not tell what he was thinking, and that part was what scared her the most; what if he decided what she did was stupid and foolish and left?

She knew what that was what her parents would say, in any case. They had, after all, made similar comments when in the news there was a report of a female her age who had recently killed herself. Cowardly and selfish, were the words her parents had scoffed. Braver than me, she had wanted to tell them - wanted, but couldn't. No, Chrisy did not think she had the strength to end everything, nor did she particularly want to, but she could get rid of some of the hurt on the inside.

That was everything she wanted to say to Luke and more when the question came. She wanted to explain her emotions and articulate everything that had happened and everything she felt, but words failed her. She could try and draw it, but how did one go about doing that? She had seen something like that online, once, copied the style and made it her own. But it wasn't a drawing she was proud of and she had tossed it out, watched it burn in the Ravenclaw common room fireplace. It was the darkest thing she'd ever drawn, but it made sense to her; art was how she communicated with the world.

She didn't have that liberty today, and for a moment she wished she had kept the drawing, even if just for this one moment in time. Instead, she took a deep breath and forced herself to look Luke in the eyes. "Because I have to," she said, tone soft, hinging on wavering, but she refused to allow it to surface, instead focusing everything she had on her words. Her voice was flat, practically emotionless at the effort it took to keep the tremor out, but she was doing it. "Because it's the only way. Because it helps."

Glancing down at the pencil she still held, Chrisy looked back up at Luke. "Wait, let me show you," she said, turning the page in her note book and allowing her mind to wander free as her pencil flew. It took her less than five minutes to complete, for it was but a rough sketch, and when she was done, she lowered the book onto the floor beside the Slytherin.

The drawing was simple, and she waited for him to look at it before touching the blunt side of her pencil to the paper. With one swift motion, she started smudging the graphite against the surface, covering the face with the grey shading, creating a fog-like appearance around the head of the drawing. "Before," she told him. Setting the pencil down, she picked up her eraser and, using the sharp end of it, started gently tracing lines through the shading, revealing the drawing underneath. "The knife," she explained. "The pain clears the fog and keeps me from drowning."

Again, she picked up the pencil, but this time, in her other hand, and shaded over the spots she erased, and then ran the eraser through the new shading before shading over it yet again. "See? It's neverending," she finished, finally putting down the utensils for good; her demonstration was done. "The world never stops so the knife never stops, either."

If Luke would understand, Chrisy wasn't sure, but this was the only way she knew how to communicate, and she had done all she could. Looking towards him, she offered a sad smile. "Do you get it?" she asked, hoping that he did, but fearing the worst.

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As Chrysanthemum started to try and explain, Luke's features creased in to that of confusion as he listened. Why would anyone have to hurt themselves? Had someone forced her to make the marks on her wrist? If so, who had the person been? Where were they? Did Luke know them? Could he make a difference.

But when Chrysanthemum said it helped, Luke could not comprehend that in the slightest. Pain was not supposed to be helpful to people, it was pain. It hurt. It wasn't supposed to bring out such things in people, so why did it sound like this was something Chrysanthemum needed in that moment.

The actions and words didn't correspond.

So when Chrysanthemum said that she would draw it, Luke nodded once, waiting for her to draw the picture. Slowly the shape of a girl appeared, a symbol that he took to be Chrysanthemum in that moment. The 'fog' that she drew a moment later made Luke look at the piece of paper in concern. How could someone's mind become so jumbled up like this picture showed.

Didn't Chrysanthemum compartmentalise her mind?

Even as the Ravenclaw repeated the action, Luke couldn't quite comprehend what she was trying to say. So when the question of him understanding came, Luke simply shook his head. "Why?" Luke asked again, looking up from the paper to Chrysanthemum. "Why would you feel... what made you do it?" He asked, getting to the important bit. Who made her do that, because he was quite sure there had to be someone behind this.

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