Hey guys! Time for me to delurk and finally write! This is my first try...so be gentle! Any feedback would be greatly appreciated! Thanks!

Disclaimer: Just another fanficcer...I don't own anything but the plot.


Angelina felt the freezing stone of the dungeon corridor's floor beneath her knees, cooling her blood as it pulsed madly through her veins. She heard nothing but her own heartbeat in her ears through the uninterrupted silence, a few scattered sconces throwing out dull imperfect light.

Through shuddered breaths and hazy, tear-filled eyes, she pushed back the sleeves of her uniform to examine her long, brown, unblemished arms. Her stomach knotted remembering the many nights just like this she would hesitantly mutter a healing charm over freshly-inflicted wounds. In actuality, she wanted to see the scars. Tracing over the finely raised lines on her skin would remind her of the hurt she struggled with on the inside for the last year. Yes, better harmless scars than that cursed mark. She would never take the mark of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!

His return stirred her parents into a fervor she'd never witnessed before. She was so young when he disappeared those years ago. All Angelina ever knew of the truth were boxes she stumbled upon around the age of 6. Black robes and white masks – the only proof she'd needed to realize her parents were long ago and now once again Death Eaters.

With Lord Voldemort's aims at recruiting new followers, most of the children of the Death Eaters had been called into service and worked willingly for him to gather information about Hogwarts and Dumbledore's plans. Every day, she would endure the hateful stares of the others as she passed them in the halls: Nott, Crabbe, Goyle, and especially Draco Malfoy. He was the most persistent of the lot, trying to corner her whenever she was walking alone in the castle and convince her that it was her duty to aid the Dark Lord.

But Angelina would not, even after more than one encounter with the Cruciatus curse. He had laughingly allowed her to live in defiance of him, for the time being. Angelina existed from day to day with the fear that his mercy and patience would run out, and he would force her to make her final choice. And she told herself every day that she would rather die rather than serve him.

Lately, however, her mantra seemed more lip-service as her heart and head battled with the idea of it all. It was when her confusion and anxiety reached a breaking point that she retraced her footsteps down to this abandoned hallway, her wand and whatever pointed tool she could find clutched desperately in her hand. A little cut and the endorphins released at the sight of her own blood would be enough to calm her down and make life bearable once more. But over time the cuts became deeper, and Angelina resorted to more advanced spells to hide the evidence. No one could ever know about her release, and Fred's eyes would be sharp enough to spot the cuts right away. He would ask questions that would endanger him if he knew the answers. And she couldn't lie to him.

Just thinking about Fred caused the tears threatening to come since before dinner to spill down her face and hit the unforgiving stone. Blinking to restore her vision, she realized that she'd already managed to cut herself – deeper than she'd meant to. Great volumes of crimson surged forth from the vertical slit on her right wrist. Mildly shocked, she watched the cut and waited for the glorious adrenaline high to follow. Instead, panic replaced curiosity and she immediately dropped her wand and grasped her wrist, willing herself to stop bleeding. A pained and animalistic noise issued from the back of her throat as her hand failed to staunch the sticky flow, and blood began to ooze from between her fingers.

Seconds dragged out into languorous minutes as she knelt helplessly over the shallow scarlet pool, hardly breathing as she struggled to maintain coherent thought in what she thought would be the last regretful moments of her life. She could see the weak rise and fall of her heart beneath her clothes and silently asserted that she would never have agreed to follow Lord Voldemort. She smiled weakly to herself at this last act of defiance and closed her eyes to welcome unconsciousness.

"My my…isn't it a bit late for Gryffindors to be about? Especially in such dangerous parts of the cas-"

Montague's jeering words were cut short as his eyes met Angelina's unfocused gaze. Alarmed, he looked down to her lamely-clutched wrist spilling into the puddle beneath her.

"Funny, I never thought you the type, Johnson."

Angelina, recognizing Montague as her rival Quidditch captain, tried vainly to draw herself into a more dignified posture. Managing only to briefly curl her lips into her signature cocky smirk, her eyelids fluttered wildly as she passed out before she was even able to feel herself hit the floor.

A sudden gasp for air, and Angelina's eyes shot open as all of her senses came screeching back to life. Several hands flew to hold her down as she jerked to sit up. Looking around she saw that she was in fact lying in a bed in the Hospital Wing, surrounded by her friends: Fred, George, Katie, Alicia, and Lee; and Madame Pomfrey was approaching them with a bottle of some likely hideous potion. The group chuckled at the face Angelina made as she was handed the bottle and told to finish it. They were relieved that she was alright, and upon remembering the events leading up to this point, she was relieved as well.

She looked down at her right wrist, now heavily bandaged and being gingerly cradled by Fred. His eyes remained downcast, apparently deep in thought. Alicia offered to open the bottle for her, and Angelina was grateful that they were not yet bombarding her with questions. Rather, they talked and bickered amoungst themselves as usual, putting her immediately at ease.

She finished the potion after 3 tries of gagging and spitting the rancid syrup and relaxed back into the soft white pillows, occasionally chiming in with her two cents about the upcoming professional Quidditch season. Turning her head, she watched Fred, his eyes still focused downward. She gave his hand a small squeeze, ignoring the mild jolt of pain issuing from the cut. He sighed softly, and Angelina realized he was not simply looking at the floor, but staring quite ardently at the tourniquet she'd arrived in that Madame Pomfrey had loosened but forgotten to remove.

Tied onto her forearm, stained with her blood, was green and silver striped bit of silk. The tie worn on the uniforms of those in Slytherin house. Fred's eyes, worn with thought and worry, looked up to meet hers finally. He raised an eyebrow inquisitively, reading the dawning recognition on Angelina's face. So, it had been Montague that brought her here. He could have easily turned and walked away, but he hadn't. Refusing to bother herself with the question of why he would do such a thing just then, she lay back into the pillows and closed her eyes and hoped Madame Pomfrey would be by again soon to shoo the lot from the wing and let her get some rest.