A/N: This piece was my attempt to portray to people who don't understand, have never experienced, or never witnessed, a personality disorder called paranoia (and a sort of bi-polar, split personality mix) that can come with depression and self-mutilation. Please enjoy! Warning: self-mutilation! If you don't like it, don't read. Its brief, but its also the point.

Disclaimer:If I owned Harry Potter, I wouldn't be posting it on ff.net, now would I? I do, however, own Fleur's split persona 'Rouge'.

When Angels Fall

"I'm scared, Rouge… so scared…" She trembles as she places the pointed, honed edge against her pale flesh, unable to gather the courage to do the deed. The thin metal rod slips slightly with the sweat pouring from her hands, so nervous, incapable of doing what needs to be done; what must be accomplished to salvage whatever sanity is left from the pain.

You're a coward, Fleur, She replies; Rouge, her other self, her separate personality constantly hounding her, pushing her, insulting and degrading her. The evidence of her insanity that no one else can see – and never will. They can never know! You know you want to do it, Fleur, you do, Rouge taunts, always using her name to show how different they are, how She knows everything about her. Just push a little deeper and pull. Do it quickly, to get it over with. The pain only lasts for a moment, and then it will all go away. You want it to go away, don't you, Fleur? Or do you want it to stay and hurt more?

"Go away… I want it to go away…" The words are barely formed on her shimmering lips – bright red and shining with the sweat those beads on them, betraying her lack of confidence. The point presses down, she makes a fist, and finally-

The familiar pain. She draws a breath in quickly, hissing with it, looking down desperately. Not enough, not enough; an angry red mark glares up at her, but what she needs is absent: the crimson liquid, the blood. Before she can register the pain again she makes another slash, the sharp point of the needle scraping across her skin because Rouge is right, she is too much of a coward to use a knife. Ah, finally, here it comes, welling up, and she gives a heavy sigh of satisfaction. Then unable to resist the urge, she makes three more. Never more than five, she won't allow it, despite Rouge's protests.

Now that's better, isn't it? She's so smug, so sure of herself, it makes Fleur sick sometimes. Dabbing at the wounds with tissue – immediately turned red and wet – she flushes it down the toilet, flips her skirt down and smoothes it, sitting up.

"But I'm still scared…"

It's the fear of being found out – of one day, someone invading her privacy and barging in on her half-dressed, seeing the scars and revealing her as the freak that she is. Then everyone will know, and everyone will see what she has become, that indeed Fleur Delacour does have a weakness, one quite unlike the kind that men have for her.

Oh hush up, sissy, She scoffs at her fear, dismissing it. We're perfectly safe. You're paranoid.

"Yes… I am…" Fleur sits down on her bed, enveloped in the familiar smell of home, rather than that of school. Rouge has retreated temporarily, leaving her alone with her thoughts, for now. She braids her silver-blond hair, flips it over her shoulder, and draws her knees up to her chest, carefully inspecting the faded pink scars that adorn the flesh surrounding her ankle. She really can't understand how others cut on their wrists and arms – and manage to get away with it. But for her, the fear is always there, and she won't risk her exposure.

Carefully she runs a finger over the fresh lacerations on the outside of her thigh underneath her skirt. Even her clothes can't be too short now. Nothing must show, nothing. If she slips up, Rouge will never let her alone, and then She'll keep punishing her, forcing her to cut some more. Slowly her hand frees itself and goes to her shoulder. Her tank top reveals bare, clear arms. But there on her shoulder – the left one, since she was right-handed – there they are. The tiniest hint of white lines, all running parallel. In the winter she'd been able to get away with them, but fear as the sun came out drove her to find a new place.

Knock knock. Someone at the door. Her hands jerk away (can't be caught…can't be caught…), sweaty again. "Entrez," she calls, a little too quickly, her body looking relaxed but every muscle tensed until the intruder has departed. Her father smiles at her from the open door, and invites her to come down for dinner. They have guests.

Later...

Too close, far too close. "Sacre bleu!" she murmurs under her breath, which is far more heavy than usual. She curses her Veela charm – a constant plague that only endangers her further. In her room she slams the door and curses the entire male gender, also. The boy whose father and hers were co-workers – she's forgotten his name already – has little willpower, as he so revealed, his hands creeping too close for comfort, having found the slit in her skirt.

You really have a temper, don't you? Rouge mocks her, drawling. Imbécile! She can't tell who is yelling at her now, Rouge or herself – or is there a difference between them? It's all your fault! Everything is – and so is this situation that you've gotten us into! You're lucky now, lucky that he didn't find It.

There really is no situation. But Rouge convinces her that there is, and it must be quickly eliminated. She must isolate herself and tighten her defenses. The mask that she wears must never falter – the consequences will be too much for her to bear. Burying her face in her pillow, she tries to drown out Rouge's voice, even though it's in her head, and She will never go away. She lifts her head slightly, her blue eyes falling on the calendar hanging on the wall.

Only a few days left, and then back to Beauxbatons. It will be her seventh year now. The Triwizard tournament that her father has been raving about will finally be in session. Perhaps this year will be different. She doesn't realize that she had been pleading aloud.

"S'il vous plait?" Please, please…

Rouge's hollow laugh echoes in her mind.