Settled in one of those soft, squashy chairs in the Gryffindor common room - was a thin, raven haired teen, paying a greater part of his attentions on the fine racing broom before him, carefully administering polish to the glossy wood. He was sat right in the chair, legs tucked up underneath him as he carefully rubbed polish into the broom handle. Outside stars pricked the night sky like fairy lights and the candles in their scones on the walls faded away – leaving the room gloomy and dark.
Sighing, he glanced over his handiwork, and satisfied, replaced the lid on the wax polish and slipped it back into the case containing all the odds and ends for general broom care. Looking up, he glanced at the fire, then out through the windows, frowning at the change in state between when he'd started and now. Had it really taken that long? He thought, tearing his eyes away from the dark sky and back to the broom; giving the gleaming wood a final once-over before deciding it was glossy enough, he didn't want to risk falling off the thing at a critical moment because it was over-polished. He sighed, placing the lid back on the tin of polish and slipping it back into the leather case with the rest of his broom-care equipment.
Sitting back in the chair he found himself turning back to the window - the allure of the depthless sky was somewhat calming - and slowly he moved his broom and case from his lap, resting the broom against the arm of the chair and he slowly stood.
'Oh bloody hell.' he muttered, as he legs stiffened up painfully against the sudden rush of blood, his own fault for sitting like that for so long. Breathing heavily, he waiting for the numbness and pain to subside before crossing other to the window.
Outside, the ebony sky was perfectly clear, save only for the crescent moon, which grinned at Harry like a Cheshire cat, and reflecting up of the perfect crisp layer of snow on the ground, giving everything a silvery glow. He glanced toward the lake, a shimmering silver mirror between the ranges of low mountains surrounding it. There was something about this particular night that made him feel so small, and so incredibly alone.

He settled down in the alcove of the window, feeling the painfully cold glass press against his bare arms, turning the skin pale and icy. He resented the way that moon seemed to grin, and he stared balefully up at it, the dull ache in his stomach rising up and blocking his throat – taking him over and blocking out anything else. He hunched up in the alcove, glaring furtively around the room to ensure he was indeed alone, before reaching into his pocket. A confusion of thoughts attacked him as he took out the small, wicked knife from his pocket – staring at the blade blankly.

He frowned, turning his free hand over so his palm with upward, and pulled back his sleeve, revealing a criss-cross of angry scars from wrist to elbow – the same marking the arm holding the knife.
He flicked the blade across his skin, seeing the thin line of red well up and feeling the ache in his chest lessen it's grip on him. Again, watching the dark liquid well up and drip down his arm. Pressing his back against the uneven stonewall – digging the silver blade deeper with every stroke, as he slashed aggressively at his pale skin, staining it red. Pain from this blocking out all other, desensitising him.

He bit back a yelp of pain as the knife dug in a little too deep, scraping against tendon and muscle. Harry pulled the Blade away and stared at the bloody cuts and gashes inside the inside of his arms, the dark liquid dribbled languidly at his elbows and dripped onto the bare stone.
'Shit.' He muttered, sitting up and cleaning the blood away with his wand. He rolled out of the alcove and stared out of the window, taking one last look at the moon.
'Don't laugh at me.' He snarled under his breath, turning away and heading for the boy's dormitory.

'Harry, mate you look knackered.' said Ron at breakfast, watching Harry pick at the rapidly cooling food on the plate in front of him. He was hunched over, pale and his bright green eyes seemed dull and lacking in colour.

'Yes Harry, you really don't look well.' said Hermione, her head-Girl badge glinting in the light of the Great Hall – her hand wrapped around Rons'. She looked at Harry, concerned for him.

'I'm fine, I'm just not hungry.' he muttered, sounding non-committal. Hermione rolled her eyes and turned back to her breakfast, Ron sighed. Harry ignored him, they asked him the same questions every morning, and it was really pissing him off, and yet he still couldn't tell them what was going on. Fed-up and sitting around in the Great Hall, he got up and walked out – without a word to either of them.

'God, what is wrong with him?' exclaimed Ron.

'I don't know Ron, I really don't.' she replied, squeezing his hand. 'There's something he's not telling us.'

'Tell me about it, Herm. He's being a really mardy git.'

'Maybe we should talk to him about it.'

'He'd probably storm off or something.' Ron muttered darkly.

Hermione sighed. 'Well, we should do something about it Ron. And I want to go for a walk, come on.' She stood up, pulled Ron up and they walked slowly out of the Great Hall, heading outside into the snow-blanketed grounds. She sighed, leaning on Ron's shoulder as they walked slowly along the path around the castle – sheltered from the vicious breeze blowing off the mountain range by the high walls of the castle.

'Geez, how can he stand that wind?' muttered Ron, pointing out the tiny figure of Harry, standing by the lake in just his shirt and jeans from that morning, no cloak, jumper, nothing. Hermione shivered just seeing him, herself balled up in a thick jumper, cloak, Rons' scarf and gloves.

'It's like he's numb or something.

'Desensitized.' suggested Ron.