A/N: this is just something I came up with one day on a bus ride home, I know they're OOC, but I don't really care. Flame me, call me a Draco hater, I don't care. Just review, k?
BTW I own absolutely nothing. Please don't sue me.
I didn't think I had a problem.
I knew it was an unusual way of releasing-but that was just it-my release.
And it was all mine.
With it, I had control.
I could decide how deep to go, or how many times.
It was all mine-and no one could take it away from me.
Until he came.
At first, he was just like all the others-he teased me, made fun of me, contributed to my pain.
But then it all changed.
I don't know what started the change, maybe I just looked so pathetic that day and he saw past my carefully put up cover, into my deepest fears.
I knew I couldn't fool him with my lies-he had been taught how to see through them, so I told him the truth when he asked.
The day it started, he asked me what was wrong.
Maybe I was just so shocked that he asked, I actually told him. Or maybe I just needed to tell someone, to let it out, and he was the first who came along.
So I told him my deepest secret, my dreams of death, and most importantly, my friendship with razors.
He didn't ask too many questions, just lifted his own arm and pulled back his sleeve.
It was covered in scars.
After that day, we started talking more. It was so easy to talk to him, it amazed me.
He told me of his abusive father, I told him of my fear of failing.
I told him how everyday I had to be perfect-I had to get perfect marks, have the perfect attitude and how I was tired of it.
I didn't wanna be perfect, I never did. That was my parents dream, not mine.
All I wanted was to be myself.
And with him I could.
He never judged me, never told me I was wrong, never told me to be someone else.
And I was grateful for it.
We tried to be there for each other, we both wanted to stop slashing.
For me, it had become an addiction, and I couldn't stop it, although I tried.
For him, it was his way of staying alive.
We never cut together though. He would go into the bathroom, and I would sit in a corner.
But then, I had a scare.
I was particularly angry one day, my parents had sent a letter complaining at my marks, "Why wasn't this 'A' an 'A'" type of thing.
I had gotten too angry, and I cut too deep. I nearly hit a vessel in my wrist, I hadn't been paying attention.
I passed out, and he found me and healed my wounds.
When I woke up, he told me we were going to stop, together.
So we did. Together we threw away all our self-harm objects, made sure that they couldn't come back.
Times came when I had relapses, but he was always there for me.
Until the day came when I wasn't there for him.
It was a stormy day, the castle was empty, for everyone was at Hogsmead. I had been in the library, doing some research on my illness.
In my mind, I felt that he was hurting somewhere, but I pushed it out of my mind.
I finished late that night, and as I was walking up to our dorm, I felt as if I was missing something, something very important.
I told the password to the portrait and walked into the dorm. I immediately screamed.
He was lying there, covered in his own blood. I ran to him and wrapped my arms around him.
He was cold, oh so cold.
I'll never forget that coldness.
I don't even think it has left me yet.
I assume that I either passed out or fell asleep, for when I woke up, I was lying in my bed, not where I was when I last remembered.
Professor Dumbledore was sitting in a chair next to my bed.
He quickly explained to me that Draco was, in fact, dead.
Dead.
He was dead.
Professor Dumbledore kept talking but I didn't hear a word he said.
Except for dead.
No. Draco wouldn't leave me. I wouldn't let him.
The funeral was later that week, but I didn't go. I wouldn't let myself.
It would make it all too real.
I lived the rest of seventh year in a daze, still finishing at the top of my class, but I never put my heart into my work.
After I left Hogwarts, I felt as if there was no longer a purpose for me in life. I had no love, for he died and took it with him.
He died.
He's dead.
Eventually I admitting my self into St. Mungos, the morbidness of Draco's death was killing me. I couldn't get it out of my head.
Multiple times I asked to be killed, so I could be with him again.
But always the answer was no.
I tried to go back to my comfort zone, my cutting, but that brought me back to how he died.
He died.
Maybe I'm dead too, but only mentally.
Yes, that's it, I'm dead.
I'm dead.
Dead.
A/N: I know, I'm evil. I was trying to portray Hermione as crazy, out of her mind, but I don't think I really like how it turned out. But I'll post this anyway; maybe I'll redo it later.