Disclaimer: Thankfully, no-one put the fate of Harry Potter in my hands. As you can see, the end result wouldn't have been pretty.

The first cut is the worst, but the best too. You'll see. The dusty, shallow faced teenager's words rang in Harry's mind. It seemed so long ago, when his walks had finally reached the wrong side of town and he'd met – he didn't know who he'd met. But the stranger had taught Harry the best lesson of his entire life. How to not be Harry Potter.

Now his hands didn't even tremble as he let the knife skid over his pale skin – a testing cut, making sure the blade was sharp enough. His ribcage expanded with a single breathe and then – down, the stolen weapon creating a straight, simple, bloody line. The pain was beautiful and he savoured it, closing his eyes to concentrate on the feeling. It was perfect.

But it wasn't enough, it faded and disappeared, leaving him still alert and remembering. Carefully Harry found a patch of unscarred thigh and drew enough blissful line, then with just as much concentration and care made another scar to run parallel. Two months ago Harry had thought cutters just slashed and slashed whilst high on drugs. Now he knew about the precision, the release, the euphoria – now he understood.

Harry could forget about Cedric quite easily, by doing the dishes or reading a book. But only this, his own blood staining his hands and rows of rows of uniform red marks like tallies made him not care. He knew and accepted that his rival was gone, that his parents were dead, that Voldermort was back but none of it mattered whilst he was cutting. And there was this pride too – the pride of never getting caught, of being so good at this, at having a secret to keep from his friends who no longer told him anything.

Harry knew that everyone else thought this was some sort of sick disease. He knew that if Dumbledore and the Weasleys and everyone else found out they would be horrified. Sickened. And then they'd try to cure him.

But Harry couldn't even be touched whilst he was cutting. He wasn't Harry Potter or the Boy-Who-Lived anymore. He was just another nobody – one of them. One cutter, an empty, blank soul that saw truth among the multitudes of colourful liars.

LINE BREAK

She was completely naked in front of the mirror, skin stretched and straining over ribs and bone. Her hands with their long, fat fingers poked at the layers of blubber covering her skin. Too much, she thought bitterly, and then she closed down again. Her appraisals were honest – she'd lost a lot of weight. But not nearly enough.

There wasn't a figure in mind, no idol she compared herself to. She just knew that she needed to eat less and exercise more and be thin. If she was thin she would be beautiful, and only beautiful girls were whole.

Cho's black hair, now the texture of the dead grass outside, hung limp on her head. It upset her, somewhere in a tiny part of her mind, but of course it was for the best. It meant she was getting skinnier – only fat people had soft hair. Of course she was still podgy, ugly, unwanted but soon she would be perfect. The hair was a sign. She revelled in it.

Pulling on some loose clothes Cho twisted to the side, biting her lip at the unattractive sight before her. She'd always been small in the breast department but now she was just flat chested – again, she told herself sternly, it is completely worth it. And I can't show my figure off yet – I'm still too fat.

She added a hoodie, stroking the size 6 label. The clothes were far too big for her, but they had to be to obliterate her figure – no one understood, you see, no one got her anymore. That sense of being loved had vanished, of having friends had vanished and now she was all alone in the dark. As long as she was thin though, she would be alright.

"Cho?" Her mother called, and Cho's pale lips turned down into a frown. She zipped up the hoodie, pulling it down past her wrists, and walked over to their wooden banister – she leant on it, too tired to stand.

"Darling, how are you wearing a coat? It's the hottest day of the year!" Her chirpy, skinny mother called up but Cho just shrugged. It was cold to her, as though she could feel the breeze digging into her bones. Good, she told herself quietly, that means the diet is working.

"Have you-"

"I've eaten," Cho lied, without so much as flinching. It was for the best. "The leftover curry, the spicy one."

For a second her mother seemed to not believe her, but then she smiled. She knew her daughter had lost her boyfriend – she understood that Cho would rather just keep to her room and eat alone. As long as she was happy then Mrs Chang was fine with it.

"Okay darling, I'll leave you some Pizza. Have a nice afternoon!"

LINE BREAK

Ginny had felt it, like a ripple going through her, like a plug being taken out on the ocean, when you-know-who had returned. Her soul flinched, recognising the revival of its would-be master. And even whilst she told her brothers she was okay, she had started to cry inside.

That had been two months ago. Now she sat at her window ledge with her hair tied up in a ponytail, and she stared out at the dark streets of Grimmauld Place. For a second she thought of the fairy tales Bill had told her when she little, but the memory was painful now and she ignored it. The ratty, sombre world of the streets was as far removed from her childhood daydreams as it possibly could be – it suited her though. The girl she used to be – cheerful, bubbly, confident – had been smothered by the darkness and pain all around her and only the shell remained.

Nothing mattered to Ginny anymore. She was aware, through the whispers of the Order that carried into her bedroom, that Harry had been attacked by dementors and was coming here. She was aware that his cousin had been kissed before Harry had found the strength for a patronus. She was aware that the Dursley's had locked him away, and that there would be a hearing that Harry would probably lose.

But she far, far too gone to care.

She could picture him – the black hair, the kind smile, the slight blush on his cheeks. She understood why she'd been attracted to that – remembered, even, the feel of his hands begging her to stay alive in the chamber. Please, she had whispered in her mind, don't let him win.

But you-know-who had won, at least over her. She could feel it when her food was tasteless and when her ribs stuck out and when she couldn't remember to smile when her father walked in. When the love bled out of her, when she could feel you-know-who's breathe as he laughed over her shoulder, when she sat up all night without sleeping for even a second. Blank, empty, repulsive. Floppy, like a dolly without the stuffing.

Gone. Ginny was simply and utterly gone.

A/N: I've never suffered from a mental illness, nor known personally anyone who has, so please forgive any errors. And whilst this is written from the POV of the sufferers, they are of course wrong in believing that they can't get help – if you do ever have this problems, remember they are fixable.

One question – do you want me to do a sequel?