I have personally battled self harm, so this is a topic that hits really close to home, and it's something I understand a lot about. It was hard to put it into words, but I thought self harm needed to be addressed in some way, as well as the danger of too much pressure on people.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

WARNINGS: SELF HARM (POSSIBLY TRIGGERING)

WRITING PROMPT (slightly altered to fit the story):
"What's the gun for, Brian?"
"I can't have an F. I can't have it, and I know my parents can't have it."
-Breakfast Club

Everything was going fine until Oliver found the knife.

"Percy, where's my book?" Oliver yelled as he tossed several clothing items over his shoulder in search of it.

"Which one?" Percy called over the loud sound of the shower.

"My Quidditch Play book!"

"Check under your bed!"

"I already checked there!" Oliver replied, lifting up the skirt around his bed to double check.

Percy didn't reply, and Oliver assumed he hadn't heard him, so Oliver huffed and checked under Percy's bed.

He grinned as he found his book sitting beneath the bed of his roommate; Oliver must've kicked it under there by mistake. The Quidditch caption picked up the play book, and he grinned in relief before the smile suddenly froze on his face; seconds later, it dropped entirely.

Oliver reached under the bed, and he grasped the handle of something shiny, which he pulled out of the darkness under the bed and into the light of the dorm room.

A knife.

The knife was a simple switchblade with a small hilt; the blade was shimmering with droplets of blood, and the edge of the knife looked sharper than Oliver's potions knife he used in class.

Why would Percy need a knife? And what was with the blood?

Oliver glanced at the closed bathroom door and listened to the rhythmic sound of water hammering against the shower wall.

Oliver wasn't usually a person to snoop, but he could make an exception.

Oliver fumbled under the bed for anything else that might be hidden there, and his hand brushed over a smooth surface.

It was a wooden box with PW engraved in the top, and there was a latch, which Oliver flicked upward. He slowly opened the box, and his breathing hitched.

There were several compartments, and all of them contained medical supplies, mostly muggle. There were rolls of bandages, peroxide, gauze, and much more. There was an empty compartment near the bottom, where Oliver assumed the knife was usually placed.

The shower shut off, and Oliver waited for the door to open.

It did a few minutes later, and Percy stepped out, dressed in a long sleeved shirt and khakis; he was fixing the cuff of his shirt, but he stopped short when he noticed Oliver staring at him.

"Hello," Percy said with a raised eyebrow. "Did you find your book?"

Oliver nodded. "I did, and I also found something else."

He held the knife up for Percy to see, and Percy's blue eyes widened behind the lenses of his horn rimmed glasses.

"What's the knife for, Percy?" He asked, holding the blood speckled knife in his palm.

Percy crossed the room and made a mad grab for the knife, but Oliver swiped it out of reach, holding one arm out to keep Percy back.

"You had no right-" Percy snarled.

"What's the knife for, Percy?" Oliver repeated.

Percy blinked, and he stopped fighting against Oliver to retrieve the knife.

"... I use it to make the pain go away, okay?" Percy responded.

Oliver's heart stopped dead in his chest.

"Why?" Oliver murmured.

Percy turned his back on Oliver and took a few steps forward, running his fingers through his hair.

"I failed a test," Percy replied.

Oliver blinked. "Percy, failing is a part of life."

"It isn't for me!" Percy disagreed. "I can't have a T, and my parents can't have it either. I'm supposed to be the smart me."

"Percy, it's one T; the Ministry won't want you any less because of it," Oliver pointed out.

Oliver was struggling to understand, to grasp what his friend was going through. If Oliver was pushed to the brink and began to self harm, it would take a lot. One T? No way. Oliver had gotten at least five T's since the term started. Why was Percy so upset about it?

"It's not that," Percy muttered.

"Then, what is it?" Oliver demanded. "You're hurting yourself; help me understand why!"

Percy sighed, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the wall; he avoided Oliver's eyes as he finally spoke.

"I don't expect you to understand; you're an only child," Percy said. "Look, everyone in my family has some sort of title. Bill's the cool one; Charlie's the adventurous one; Fred and George are the funny ones; Ron is the heroic one; Ginny's the talented one. I'm supposed to be the intelligent one. If I'm not the smart one, then who the heck am I?"

Oliver understood, at least slightly. Percy wasn't upset about the grade; he was scared of what other people would think and say about the grade.

For as long as Oliver could remember, Percy was intelligent, clever, straight O's. Smart was the first word Oliver thought of when required to describe his roommate. Percy was afraid that one bad grade meant he was no longer the smart one, and he didn't think he'd ever be anything else. That was only the tip of the ice berg, too.

Percy had always been one to impress; his greatest fear was disappointment. His boggart had been his father telling him he was worthless, useless, a disgrace to the family, a disappointment. Percy had barely functioned properly for days after that; even the teachers had started asking Percy if he was okay.

Percy thought one bad grade would make his worst fear become a reality.

What kind of world do we live in where children can't even allow themselves to fail without experiencing criticism, either from themselves or others?

"I'll tell you," Oliver said. "One T does not mean you're not smart, but if you can't be smart, you're still Percy. Percy Weasley is helpful, responsible, hard working, loyal, brave."

Percy snorted. "I'm not brave."

Oliver rolled his eyes. "Oh, really? Well, I'm going to prove to you that you're brave. Only a brave person can fight an addiction."

Percy frowned. "What add- what are you doing?"

Oliver opened the window, checked to make sure no one was below it, before dropping the knife into the bushes far below.

"Oliver, no!" Percy yelled, running for the window, but Oliver grabbed him around the waist and held the struggling boy back. "You don't understand, Oliver! I need it."

"No, you don't," Oliver replied, calmly. "You're strong, Percy, and you've been strong for too long. You don't have to deal with this alone."

That was the straw that broke the camel's back, and Percy began to sob. He dropped to the floor, and Oliver followed, holding his friend close. Percy didn't stop crying for what seemed like forever; the sun had long since dipped behind the hills when Percy's tears stopped flowing.

"Strong?" Percy snorted. "I'm blubbering like a baby."

"Crying doesn't make you weak. It means you've been strong for far too long," Oliver reasoned.

Percy stared at him. "What guidance councilor poster did you read that off of?"

Oliver shrugged. "Cheesy, yes, but true."

Percy nodded, and they continued to sit on the floor in silence.

"Percy?" Oliver whispered.

"Yeah?"

"Please... let me help you."

Percy hesitated; asking for help was a foreign concept too him.

He rubbed at his arms and legs, knowing the cuts that existed beneath his clothes. The urge to cut had not vanished with the knife being thrown out the window, and Percy knew he wouldn't be able to stop without help.

Percy sniffled, wiping his tears, and nodded.

"Okay."

This was just a short one shot I decided to write when I came across that quote from Breakfast Club since that's one of my favorite scenes, and I could relate to Brian in the movie and the topic of self harm/suicidal thoughts.

Thanks for reading.