Disclaimer: I don't own these characters they are the work of a wonderful woman named JK Rowling.

Warning: Self harm, suicide attempt, alcohol abuse, depression

Harry buried his head in his hands holding back tears that had been threatening to flow for weeks. He couldn't do it, he just couldn't do it. The war was over, but his troubles were far from. With the ending of the war came a new set of problems. Everyone in the Wizarding World either loved him or hated him, and most were beginning to realize that the great Harry Potter was not as special as everyone said. For months letter after letter had poured through his window. Fan mail, letters of gratitude, invitations to parties, political events, and weddings, people offering to build monuments in his honor, inviting him to grand openings of stores, restaurants, and basically anything one could imagine, yet every time he received one he crumbled it up, and tried not to be sick. His neglected trashcan now overflowed with discarded messages, many that hadn't even been read. The floor of his private Hogwarts room, for at the time it had been offered returning to school had seemed like a good idea, was covered in belongings that had been cast aside, rejected, just as he rejected himself.

He pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes trying to force back in the salty liquid that was now leaking through the cracks and wetting his cheeks. The once bright green eyes, dulled and bloodshot, burdened by all they had seen. Bits of memories flashed through his mind as he struggled to control his breathing. Dumbledore falling from the astronomy tower, Sirius's blank face as he tumbled through the vale, Voldemort's slit eyes haunting him in his dreams, the inferi's hands circling his ankle as poison wracked Dumbledore's body, Hermione's screams as she was tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange, "Kill the spare," Cedric collapsing, Fred, Lupin, Tonks, Mad Eye, Voldemort taking over his body, crucio, horcruxes, Ron and Hermione sleeping of the forest floor cold and hungry, death eaters raiding Bill and Fleur's wedding, a knife in Dobby's chest, Draco Malfoy bleeding on the bathroom floor, Giant snakes, his uncle's wrath, his parents. It was too much. So many memories that he couldn't control. He wished that he had a pensive so that he could rid himself of all the burdens, but somehow that seemed like cheating. All of these people that had suffered for him, died for him, he couldn't just put away their memories like a book he had already read and grown tired of.

Harry clutched his body, shaking. He was sick of this, he needed to forget. Hurriedly he scrambled to his trunk. He rummaged through it until he found what he was looking for, a bottle of vodka, and not just any vodka, Dragon Killer. It was the highest alcohol concentrated drink in the entire wizarding world. It was very expensive and very hard to come by, but being The Boy Who Lived, nothing was all too hard to get. Harry grabbed a shot glass out of his trunk and began filling it with the clear liquid. He may be a mess, but he wasn't about to drink out of the bottle like a drunken slob.

One he thought as he tilted his head back and swallowed the vodka. This was not for armatures, and it burned almost to a point of blistering as it choked its way down Harry's throat. They called it Dragon Killer for a reason. Not waiting for a breath, he filled the glass again.

Two

He needed to get drunk, beyond wasted. He needed to forget about all of the pain and death he had caused.

Three

He was a failure, a horrible excuse for a human, an even worse excuse for a wizard.

Four

Sirius. He could still remember. Not good enough.

Five

Fred, Dumbledore, Dobby.

Six

His stomach churned and his vision blurred. He was drinking so fast that he had hardly given the alcohol time to soak in before taking another shot. He meant to do this so that he could drink as much as possible. Maybe if he was lucky he would get alcohol poisoning and die on the floor. Everyone would think he had died having a good time. Or miserably and alone.

Seven

This was a bad idea. He should stop.

Eight

Draco. Holy fuck Draco. Draco bleeding on the bathroom floor, Harry refusing Draco's friendship, the dark mark on the boys left arm, Harry saving him from the fire, Draco trying to kill Dumbledore, Draco's beautiful blonde hair and startling grey eyes that had captured his attention in many ways over the years. He could still remember, no good.

Nine

He tried to think, but even his thoughts seemed slurred.

Ten

He stumbled over onto the floor knocking his head against the bedpost a small trickle of blood running down his temple. He retched, throwing up a large amount of the alcohol he had just consumed, but his arms only moved to pour more.

Eleven

His vision danced, and he saw the colors of Gryffindor surrounding him, the colors of bravery. It made him want to puke again. He had to get away from this room.

Twelve

Why wasn't he dead yet? This amount of Dragon Killer was enough to put Hagrid on his arse.

Harry stumbled out of the room, not thinking about where he was going, only knowing that he needed to get away from the maroon and gold that surrounded him. He wasn't brave or noble. Why was he here? The sorting hat had gotten it wrong. So, he made his way towards the place that he should have been these past eight years. The place where the sorting hat should have placed him.

Harry tripped over nothing and tumbled onto the cold hard floor of the dungeon corridors. He was near the Slytherin common room. He wasn't sure why, it was dangerous being so near people, even if they were asleep he risked being caught. However, the vast percentage of alcohol running through his veins prevented him from having many rational thoughts. He heaved collapsing to his side and then rolling to his back. He threw up again, vomit pooling in his mouth, too weak to spit it out. He choked on chunks of puke, finally managing to turn his head enough to allow the putrid substance to trickle from his mouth to the stone floor.

Why was he here? Was he here for Draco? It was the only rational thought he could muster. The vision of Draco passed through his mind, shifting unsteadily. Beautiful, git Draco, with his hair and his ferret. No, that wasn't right. Draco didn't have a ferret. He couldn't think straight. Too much vodka. How many shots had he taken? He couldn't remember. His thoughts were scrambled.

A wave of sadness swept over him. He was sad, so utterly sad. Why? Why was he sad? It was hard to recall. He formed pieces of broken memories. Red hair, blood, a green light. Sad. He only knew one thing. He wanted the sadness to stop. It had been hanging over him for so long, like a dark depressing cloud. He wanted it to stop, and he knew of only one way. One sure way that he could escape all of this doom.

Harry fumbled in his robes and somehow managed to produce his wand. How he was still conscious he didn't even know, but that didn't matter. All that mattered was stopping this hell that he had been living in for so long. He gripped his wand clumsily in his right and held out his left arm. The wand was pointed somewhere around the area of his wrist. Close enough, he thought, and then he choked out one word, one spell. "Sectumsempra."

The spell worked and a long slice cut through Harry's wrist. Good, he thought. He could hardly feel the pain, numbed by the alcohol. It would be over soon. Soon he would be with his parents. Soon he would be happy. Blood spilled from his wrist like a crimson stream steadily flowing to its destination. His eyes began to flutter closed. Almost there.

"Harry!"

Someone called his name. "Mum?" he muttered. "I'm coming home, mum."

"Harry, holy shit!"

A panicked somebody grabbed at Harry who was now so limp that he could hardly move. Harry could just barely make out a wisp of pale blonde hair.

"Harry, what the fuck, Harry. What the bloody hell do you think you're doing!"

The blonde haired person wrapped his arms around Harry, pulling the boy into sitting position, but he was too weak to move and just slumped back to the floor as if he was already dead. He was barely aware of something wet dripping onto his face, and realized, with all the shock he could manage in his dying state, that the blonde boy was crying. "Don't..." he mumbled his voice barely audible. "Don't cry for me."

"Don't tell me what to do, Potter! You are not dying on me! Not here, not after everything I've been through! Not after everything you've fought for! Wingardium Leviosa!"

Harry felt his limp body rise off the ground and begin to float. The last thing he saw was the blonde running down the hall in a panic, and his last thought was, Draco.

Harry awoke in a white room. All of the lights were off, but a stream of morning sunlight peaked through the blinds. At least he thought it was morning sunlight, and he didn't recognize this room. He turned his head to see a slender, tired looking, blonde boy sitting in a chair by his bead. His head was slumped in his hand, and he was turned away from Harry. Harry grunted catching the boys attention who immediately stood and rushed to his side grabbing his hand.

"Harry, holy Merlin, how do you feel?"

Harry assessed himself. His head throbbed with what felt like the worst headache of his life, and his left wrist was confusingly sore. "Not too great. Where am I?"

"Saint Mungos. The Hogwarts hospital wasn't enough. Madam Pomfrey convinced them to let me stay. Do you remember what happened?"

Harry paused to consider. It all seemed fuzzy, and then... it all came flooding back. The Dragon Killer, the memories, the spell. "Oh god... I tried to kill myself."

Draco squeezed his hand harder his eyes glossy with tears. "Why, Harry? Why would you do that? Why did you come down to the dungeons?"

"I was tired of living. Tired of pain and sadness." Harry managed. His voice was rough and it was hard to form words with the pounding in his head. "I came to the dungeons because the sorting hat almost put me in Slytherin. I thought I should be where I really belonged."

"God, Harry." Draco choked, tears now spilling freely down his cheek. "You don't deserve to die, and you definitely don't deserve to be in Slytherin."

A horrifying thought dawned on him then. "Does anyone else know? About... about what happened?"

Draco shook his head. "No, Harry. I didn't think you would want anyone to know. No one has to know, unless you tell them. The scar on your wrist will heal soon. Magic is pretty great sometimes."

"Ron and Hermione?"

"They don't know either. McGonagall wanted to tell them, but I told her it was no ones place to tell them but your own. They think you had a nasty quidditch accident."

"Why did you stay with me?"

"I found you almost dead in the corridor! I wasn't going to leave you! Also," he added after a pause. "I care for you, Harry. I know that I've never really shown it, but I do, and I couldn't stand to know that anything had happened to you and I hadn't done my best to stop it."

Harry smiled, genuinely smiled, for maybe the first time in months. He squeezed Draco's hand which was still entwined with his. "Thank you, Draco, for saving me, and for keeping my secret."

"I would keep any secret for you, Harry."

"Then can I tell you one more?" Draco nodded. "I care about you too."

Draco smiled. "Is that really a secret I have to keep to myself?"

Harry grinned back. "Maybe not. I guess we'll see."

"Promise me something Harry. Promise me that you won't ever do again what you did the other night. Stay with me, stay with the world. You are amazing, and I need you here. And if you can't promise for yourself then promise for me."

Harry tugged gently at Draco's hand, and the boy responded by falling to his knees so that he could be closer to Harry. Despite the pain shooting through his body Harry wrapped his arms around Draco's neck pulling him into a fragile hug. With his mouth close to Draco's ear and slightly grazing the skin there he whispered, "I promise. For the both of us."