A/N: Hi, I'm Nicole, and I project my problems onto my favorite fictional characters!

Just a vent fic in which Harry cuts himself. Please do not read this if you could be triggered by blood or self-harm. Also, I apologize for any spelling or grammar mistakes; I am very high.

Trigger warnings for blood and self-harm

Harry sits in his dormitory bathroom with his sleeve pulled up and a blade in his hand. Harry's strongest locking charm keeps the door shut, and a silencing spell ensures none of his roommates hear his activities. Multiple wards keep any and all from disturbing the scene. Harry's left arm, stretched out in front of him, has clearly been the victim of severe self-destruction. Much of the visible skin is covered in raised scar tissue, ranging in color from stark white to deep purple. The boy's breathing is ragged, and his eyes are glazed, a sure sign he's been crying. The blade glints menacingly as Harry moves it with a shaking hand to his exposed forearm.

The first cut is quick. The wound is shallow, drawing little blood. Even so, Harry visibly calms. His shoulders relax, and his breathing evens out. His eyes lose some of the desperation clear within them. The suffocating panic ebbs away and is quickly replaced with pain, a sensation Harry gladly focuses on. The next two cuts are similar, lightning fast one after the other. Reaching over, Harry pulls off a piece of toilet paper from its holder and presses it to the shallow cuts, hissing a little as he applies pressure. Upon pulling the toilet paper away, Harry sees the bleeding has already stopped.

Not enough.

This time, Harry pays more attention. He lines the blade up parallel to his previous cuts and slowly presses into the flesh of his forearm. He slides the blade through his skin, pushing down, deeper as he goes. He watches eagerly when blood instantly blooms as he pulls the blade through his skin. He lifts the blade from his arm and examines it. It's the blade of a standard muggle razor, another of which Harry uses for its intended purpose. The deep red of the blood that covers the blade calms Harry once again. The boy sighs in satisfaction as he feels a trail of blood fall from the cut down his forearm and over his wrist and hand to drip onto the floor in front of him. The blood, warm at first, cools as it makes its way down Harry's arm, and he watches it in fascination.

He sets the blade down in front of him, turning his attention completely to the blood on his arm. There's a pool of the liquid collected in the open wound, and Harry presses one finger to it. It's begun to clot, and Harry finds that it is almost congealed. Mesmerized, he squishes the blob between his fingers and pulls it away from his arm. He rubs the blood between his fingers, staining them red, before wiping it on the toilet paper. After cleaning the rest of the cut, Harry picks up the razor blade once more.

This cut is deeper and therefore bleeds quite a bit more. Grabbing more toilet paper, Harry wads a bit up and presses down hard on the wound. Red paints the tissue, seeping in and spreading out like watercolor. Harry pulls the toilet paper away only for fresh blood to immediately replace itself in the cut. Harry curses, "Shite," before wadding up more toilet paper and applying more pressure. After a few moments, Harry releases the tissue again and scrutinizes the cut. It isn't too deep, and Harry surmises that he sees no fatty, yellow, subcutaneous tissueーsomething he learned to look out for while researching first aid for his habit, and something he's learned he'd like to see. It's just not deep enough. The wound is only about two-thirds of a centimeter wide, revealing a white layer of skin underneath. Harry pushes the wound shut with his fingers, watching as it opens slightly when he lets go.

The cut starts bleeding again. He raises his arm so that his cuts are above his heart, another thing he'd read to do while doing his research. Harry applies more pressure to the bleeding wound, attempting to halt the dripping of blood. Being a wizard, Harry could of course stop the bleeding in less than a second using magic, but the boy thrives on the pain and blood that cutting gives him. He doesn't want his cuts to heal.

Harry cuts twice more on his forearm, blood once again dripping from his arm to the floor. Harry watches the blood fall from his finger and splatter on the white floor. Leaning forward, he drags his finger through the drops of blood and draws a smiley face on the floor in front of him. God, I'm fucked up. He chuckles dryly, no humor evident in the empty sound. Numbness threatens to creep in and overtake Harry, and he cuts one more time to keep it at bay. He presses on the cuts, and the bleeding stops.

Harry stands up, wipes his eyes. He takes another piece of toilet paper, wetting it slightly before gently wiping it over the night's wounds. He clears the cuts and surrounding areas of blood and washes his hands. He looks into the mirror, less anxious than before. Facing the mess he's made, Harry sees the floor covered with blood; he merely waves his wand, and the bathroom looks as it had before he had used it.

After putting on his pajamas, Harry climbs into his four poster and draws the curtains around him. Letting the loose sleeve of his shirt fall down, he runs his fingers up and down the fresh cuts. He feels the numbness once again threaten to overtake his entire being, but focuses on the cuts again, staring at them with interest. Harry stays that way the entire night, lying in bed, admiring his cuts, thinking to himself that they are the only thing about him that is

Beautiful.

A/N: Super short with no discernible plot, but the only point of this was to vent. Nonetheless, I want to get better at writing, so I am super open to constructive criticism! I sometimes feel my writing is awkward, and am trying to fix that. I do ask that you be gentle with me for this one, however, because it's basically a blueprint of what I wish I could do to myself.

Anyways, thanks so much for reading! I'd love to hear anyone's thoughts or constructive criticism!