A/N: My mind decided to be morbid and produced this one-shot! I think I might write a second chapter, but no promises. This is set in the beginning of Half-Blood Prince. Enjoy! :)

Rating: T (PG-13) for self-mutilation and one swear word.

Italics – thoughts

Bold – the words (you'll know what I mean after you've read it)

Disclaimer: I do not, nor do I claim to, own Harry Potter. I make absolutely zero profit from writing this story.

Breath hitched in his throat. He didn't want to accept what was in front of him.

It looked like art. Big letters boldly written in center. Tinier, more elegant letters surrounded the main piece, wrapping a cocoon around the middle. Deep letters underneath, as if the artist had pressed their drawing utensil down too hard.

Except, no, it wasn't a drawing. This wasn't a hobby used to pass time. You could tell that markers or pens or paintbrushes weren't used to make this. The letters were too jagged for them to have been made by artist's hands. Shaky, even.

And the canvas wasn't a smooth, long board or line-paper that someone would absent-mindedly doodle on. The canvas was a creamy tan color, moving up and down harshly. This canvas was living, trapped in a nightmare at the moment.

The words themselves were too horrid to have passed through any mind. But they did, obviously, or there wouldn't be anything for him to stare at right now. Maybe not the words, actually, rather the meaning behind the words.

Alone, none of the words would have much meaning. The last one, the one underneath, might, but not as much as it does next to the other words. These eight words carved together meant everything. They made his stomach turn and his face go green. They probably wouldn't have been as horrible if they were written on parchment. But they weren't.

Eight words marked the chest of his best friend. He didn't know how his friend got them there, but he was sure it was his friend's own doing.

The redhead could feel his eyes filling up. He didn't care, though. The salty tears made their way down his freckled cheeks at a snail's pass and he let them. A few drops of water meant nothing compared to his best mate. His brother. For some odd reason, his body wouldn't move. His heart desperately wanted to comfort the still tossing figure, but his brain was frozen.

Gasps were heard from beside him. He realized that his brother's (because that's what he was, bloodlines be damned) screaming must've woken his other dorm-mates, much like it had woken himself. That was what thawed his mind.

Blue eyes moved from the words (those terrible, terrible eight words) to look around him. Seamus was right beside him, eyes as wide as saucers. Dean stood on the other side of the bed, his dark skin shades lighter than it should be. Neville was next to the tall boy, sobs wracking his body. The no-long-chubby boy had always been the most sensitive out of all them. Though, he tasted salt in his mouth, so he knew he was no better.

His eyes flickered back down. Harry was calm now, as if he could tell he was surrounded by his friends. As if he knew they'd protect him. His shirt remained lifted, however, even if the thrashing had stopped. The words were still revealed, seemingly staring right back at the four boys. Whispering in mocking voices.

'Ha, you didn't notice us! Your best mate was torturing himself and you didn't know! Ha ha ha!'

Maybe that was his own thoughts. It was how he felt, after all. Like he'd been kicked in the gut. What sort of brother was he? He hadn't had the slightest clue of what the green-eyed boy had been hiding. He'd let this poor boy (when did he start looking so small?) suffer on his own, while he went on joking and talking about Quidditch.

Ron bent down, gently pulling down the shirt and hiding the horrific words. He lifted a quaking hand to brush aside black bangs. Bending down further, he placed a soft kiss on the scarred forehead, not caring if his friends, who were still standing in silence, thought wrong of him for it.

Straightening, he reached over to grasp Seamus' wrist and tugged him over to his bed, knowing that the other two were following. They both collapsed onto the mattress, leaning against the pillows as Dean and Neville sat heavily at the foot of the bed.

Quickly casting a one-way Silencio, Ron broke the quiet of the room, his voice sounding too loud and harsh to his own ears. "Did any of you know about that?"

He didn't have to elaborate; the picture was clear in all their minds still. Dean and Seamus looked appalled at the idea and Neville shook his head vigorously against his knees, where he had buried his face.

They didn't speak for the rest of the night. Sleep didn't come, either. Four sets of eyes remained trained on the bed next to them, only looking away in the brief time it took to blink. The words stayed at the forefront of their minds, haunting them.

Two big, bold words written in the center. I'm sorry. Five tinier, almost elegant words surrounding the middle piece. James, Lily, Quirrell, Cedric, Sirius. One deep word underneath. Murderer.

Let me know if you would like me to write a second chapter! And what you would like that chapter to contain.

Thanks :)