The tub was dry. Harry sighed and sat up, rubbing his sore nose. He wondered how long it had been pressed against the bottom.
He picked the razor up from the bottom, running his finger along the handle. He'd become intimately familiar with this thing since not long after his first year and he'd stolen from it from his Uncle once he'd bought a new one. He knew its every detail, and he'd always been fascinated by the snake carved into the wooden handle. He'd recently begun to suspect that it was chosen by his Uncle to help convince himself of his masculinity, but Harry had always liked to imagine that once he'd sliced his wrists open, the lightheadedness was a result of the snake's poison coursing through him.
Closing the razor, cleaned of his blood by his accidental magic, he stepped out of the similarly clean tub, relieved himself of the massive amount of water he'd drunk before his attempt, and walked to the smallest bedroom. The Dursley's were on holiday for the month, so he had no one to impress by showering. Or, rather, no one to embarrass by not. The razor was hidden under his pillow, as it always was when it wasn't attempting to kill him.
Hedwig was glaring at him from outside his window. He had let her out immediately before his attempt. He let her back in, endured a few pecks, and petted her.
He supposed that was his main problem. He cared too much about those he would leave behind. He couldn't bare imagining Hedwig starving in her cage while he rotted in the bathroom. Ron and Hermione would undoubtedly be heartbroken by his loss, but at least they had family and each other to fall back on. Even Sirius, though he hardly knew him, had cared enough about him to break out of fucking Azkaban. He would be distraught.
Harry was surprised to discover that his fists were being repeatedly bashed into his skull. He tensed up, falling to his knees and grabbing chunks of hair, and let out a long groan. He felt like words were trying to make their way out of his mouth, but he wasn't sure what they were. All he knew was that he could taste his tears mixing with the blood pouring from the cut his teeth had torn in his lower lip.
He knew he needed help, but he didn't know where to look for it. Cedric's death had sent him deeper into depression than he had ever been. No matter what people said to convince him otherwise, he knew that he could have saved him. He had been given warning when Voldemort had ordered his death, and he had had his wand out and ready.
The idea of going to his friends for help horrified him. Ron would have no idea what to say, and Hermione would undoubtedly repeat a line she had heard from a pamphlet. Lines that he had heard from every one of the therapists the Dursleys had been forced to send him to after a teacher had found him bashing his head into a wall when he was 9 years old. "Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem," she would say. She wouldn't understand that the smile he would give her was meant to shut her up and make her happy. She wouldn't understand that the hug he would give her would be meant to hide the misdirected anger showing on his face. She wouldn't understand that the tears soaking her shoulder and the sobs racking his body would be because she could never fucking understand.
That all he wants is for someone to understand.