Although it was a normal school day, Harry has not turned up to any of his lessons; instead, he could be found in his bed, with his head underneath the covers, rocking himself from side to side, eyes closed, trying to think of anything else than what was going through his head right now.
It was so quiet in the dormitory that his thoughts seemed to be shouted at him through a megaphone, as if every wall spoke to him, as if the floor creaking with every movement of the bed was telling him the same stories over and over again. Harry was numb. He didn't feel anything at all when he resurfaced from his hiding spot and began trailing the veins on his wrists with his burnt fingertips.
Some time later the doors have opened and in came a ginger head which automatically scrutinized the room, for a second locked its gaze at Harry, then spun around and exclaimed: "He's here!" Then came the sound of someone speeding up the stairs and next to the boy appeared a girl, at least a head shorter, with a bush of brown, curly hair surrounding her face. It was Ron and Hermione, finally done with their day of education.
Without further ado, the pair shut the door behind them and instantly plumped down on the side of Potter's bed, making the floor creak painfully. Harry flinched.
"Harry, where have you been? We've been worried sick!" Hermione's voice had that tone that she always used when she was both worried, angry and intrigued. "Ron told me you couldn't sleep at all tonight, are you feeling okay?"
For a second, Harry remembered the conversation he had with Moaning Myrtle just a few hours before, about the questions and concerns, so he decided to force a slight smile on his face and use on of the rehearsed excuses he has prepared in the morning.
"My scar was hurting me again, and when I went down for breakfast I felt a bit nauseous so I had to go to the bathroom and, you know…"
"But are you feeling better now, mate?" Ron's face seemed to take on the expression of relief, as if he previously thought that Harry might have flown away on a hippogriff into some unknown land. After Harry's reassuring nod his shoulders relaxed and slumped down. "Great! So I suppose you'll be coming down to dinner with us in an hour or so?"
"Here," Hermione shoved a stack of papers into Harry's lap. "I've made notes for you from today's lessons. Please, use them wisely, unlike Ron."
The ginger boy seemed offended. "What do you mean 'unlike Ron', huh? What did I do?"
"Last time I checked you were rolling them up in balls and throwing them around the Common Room like you were playing broom-less Quidditch!"
"But Hermione…"
Harry has had enough of the pointless banter. He couldn't understand how they could speak so freely about the silliest things when his own mind was tormented by thoughts and images so vile that he could hardly keep himself from screaming. He couldn't stand them, he wanted to be alone and he wanted to do what helped him the most at the moment – which was distracting himself with pain.
Unnoticed, he slipped away from under the covers and went into the bathroom, locking the door. With his hands rested on the sink he stared at himself in the mirror. It was f no surprise to him that his eyes were filled with sadness, that his lips were redder than ever because of the amount of times he has bit on them today. And suddenly, his face in the mirror started forming into the face of Sirius, and he could hear his late godfather yelling at him that it was his fault that Sirius has died.
With every passing second Harry recognised that everything that was going around him was his fault. His parents' death was his fault. Sirius' death was his fault. Cedric's death was his fault. It seemed as if he was the grim reaper and he collected the souls of innocent people. He was like the bad omen.
With his thumb and pointing finger he grabbed a lump of skin on his forearm and squeezed it tightly. It didn't feel as good as the burns, but the redness faded away quickly, which was definitely an advantage, seeing as sleeves don't always stay down like they're supposed to.
Harry was ripped out of his fascination with a sharp knock on the bathroom door. "Harry, are you alright?"
The boy jogged up to the toilet and flushed it. "Yeah, sorry, something's going on with my stomach." Harry opened the tap for a second, pretending to wash his hands and soon found himself back in the dormitory, with Hermione examining him up close.
"You're really pale, maybe you should eat something." She glanced down at her wristwatch and her expression softened as she lifted her head back up. "They've just started serving dinner, come on boys!"
Hermione linked elbows with each of the boys and pulled them towards the door and the staircase. On the way to the Dining Hall Harry blocked out the conversation his friends were having about the upcoming Quidditch match between Ravenclaw and Slytherin, instead trying to determine in his head whether Ron and Hermione even bothered to look for him, or whether they just assumed that he was safe and sound in the dormitory. What if… What if it suddenly occurred to him that it would be amazing to drown himself in the lake? Or maybe, just maybe, he would have the wild idea of going into the Forbidden Forest and angering the centaurs, getting stampeded over in return? What if he was hurt or in danger, and all that his friends could think about was a bunch of lads flying around on overpriced broomsticks?
Harry didn't even realise that he was already at the table, staring blankly into space, registering only the sounds of Ron devouring a chicken leg, and Hermione slurping on some pumpkin juice.
"Can you please do everyone a huge favour and just die already?" Potter suddenly shot up and exclaimed.
"Who just said that?!"
"Said what, Harry?" Hermione looked at him, confused. Harry was gasping, his hands clenched into fists, his teeth squeezed against each other. The scar on his head was pulsing like mad, but it was different to when Voldemort would connect to his brain. It was a voice, and he definitely heard it being outside of his head, as if someone has shouted it into his ear. But everyone around him just stared, perplexed.
A large, cold hand rested heavily on his left shoulder and Potter searched for the owner of it. Black, greasy hair with a matching robe, and those eyes that showed a peculiar, unidentified expression. "Mr. Potter."
"Sir?" The boy found it hard not to shout, scream or throw something at someone right now.
"You've missed your practical in Potions class today. Please come and see me at eight in my dungeon." Snape let go of Harry's shoulder and began retreating towards the teachers' table. "Also, please do try and not cause any injuries to any of your fellow students. The infirmary is full at the moment."
Furious, the boy grabbed a chicken leg from one of the silver plates and jumped over the bench. "I'm going."
"Harry, where're you off to?" Hermione started to get up as well, but slumped back down, clearly angry. "Ugh, does it even matter? You never tell us where you go to or what you are doing."
Potter left the hall and after a few minutes found himself at the edge of the lake, lying down amongst the green grass and punching the ground with his fists. It wasn't long before he drifted off to sleep.