AN: I am so sorry about the previous chapter three being the same as Chapter two. I think I uploaded the wrong one…Oh well, anyways heres the RIGHT chapter, PLEASE REVIEW…it makes me happy J

Oh and thank you for all the reviews I did get…

Chapter three

Harry sat on the bench and stared at himself in the mirror. What was wrong with him? Why was it that whenever Draco kissed him, seconds later he would pull away, and tell him he hated everything about him. Harry glared at his reflection, hating everything about it. No wonder he hates me, he thought to himself. Everyone thinks I'm so damn perfect, but they have no idea, no idea at all. If it wasn't for me so many lives could have been saved, so many deaths and slaughters could have been prevented. I'm there bloody golden boy, its all up to me, if I mess up, I mess up the whole fucking world.

Harry got up from the bench in the gryffindor's bathroom, his towel still wrapped around his waist. He glanced at his watch, it was eleven thirty, and his so-called friends would be asleep by now. Friends, some could say that. They were only there for him because of his name, because of his scar. But they weren't true; they could turn on him within seconds, like they had done before. His eyes travelled to his scar, that famous scar, his blessing and his cursed. He didn't understand, it was only a scar, so why praise it. He could make new scars, he could make deeper scars, so why was this one always in the papers, always in photos. He wanted new scars; he wanted something other than fame.

The glass shattered, spilling into the sink before it, cutting his fist. He pulled out a larger piece that was resting on the floor in front of him. His hands quivered slightly as he lifted it so he could further admire the jagged sharp edge that had been created. He ran one of his fingers lightly down the larger edge, causing small drops to appear on the surface of his skin. He held it up to his eyes, pinching the small cut, trying to gather all of the blood onto the surface. Only a small amount of the bright red liquid appeared, not enough to satisfy him. His hand quivered slightly as he brought the sharp object next to his tan skin on his arm. He very gently pressed the shard of glass into his unmarked arm. He felt a tingle of pain, not much, and not enough. He pressed it harder, the pain spreading through his body, making him feel real, making him feel alive. He slid the piece of glass along his arm, creating one long and deep cut. He lifted the glass and looked at the pink mark he made. Frowning, he wondered where the blood was. Didn't he cut deeply enough? As the blood slowly raised the surface of his skin, he began to go over the line, making it deeper, making it bleed more.

The pain was worse, making Harry gasp slightly, his hand tightening on the fragile glass, making it snap, leaving one piece in his hand, and the other in his arm, blood pooling around it, and dripping onto the white tiles, standing out, screaming at him. he dropped the glass onto the floor, shattering it into a million other pieces, just like he felt. He slowly drew the sharp object out of his skin, as more of his blood, his oh so heroic blood stream out of his now branded arm. He began to panic. He hadn't noticed how deep had cut into himself, he didn't relies this much blood was going to come out. He quickly turned one of the taps on and tried to drown his blood with the water. The sink was splattered with blood. He grabbed one of the towels near him and wrapped it around his arm. He then got his wand out of his robe pocket, which was lying on the ground, parts of it already seeped in his blood, and the other littered with glass. He carefully took of the towel, wincing slightly by the pain that was no longer enjoyable, and muttered a quick healing spell.

The red liquid stopped streaming out, and vanished, only leaving behind a very long and quite thick line that ran along his inner arm. He sighed in frustration, then cleaned up his mess with a one flick of his wand, only keeping the shattered piece of glass that he had used, for he thought it may come in handy soon. He washed the blood off of it, and dried it with his towel, wrapping it carefully with tissue.

Harry sighed and cursed himself before the bathroom that was now back to what it was meant to look like. He was a coward, and he knew it. He caused people to die, and yet he wasn't brave enough to end his own. He didn't know what he kept living for, what he was holding onto, but he knew there was something. And he knew, even if he didn't want to admit it, that that something was someone. Draco Malfoy, his internal enemy, the dark prince of his world, and yet somehow also his saviour.

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A week passed, no one noticed the scars. He was relived, but angry. He didn't want people to notice, but it hurt to think that even his closest friends were so naïve that they didn't even bother to ask what happened, probably just passing the cuts off as scratches. Harry lowered his green eyes. He had changed, and no one noticed. His friends seemed to just pass it off as him being tiered, they didn't bother to find out what was truly wrong, which just saddened him more. He drew his heavy body, not saying a word to his friends who were studying in front of the fire in the common room. He grabbed his coat that was hung on the back of his chair, and pushed the portrait hole, ignoring the fat lady's comments about being more gentle next time.

His eyes were set further into his head, darkened with bags from the lack of sleep he was getting, his robes hanging baggier since he wasn't eating much anymore. His hair looked tangled and untamed, and otherwise he looked like death itself, not that anyone had taken that much notice of course, they were all blinded from his name, from his scar, that was covered by his now long fringe, that covered his vision slightly. He watched as his feet reappeared and disappeared from his vision, just letting himself walk. He knew where he was going, even if he didn't think about it.

He drew his wand out, but had second thoughts, and instead knocked lightly on the portrait that stared disapprovingly down at him eyebrows raised. He wasn't even sure if he would be here, he just suspected it. After a few moments he heard noise within the small room, and slowly and uncertainly the portrait began to swing open.

"Blaise I thought I told you tomorrow not…" Draco stopped short as he saw who was standing in front of him, his green eyes staring hauntingly at him. He gasped audibly as he saw what a mess Harry looked, but quickly gained his cool. He smirked.

"Well if it isn't our hero, what dragged you here?" He asked, moving aside allowing Harry to step in, not wanting people to see them together, afraid they might tell his father. He would hate to think what his father would do to him if he knew about Harry visiting in the dead of night. Probably cast the Crucio curse on him, he smirked, even if his eyes betrayed him.

Harry stepped past Draco, not even shore why he was here. He walked slowly down the small corridor, which opened up, into the cosy room. He sat down at the end of the four-poster bed, and stared absent mindly at the fire in front of him. Draco frowned at the state of the boy; a worried look fluttered across his face, and was gone as quickly as it had come. He sat down in the chair opposite the bed, and stared at him, waiting for him to say something, anything.

"I hate my life."

 Harry whispered, still staring at the fire, refusing to meat the other boys eyes, not sure why he was even telling him any of this.

"I hate it so fucking much. I hate when people look at me and all they can see is this damned scar."

He ran his finger along the lighting bold on his forehead, whilst Draco stared at him mesmerized with what he was saying.

"They don't know me, they don't see me. They never will. They can never understand how much pain and misery that my life is. They all think that just because my name is Harry Potter I must lead a wonderful life. I don't. They all think I have the perfect life, the perfect home. I don't. I don't have a home, not like they do. This is my only home."

He gestured around the room and continued.

"But they don't know. I have no family; sure I have my aunt and my uncle, and my cousin. But they're not family. My uncle beats me. They treat me like their slave. And for some weird reason, I like it, because I know they don't look at me like everyone else, blinded by the scar. Somehow it's comforting really. To them I'm no hero; I'm just a fifty boy, the only stain in their lives. I hate them, they hate me, yet I'm somewhat thankful for them."

"The only real family I had was taken away from me, when I was so young that I cant remember anything about them. Then I had Sirius. I was so happy to have something in my life that was good. I loved him like he was my father. He was my only family. And he was ripped away from me to. I may be a hero in their eyes, I may have been put on this earth to save them, but I was definitely not meant to be happy. Everyone I love either dies or gets hurt, and all because of me. They should lock me away and only use me when they have to, when I need to save them. I hate my life. I cut myself, just to see if I can bleed, to make sure I'm even human."

He pulled his sleeve up and showed Draco all of his scars, which ran in a pattern of crosses and lines.

Finally he looked into those deep silver eyes. He looked at him as if he had just noticed he was there, and that he had actually told someone what he had been holding in.

"I'm sorry."

 He whispered, as he continued to stare into his silver eyes. Draco inhaled deeply, and stood up. His first thought was to do what he should, which was to tell Harry to fuck off, and that he didn't care about his problems. But he didn't. Instead he walked across the small distance that separated them, and sat down on the bed next to Harry.

Both their eyes stared ahead of them, into the warm hypnotic fire.

"You have nothing to be sorry for Harry. In a way I understand."

The blonde turned his head slightly; his eyes caught the other boys deep green eyes.

" I guess we have more in common than either of us think. We are both blessed and cursed by our names."

Their eyes continued to stare into each other's, both lost and obvious to the outside world.

"Can I ask you something Harry?"

 Harry nodded in response.

"Not that I mind, but why did you come here and tell me all of that. I suspect I'm the only one that you have told?"

Harry inhaled at the question, caught off guard slightly. After a few moments he replied.

"I have no idea why I came here. I guess I knew, subconsciously that we were both suffering somehow, I guess I thought you would understand more than anyone else…"

Draco nodded.

"I do understand Potter, and I'm sorry that you have to hurt yourself to feel alive. We're similar in that way too you know?"

 Dracos voice was soft and velvety; nothing like Harry was used to. Harry frowned slightly

"You cut yourself too?"

 He asked confused, his eyes fluttered down to Dracos arm, which was covered with his black silk pyjamas. He looked back up into the other boy's eyes, once again getting lost in them.

"Well no, I have other people to do that for me. But in a way I think I'm glad they do, so that I know I can feel pain like everyone else. That this mask I have hasn't taken me over just yet…"