July passed sluggishly into August. Harry and Draco had gone to the cinema on Harry's birthday, and Draco had given him an old pocket watch he had stolen from the manor. Draco was still cutting (to his credit, less), though he had kept true to his word and had kept Harry in the know about this. Harry wasn't pleased, but at least agreed to keep quiet. As strange as it seemed, the past fortnight had been more enjoyable than any summer Draco had had in the past 5 years. The consistent nausea he had been feeling had faded, and he was beginning to gain weight.

Things still weren't completely right. Draco awoke frequently from nightmares, and despite his instance to the contrary, Draco couldn't help but feel that something was upsetting Harry. Once, after Draco had lost a particularly bad match against his razorblade, he had gone into Harry's room, only to find Harry crying over an old photo album. Draco had tried to approach him about it then, but Harry caught sight of his arm and refused to shift the focus to himself.

It bothered Draco that he had shared so much of himself with Harry, only to have him refuse to share anything with him. A deep, gnawing sense of insecurity followed him like a shadow, and would not allow him to confront Harry on his secretive behavior.

Presently, he sat on the edge of the frilly pink bed, his hoodie sleeves bunched up around his elbows. Tucked inside one of the wooden dresser drawers, a razorblade was hidden, calling to Draco silently, causing a crawling sensation to erupt up and down his forearms. He stared at them. A cluster of 5 cuts sat at the top of his left wrist, crusted and yellowing; the source of an itch that had been agonizing him for days. Beneath them, a set of 4 sat, still only 2 days old, bright red against his pale skin.

He was going to stop this. Really. He was. He had promised, Harry, hadn't he, that he would go to him before pulling out the blade?

He doesn't trust you, chimed a horrible voice in the back of his head. He won't even tell you what's wrong. If you're not worthy of his trust, why bother him with this? Draco tried to shrug it off.

That isn't true, he reasoned. Maybe he's just trying to protect me.

Ha! Responded the voice. How is that any better? He thinks you're weak!

Inside, his stomach twisted in anxious knots. When had he gotten so pathetic? Across the hall, he could still hear the sounds of the shower running. It felt like it had been hours since Harry had gotten in. A wave of hatred passed through him; Harry should be allowed the luxury of a shower without having to worry about him.

Draco sighed. He knew that if he remained sitting here any longer, he was sure to lose the battle against the deep, creeping pull that was drawing him toward the dresser. He needed to get away from the house before that happened. Draco stood and pulled his journal from the drawer in the bedside table, and tore an empty page from the back. He scrawled a quick note to Harry and slid it beneath the bathroom door, and thundered down the stairs and out the front door.

The air was thick with heat, and as Draco began to walk the familiar trek to the park, he felt heavy beneath his clothes. His wrists were still crawling, and he sighed. He had been hoping the fresh air would lighten his mood, but the dense atmosphere only made him feel more trapped and burdensome.

What if Harry had taken so long in the shower because he had been desperate to escape him? What if the note Draco had slid beneath the bathroom door was too clingy? Perhaps Harry didn't need to know exactly where he was at all hours of the day. Maybe he didn't want to know. His trainers scuffed the sidewalk as he walked. He tried to change his train of thought; to focus on the happier times he had since arriving at Privet Drive.

Harry appreciates your company as much as you appreciate his, he lectured. He doesn't enjoy it here, either.

Exactly, responded his anxieties. You're a last resort. He'll drop you the moment you return to school.

The crawling sensation intensified. He glared down at the concrete, only barely paying attention to where he was going. You've got to stop this, Draco. You're fine. Everything is fine.

If only he could make himself believe it.

He reached the park and the gate creaked open as he went through it. Automatically, he crossed the field to the swing set and sat down. The park was mostly deserted, save for a few kids playing with a ball on the other side of the playground, and a mother on a bench. Draco pushed off slightly and began to drag his shoes through the sand. At least here he was removed from his razorblade.

He allowed his mind to wander. He thought about how much more comfortable he would be if he could only remove this hoodie. He thought about what his father would say if he ever saw him dressed the way he was.

His mind drifted, following that thread until he arrived on the night of the Yule Ball, 4th year.

Draco stood in front the mirror, straightening the collar of his robes for what must be the 10th time in the previous half hour. No matter what he did, he just couldn't get it to look right. Anxiety surged through him; pumping heat through his body with every heartbeat. It wasn't possible; it just wasn't. These were custom tailored robes. "The best that money could buy," as has father had so eagerly put it. If the robes weren't the problem, then it had to be him…

"Malfoy! Are you planning on coming down any time today?" Blaise appeared behind Draco's reflection, his eyebrows raised in half-amusement, half-irritation. "Your hair is lovely, ma'am, now others of us need mirror." Draco's cheeks flushed pink, and - unable to help himself - he glanced upward to confirm that his hair was, indeed, perfect. He had been dreading this night for months, and now it seemed that the time had come. There was nothing he could do about it.

"Well, Blaise." He heard himself answer, cooly, prying his eyes away from the mirror. "Some of us want to look presentable. It is your family that you're representing, you know." He felt a brief rush of disgust over these words, and continued. "Besides, I don't know about you, but I plan on getting lucky tonight." Blaise doubled over in a snort of laughter, and Draco felt his cheeks flush even deeper.

"Right, Malfoy. Have you even kissed Parkinson, yet?" He waited for an answer, and when he got none, he fell back into laughing. "She isn't interested in your money; her parents are loaded. Let's face it; you've got nothing." The heavy weight that had settled in Draco's stomach suddenly doubled. He knew that his father was expecting this night to be a success. It would be Draco's first time at a formal occasion by himself. As far as his father was concerned, this would be a test of his manners for when he was offered to another pureblood family for marriage. If he screwed this up, he could be jeopardizing the future of the Malfoy name.

"I'm Slytherin's seeker!" He cried out, trying not to sound defensive. Blaise just shook his head, still laughing, and Draco felt a slight lump develop in his throat.

"Not a very good one! Not good enough to get you in bed, anyway." He finally stopped laughing, and made a show of wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. Beneath his robe sleeves, Draco felt a familiar crawling on his forearms. He straightened his posture in a dignified way and said, arrogantly,

"We'll just have to see about that, Zabini." Blaise reached out and rested a heavy hand on Draco's shoulder.

"Good luck, Malfoy, honestly." He paused, catching Draco's eye to make it clear that he wanted to continue. "But next time, don't get your robes tailored so soon. Looks like you may have put on a few." He gave a wink, and disappeared through the door.

Draco stayed rooted to the spot, his anxiety beginning to flare up and ignite into full-blown panic. The part of his brain that had been trying to keep him calm faded away with the confirmation that he had been right all along. His head whirred, and he fought with the desire to tear his robes off all together and put his fist through the mirror behind him. He had failed…

There was a knock on the door.

"Draco? Draco, it's Pansy. Darling, it will be time to begin, soon."

"Just a minute!" He called out. He hoped she wouldn't hear the vibrato of his voice. "I-I'll meet you by the Grand Staircase!"

"Well… alright." She answered, and Draco could sense her hesitation. "Don't be too long! I'll be waiting for you!" He heard her footsteps as she went away. He stared down at his feet, trying to will them to move. Around him, he felt like the walls were moving closer. He had failed…

Finally, Draco was able to uproot his feet from the floor, and he found himself floating toward the washroom. His fingers shook. He couldn't cut, he reminded himself. It would bleed through the sleeves of his robes, and he would be caught. He would just wash his face, he thought. He would just cool himself down and then he would meet Pansy by the stairs. Everything was fine.

He caught sight of his own reflection in the mirror, and the expression in his own eyes sent him into further panic and disgust. He had let his family down. Word was sure to get to his father that he let himself fall out of shape. That he had rendered his ludicrously expensive dress robes virtually useless. Draco stared himself down, glaring at his own image until the expression on his face changed from anger and panic into one of determination. Without stopping to think about it he knelt down in front of the toilet and shoved his finger down his throat…

"Where's your boyfriend?" Draco jumped, having been yanked out of his thoughts, and then suppressed a groan. Dudley and his gang stood before him, appearing absolutely delighted that they had caught him alone. Draco felt a wave a fear travel down his spine, but he straightened up and tried to make himself sound bored.

"You know as well as I do that he isn't my boyfriend, Dursley." Dudley smirked, a took a few steps closer to the swing.

"Ah but you do seem to be getting pretty chummy, don't you?" He asked. Draco wasn't sure how to respond, and so he didn't. "Which is pretty interesting, I'd say," continued Dudley. "Since he was pretty vocal about how much he didn't like you." Draco stared. "Now why is that?"

"W-why is what?" He stammered. Inwardly, he scolded himself for having let the confidence drop from his voice. Dudley seemed to pick up on this, because a look of glee flashed across his watery blue eyes.

"Why does he hate you so much?" He asked, and Draco felt a squirming sensation in his stomach over Dudley's use of the present tense. "What did you do?" Draco still said nothing and so Dudley turned to look at the two boys flanking him, in a way that reminded Draco very much of himself at Hogwarts with Crabbe and Goyle.

"You know what I think, boys?" Dudley said to them. "I think Draco here," he put emphasis on Draco's name, as though it were a joke, "was a bully. Potter always was the high and mighty type. You must have been a real prat for him to hate you." Draco held his glare.

"What of it, Dursley?" He spat. "You're one to talk." Draco's grin widened, so it looked as though someone had taken a great rubber ball and stretched it to its limits.

"So then your family dumped you, didn't they? Dropped you off here like an unwanted belonging. And you come crawling to Potter, abandoning everything you stood for because you're so desperate for someone to be nice to you. How'd you fuck it up? How'd you get your family to drop you?"

"Fuck off." Draco mumbled. Dudley's face contorted into rage and - with a massive fist - he shoved Draco backwards off the swing. He hit the ground hard, and he felt the wind get knocked out of him. As he lay gasping in the sand, Dudley bent over so his face was directly over Draco's.

"You don't get to talk to me like that, freak." He growled in a very threatening tone. "Don't think you're special just because Potter's decided to be nice to you. That moron will be sunshine and rainbows to any fucker that smiles at him. You're even more pathetic than him, and if he hasn't figured that out by now he definitely will." Putting his hands out behind him, Draco tried to push himself into a sitting position, but Dudley shoved him back down.

"Stay on the ground." He commanded. "Like the garbage you are." He lifted one enormous boot and stepped down on Draco's chest, putting just enough pressure on his sternum that it erupted into an explosion of extreme pain. Draco bit down on his lower lip to keep from crying out, and the taste of metal seeped into his mouth as the skin broke and he began to bleed. "You don't deserve the food you eat." Snarled Dudley. He spat into Draco's face, and then released the pressure on his foot and stepped back. He turned to his crones.

"Let's go." They left, but Draco stayed laying on the ground for another moment as his throat tightened and tears began to flood his vision. His bleeding lip quivered and he sniffed, trying to regain his composure, but Dudley's spit sat the bridge of his nose reminding him of what had just happened.

He sat up and wiped his face on the sleeve of his hoodie and when he had pulled his arm away, he was aware of wetness on his cheeks. He threw a glance in the direction of the mother on the bench, holding a deep resentment toward her for not stepping in.

It isn't her problem, said a bitter voice in his head. It shouldn't be anybody's problem. He pulled himself back up onto the swing, yanking the hood up over his head. He stared down as his knees, watching tears drip off his long nose and drop, one by one, onto his jeans. He wondered why Harry hadn't come to meet him yet. Maybe Dudley had been right…

If his body could talk, his wrists would be screaming. Sniffing, and wiping his cheeks with the sleeve that hadn't been sullied by Dudley's spit, he stood from the swing and began walking, quickly, back toward the house.

How could he have been so stupid to think that Harry would have been okay with this? That Harry genuinely wanted to spend his summer dealing with Draco and his problems? Sure, he kept him company, but how selfish was it to concern him with everything else? After all, Harry had made it very clear that he was willing to have him committed to a hospital. At the time, Draco had seen it as protective. Maybe he was looking for an excuse to be rid of him… Maybe he had been stupid when he had promised not to try anything…

Draco reached the driveway, and was relieved to see that the car was gone; the Dursley's weren't home. Perfect. Yanking the hood off his head, he stomped up the stairs and nearly walked straight into Harry's room before he thought better of it and headed to his own instead. After all, if Harry really wanted to see him, he would have gone to meet him at the park. Another rush of despair passed through him.

He slammed the bedroom door leaned back against it. Tears began to stream steadily down his cheeks again, and he did nothing to stop them. He caught sight of a paper on the pillow and he picked it up, the writing blurry through the sheen of wetness in his eyes.

Draco,

Have fun on your walk! I didn't sleep well last night, and so I'm going to take a short nap. If you need anything, it's okay to wake me.

Draco wondered for a moment if he should, but the nasty voice reminded him that it would only make him more of a nuisance than he already was. He let the note drop to the floor and he crossed the room to the dresser. He checked that the door was locked, and then he pulled out the razorblade. He unzipped his hoodie and tossed it into the corner. He sat back down on the bed. This was for all the times he had brought Harry's summer down with his whining.

Draco set to work. There was something freeing about the experience; releasing all of the the guilt he had been feeling about taking Harry's time. It had been weeks since he had cut without restriction. When all was said and done, there were 15 pretty perfect lines laid out across his milk-white flesh, each of them dripping patterns of precious ruby down his skin. As he stared down at his handiwork, a sob escaped his throat.

"I'm sorry." He whispered.

Thoughts of suicide began to swim around inside his mind.