TW: This chapter is quite intense. Graphic descriptions of self harm/suicide attempt

The first few weeks back at Hogwarts were a blur. Harry almost felt like some sort of ghost, or an imposter inside his own mind, watching himself do things from the outside. Like he was on autopilot. The stares and whispers followed him everywhere. Rumours about what had happened at the graveyard, thinly veiled accusations. Ron and Hermione defended him, told him not to listen. But he took the words in, held on to them. Harry Potter killed Cedric. He's an attention seeker. A liar. Spoiled brat. So full of himself. He agreed.

Umbridge hated him too, but he sat in silence in her lessons and she rarely had any reason to single him out, as much as she tried. But Harry was silent in every lesson now, not just hers. He barely paid attention. The words wouldn't sink in. Snape scorned him for his carelessness during potions, and Hermione had saved him from blowing up the classroom more than once. Harry tried to force himself to concentrate, for his mind to work again properly. But it felt like walking upstream against an impossible current. It felt like slowly drowning, like grasping out for something to help pull him up to the surface but finding nothing there.

It wasn't a decision he had taken lightly; Harry had taken time to think through what he was about to do. It was something he had thought about on and off for months, and these last few weeks in Hogwarts had cemented it. It started as a small niggling thought that refused to leave, but had soon grown into a comforting horrifying monstrous mess. If he was completely honest with himself, the thoughts had been there before Cedric's death, lurking under the surface, waiting for the right moment to unleash themselves upon him. But what had happened in the graveyard had been the catalyst, had set the inevitable into motion.

Today Harry woke up and he felt ready . Today he would die. Today he would kill himself.

It was an odd feeling, knowing that you only had a couple more hours left to live. Maybe if he had planned it out a bit more, he would have written letters, or said his last goodbyes. But there was no time for that. He had to do it today. No more waiting. He had been waiting for the day that he finally felt ready to do it, and now it was here he knew he had to take advantage of how he felt. If he took time to prepare he was scared he would change his mind. It had to be today.

This is it. It'll all be over soon.

And he breathed. When was the last time he had breathed like that, so deep and full? The constant weight on his chest was already lifting.

He went to breakfast that morning with Ron and Hermione. He tried to act normal, even though he could hardly remember what normal was. He tried to smile, tried to laugh. He wanted their last memories of him to be happy ones. But his friends weren't buying it, which was understandable enough, really. Harry wasn't exactly trying very hard. His smiles were distant, his laughter hollow. He was fooling no one. The only thing he could think about was the dagger in his bag. But it didn't really matter now, did it, whether they believed him when he told them he was fine.

"Harry?" Hermione asked from across the table, tentatively. "Are you feeling okay?"

He didn't look up from his plate. He couldn't look at her. What if she saw? Would she have been able to tell what he was about to do?

"I'm fine, Hermione."

"A-are… Are you sure?"

He sucked in a breath and looked up, really looked at her for a moment. Her brown eyes were wide and questioning, her eyebrows knitted together with worry. It made him hate himself. What was he doing to her? Couldn't he at least try and act normal for long enough to soothe her worries?

Stupid fucking freak. I ruin everything.

He blinked at her a few times, trying to think of something to say.

"Harry?" Hermione asked again. "If there's anything ‒"

Ron clapped him hard on the back. "He's fine, 'Mione. Give him a break!"

Harry attempted a laugh, but it sounded forced. "Don't worry," he said. "I'm okay. Really."

She tucked a stray bit of hair behind her ear. "As long as you're sure. It's just, these last few weeks . . ."

Harry smiled at her. One more lie wouldn't hurt. "I really am fine. Umbridge has been getting to me lately, but I'm fine."

She frowned at him, but said nothing, and turned back to her food.

"Hey," he said, voice sounding more detached, more dead than he had hoped it would. "I'm going to go take a walk before the first class. I just... need to stretch my legs a bit."

Hermione frowned at him. She knows it's a lie.

"Do you want me to come with you?"

"No thanks," he said, trying to smile. He really did try so hard to smile for them. "It's fine. I'll meet you two in Herbology."

Then he left the hall, butterflies of excitement and fear fluttering around in his stomach, knowing full well that he would most certainly not meet them in Herbology, that he would not see them again – at least if things went according to plan. He didn't take a moment to look back at his friends, to properly say goodbye. He just walked.

It was so much easier this way.

I'm sorry.

Draco had decided he was going to skip Herbology. He had forgotten to do the homework, and knew that his brief trip to the hospital wing to sort out his 'burning headache' during breakfast would serve as an adequate alibi, at least for Professor Sprout. The corridors were eerily empty, and Draco wondered how long it would take for people to notice his absence. He was sure Sprout would be understanding enough. It wasn't as if this was too regular an occurrence.

He turned the corner, almost stopping in his tracks at what he saw. It shouldn't have really been much of a shock, but Draco found the image slightly disconcerting. Harry Potter was walking in front of him, head down.

Draco smirked, pushing away his uncertainty. This day was about to get a lot better, especially if he could antagonise Potter. But for now, Draco decided – out of curiosity more than anything – to simply follow him. This certainly wasn't like Potter; he wasn't the type for playing truant. But these first few weeks back in Hogwarts had been strange. Potter had been unusually quiet, and Draco was sure he must have been up to something. Maybe this way Draco would finally find out what.

He followed him around a couple of corners, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest that told him something wasn't quite right. Then, rather unexpectedly, Harry turned into the abandoned girl's toilets.

Draco stopped in his tracks. His mind raced through the possibilities. Secret potion brewing? That seemed the most likely, and definitely not out of character for Potter. After a couple of minutes standing in the corridor he came to the conclusion that he would have to find out what Potter was up to. Maybe if he waited a couple of minutes he'd be able to catch him in the act of whatever it was. If it was anything suspicious, he could get him into trouble - or even better, blackmail him.

Yes, Potter was royally screwed. And Draco's day seemed suddenly like it'd be much less boring now.

Herbology had started about five minutes ago, but it had been an hour since he last saw Ron and Hermione. Harry missed his friends already, and the guilt was starting to make him feel nauseous. He hadn't even said goodbye, hadn't told them how much they meant to him. He just hoped that they'd realise how much he loved them both.

Harry walked, not knowing exactly where his legs were taking him. He carried his bag on one shoulder, obsessing over what was inside. He knew it would probably be painful, but that was okay. He didn't want to go painlessly. He told himself he needed to suffer for his cowardice. He needed to suffer for being such a stupid FREAK .

He took a breath, trying to calm down.

Not long, now.

He walked into the abandoned bathroom, completely dazed. He felt lost. Out of his depth. Uncertain?

Pathetic. Freak.

He sat down on the tiled floor. It was cold. Tears made their way to his eyes.

I'm going to die.

It was a relief, a weight off his shoulders, that's what he tried to keep reminding himself. But he was scared, and as much as he wanted this he couldn't fully ignore the doubts. But Cedric was dead, his parents were dead, and that was just the start. He was a failure, a disgrace, a useless stupid freak . He had to do this, for them.

He wanted the pain to end. And a lot of good would come out of this, or at least that's what he kept telling himself. Maybe they'd all be sad at first, but this would make them happier in the long run. This would make things better for everyone.

Even if they don't know it yet, they want this as much as I do.

He took a moment to think of who he was leaving behind. Mrs Weasley. He thought of her first. She was like a mother to him, in so many ways. There was Remus. And Sirius. No, I can't think about him. I can't. He'll hate me. He'll blame himself.

I should have written notes.

Why didn't I write any damn notes?

He closed his eyes, and a small voice in his head whispered, Will any of them even care, anyway? He was starting to wonder. It wasn't as if any of them had any reason to like him other than out of obligation. He was a spoiled, arrogant brat. A freak. No. They won't miss me. Why would anyone miss me ?

This will solve everything. It'll all stop. Finally.

He leaned back against the wall, tilting his head up. The tears kept on rolling down his cheeks, and his sobbing slowly started to turn into hysterics.

Crying? Really ? He was pathetic.

Pathetic.

Worthless.

FREAK.

He opened the bag, pulling out the dagger and his wand. After rolling up his sleeves to just above the elbow, he stared down at his already scarred arms. His pale skin was marred with red, pink and white, countless scars that crisscrossed over each other. But they were superficial. They didn't mean anything. Not really. This would be completely different.

He had thought about the best way to do this. He knew the right spell to cut his skin open, but he had never used it on anyone's flesh, let alone his own. A part of him wasn't sure whether he trusted himself with it, whether he would have the guts to use it properly. So placed his wand down by his side and gripped the hilt of the dagger.

His hands shook, making it almost impossible to dig the blade into his arm hard enough. But he managed it, letting out only a small cry of pain at the sharp twinge. Blood immediately pooled out, dripping down his arm to his wrist. After the first few seconds he was numb. It was like he was on autopilot. He dragged the dagger down his left arm, pushing down harder as he went, trying to ignore the sickening sound of his flesh splitting. The blood came out fast, faster than he anticipated. It streamed down his arm and dripped from the tips of his fingers to the floor, forming a small puddle around him that was steadily growing.

It should have been an encouraging sight, but it made his stomach churn. A small part of him was panicking, telling him to stop, telling him it wasn't too late, that he still had time to call for help. But he pushed those thoughts down.

He tried to switch hands, but the muscles and tendons in his left hand weren't cooperating. So he used his right hand and brought the dagger up to the crook of his elbow again, digging in harder this time, as hard as he could manage. He could hardly see where he was cutting through all the blood. Red pouring out of his flesh. But he dragged the blade down again.

His vision was already blurring, and his thoughts seemed to dart all over the place. He stared down. The blood. It was warm. Everything was warm. But he felt so cold, and realised he was shivering. It didn't hurt, not in the way he had been expecting anyway. There was pain, but it was dull. Easy to block out. He closed his eyes for a second, and the dagger clattered to the floor, the sound echoing through the bathroom.

I've done it. I've finally done it.

He smiled.

Then he heard a muffled whimper, a gasp of surprise, and slowly looked up into shocked grey eyes. The boy standing in front of him looked confused, unsure of what he was seeing. Harry squinted up at him, trying to get his fogged mind to figure out who that was. Silver eyes. Pale skin. White-blonde hair.

"Malfoy?" Harry asked, almost choking on his own voice.

Harry was waiting for the taunt, the smirk, was almost looking forward to it this time.

Malfoy stumbled back, eyes wide. "Potter . . . ? Is that blood?"

Harry sat up straighter, trying not to concentrate on the shot of pain that darted up his arm. The pool of blood grew bigger around him and the room started to swirl. "Uh huh," he said breathlessly.

Malfoy ran a hand through his hair, stepping backwards, eyes still wide with shock, lip trembling slightly. "Wh-what are you … Who did this? What the hell happened here?"

Harry didn't know what to say. Wasn't it obvious what had happened? Or maybe it wasn't. "Nothing. You have to leave."

Malfoy's face paled. "Oh Merlin," he said quietly. "Potter, I don't. . ."

Harry tried, unsuccessfully, to pull down his sleeve over his bare arm. Then he laughed, his mind fogging over again. The world was spinning, and Harry felt like he would soon slump to the floor.

Malfoy knelt down to him, one hand hovering hesitantly over Harry's arm. He took hold of Harry's hand, his skin piercingly hot against Harry's, and stretched out Harry's arm gently. He tried to resist, but his arms felt like lead. He felt Draco's warm breath against the side of his face. He leant his head back.

"I don't know what . . ." Malfoy said quietly. There was desperation in his voice. He drew his wand and pointed it at Harry's arm, hand shaking. " Episkey ."

There was a sharp pain. Harry let out a whimper and tried to pull his arm away. But Malfoy's grip on his arm was too strong. The stream of blood didn't seem to slow down, if anything it streamed down his arm faster and faster.

"Fuck," Malfoy said, letting go of Harry's arm carefully. "I'm sorry. I don't know . . . I can't -"

"It's okay," Harry slurred. "You don't need to help."

"I'm going to get someone," Malfoy said quietly. He stood up and started to back away, looking incredibly unsure of himself. Malfoy looked down at his hands for a second and froze; they were covered in blood. Dark red, almost black against his pale skin.

"No," Harry said, grabbing his wand from the floor. It was warm and sticky. "No, Malfoy please. Please. Don't. I'm fine."

Malfoy laughed harshly, almost hysterically. "Really, Potter? Do you think I'm stupid?"

Harry shook his head, starting to feel dizzy again. "You're . . . not stupid."

"Potter, you're losing too much blood. I'm getting help."

"Can't you just leave me here?" he asked, trying to stop his words from slurring. "Please just . . . let me die." Harry whimpered quietly, closing his eyes, wanting to slip away into the darkness.

"Just - just don't do anything else," Malfoy said, voice hoarse. "I'm going to go and get somebody."

Harry opened his eyes, silently pleading with him. Can't you see I want this? That I want to die? Please, just leave me here.

Malfoy knelt down again and leant over Harry, picking up the dagger. "I'm taking this with me."

Harry raised his wand at him, hand shaking. "Don't, Malfoy" he said. "Just leave it. Go. Pretend . . . Pretend you never saw me."

Malfoy knocked the wand out of Harry's hand easily and it rolled across the floor, out of reach. "Stay here," he said, standing. "You'll be okay. Just . . . stay here. I'll be back."

"Please," Harry said. He hated begging. But what else could he do now? "No, please stay. Don't leave me. Please. Please don't . . . Don't go," he said quietly. The panic was rising in his chest. This wasn't supposed to be happening.

Malfoy shook his head. "I've got to get someone. Just hold on. I don't want the blame for this."

Harry took a deep breath. The colours around him started to fade.

"Please don't go."

But Malfoy had already left.

The bathroom was silent, and Harry suddenly wasn't bleeding fast enough. He crawled for his wand, hoping to get to it before Malfoy came back with help. His muscles burned and his body refused to cooperate. He collapsed on the floor, exhausted. For a moment he had hoped that Malfoy would have left him to die. But now he was just hoping he would bleed out before he came back.

The minutes seemed to last hours and hours, and he willed his body to give up fighting. He finally closed his eyes, drifting off into what he hoped would be death. He heard, absently, frantic shouting. He hoped they were too late to save him.

I'm sorry.