Unwanted
*Author's note: this story is not related to any of the Harry Potter stories I have written thus far. This must be good because I was actually nervous as I wrote it. Just to clear something up: I am not depressed even though most of my people tend to be, but hey, happy people don't make very good characters.*
Harry Potter, hands in pockets, strolled down the grassy hillside, almost slipping on the dew-wet grass. He had only just turned a depressing sixteen years old, and he wasn't sure he liked it. Although, come to think of it, being fifteen hadn't been all that grand, either.
The wind whipped through his robes; it was cold for the first week of September.
Lately he hadn't been feeling himself. He couldn't bring himself to face the things he had done, people he had killed. Not intentionally - no, never intentionally, never directly. But he had caused so many deaths in his sixteen long years. What was next? He could hardly stand to be around anyone now. Their cheer made him sick. He couldn't bear to have them hurt or stand without hurting them himself. He hated them and cared about them at the same time.
That's why he was skirting the edge of Hogwarts grounds. Far away from the others. Ron and Hermione were happy together. He felt like the third wheel whenever they were together (which was all too often). Usually, he looked forward to going back to Hogwarts. He was happy there. Now he was just looking forward to - to nothing, he realized sadly. Life wasn't much worth living. His only remaining family despised him, his best friends ignored him. His enemies were too numerous and friends too few.
He paused at the gate, far away from Hagrid's hut. He took out his wand and rolled up his sleeve. He had to do something - anything - to relieve the pain. And so he cut up. The spell turned his wand into a point sharp enough to pierce his skin. He rubbed it along his skin until he drew blood. He gasped silently, a sharp intake of breath as he realized the pain. Get rid of the blood, he thought, squeezing the wound. It had part of Voldemort in it. Get rid of it - get rid of the pain.
When it had stopped bleeding and had become a scar with the rest, he pulled his sleeve down and headed back to the common room.
Ron was standing at the portrait hole when he entered. "Where were you?" he asked. "I thought we were all going to the library to work on that paper."
"I was outside."
"Outside? Why?"
"None of your business," Harry snapped. Ron looked slightly taken aback, but he let it slide.
"Whatever. Are you coming? Bet you Hermione's already finished hers."
"Who cares?" Harry brushed by him and started up the stairs towards his dormitory.
"What's with you today, Harry?" Ron shot after him. Harry didn't answer, he just kept walking.
Ron shrugged and left the common room.
Harry went upstairs and examined the mark he had just made. It was the worst one yet, and it hurt even now.
Ron walked back into the room and started to dig in his trunk. "I left my notes," he explained.
"Don't you knock?" Harry spat.
"No, it's my dormitory, too, you know," Ron answered, lifting his crumbled sheets of parchment out from under his History of Magic textbook. "I don't know what's wrong with you today. Why d'you keep snapping at me? Having a bad day?"
"Yeah, I guess," Harry sighed. "Sorry."
"It's okay," Ron said smiling. "We all have days like that, don't we?"
Harry nodded, but he knew that Ron never had these kinds of days. Ron didn't have to cut himself every afternoon. Ron was happy. Ron wasn't thinking about killing himself.
* * *
Harry made it through the week, every day with two more scars. The oldest ones were starting to fade. He wore long sleeves all the time now. No one noticed where he went. No one cared. Life was going downhill and he didn't know how long he could keep himself from falling into the abyss.
Ron and Hermione stayed up late, sitting alone in the common room; one more cut. Professor McGonagall assigned a three foot long essay; one more cut. Snape yelled at him during class; one more cut. Malfoy tried to hex him in the hallway; one more cut.
It was so obvious he needed help. Why wasn't anyone helping? He couldn't ask for it, but he wouldn't fight it if it came. He was at the end of his rope.
"Harry, what's wrong?" Hermione asked the following Monday morning at breakfast.
"Nothing."
"No, there's something wrong."
"There isn't! Now mind your own bloody business!"
Hermione was clever. She had figured out which potion would get him to the Sorcerer's stone. She had figured out how the Basilisk could move about the school. She had figured out that Lupin was a werewolf. Why couldn't she figure out that Harry was in trouble?
"You and I have to have a talk later," she said simply. And Harry avoided her the rest of the day, skipped his classes and went outside. His grades were falling, he was tired, he was sick. She found him later, as he came in from the grounds. He thought she would have been asleep by now, but apparently she had been waiting for him.
He was somewhat surprised and happy to see that Ron wasn't with her.
"Harry, I think - I know - there's something going on with you. Won't you tell me what it is?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"But we're all really worried about you. We don't like to see you in so much pain."
Pain? What do they know about pain? "There's nothing wrong, I promise."
"If you're sure…."
I'm not sure. Why can't she tell that? Why can't she know that I have to lie. I need help. Come on, Hermione. Read between the lines. "I'm sure."
"Well, if you ever do have a problem, you'll come to us, right? We're your friends. We want to help you."
I can't. You don't know what it's like to be me. "Okay." With that, she got up and went up the girls' staircase. He sat in the common room and bled.
* * *
He was at the breaking point. No help was coming. For weeks, he had the same routine. His teachers must have noticed he was skipping class. His friends must have noticed he was pale and sick. They must have noticed he wasn't eating. And yet, if they did, they did nothing.
It was pitch black. The end of November, the new moon. No stars shone in the sky, or if they did, he wasn't paying attention. Tonight was the night. He had told himself this every night for three whole days, but he could never bring up the courage to do it. Tonight he would do it. Tonight, he would be dead.
It was all better this way. No one would miss him. He wasn't even sure if they would notice he was gone. Or maybe they would. Then they'd be sorry. Sorry they had ever ignored his pain. Sorry they had ever mocked him. Just sorry.
It was windy and cold, but he had no cloak. He didn't need one. He wasn't coming back. It started to rain, his own tears echoed across the grounds. But he kept on walking. Nothing was going to stop him tonight.
"I can't take it anymore!" he shouted out loud, but his voice was carried off by the wind. Somewhere, a creature howled. Good, he thought. Something would enjoy his dead body. It wouldn't be left to rot.
The Dursleys would be happy he was dead. No more mouth to feed. Ron would be happy. No more Harry to hog the spotlight. Malfoy would be happy. No one to show him up on the Quidditch pitch. It's all better this way.
He stopped walking. The wind whipped his robes and his face. He took out his wand and took a stick from the ground. He had spent time working on this spell, and he had finally mastered it. He held the stick in his hand and tapped it with his wand. It grew long, sharp, and silver. It was a dagger, sharp enough to end his miserable life quickly. He felt it in his hands for a few moments, the cold, wet metal against his palm. He cut his arm just for fun. He hardly felt it anymore.
He took a deep breath, heart racing, body shivering with cold and anticipation. This is where he had stopped before. He dropped his wand on the wet grass and clutched the dagger, pulling it closer and closer to his chest, just inches away now. He had never come this far.
It was about to pierce.
"Harry! Wait!"
He stopped. He couldn't go through with it now, not with someone watching. But who cared about him that much?
Ginny Weasley, sopping wet in her pajamas and bare feet ran over to him. "Harry, you can't do this to yourself."
"Why not? No one cares if I'm dead or alive."
"I do."
Harry hadn't been expecting this.
"I love you. Please don't do it. For my sake, for your sake." She sneezed and swayed on the spot.
"Ginny… are you…?" He threw the dagger aside and went to help her. Her body was cold, even compared to his.
"Look," she whispered, pulling up the stained sleeve of her pajamas, revealing a fresh scar just like his.
"Oh, Ginny," he said. "If only I had known…." He started to walk her back up to the castle.
"You didn't know. No one did."
"I know the feeling."
Ginny collapsed on the way to the infirmary, and Harry carried her the rest of the way. When he got there, he explained everything to Madame Pomfrey. She gave Ginny a potion and put them both to bed.
Ginny had saved his life. He had saved hers. And he realized, he loved her, too. And as he fell into sleep that fateful night, he thought:
Life really is worth living.
And Ginny Weasley is worth living it for.