Contemplating. Just Contemplating.
It would be so easy. No one is around. You could choose a nice hidden spot. No one would ever find out. Even then. So what if they found out. They can't blame you. Thousands of people do it. All over the world. All the time. Maybe somewhere half way across the globe, people were contemplating the exact same thing. You could even say you're entitled to this. You can already imagine what they'll say. How it wasn't your fault. How it would eventually come to this. How it was practically a given, knowing how fate had led your life. Hell, if all goes well, you can even start commiserating with Snape. No doubt he had carried out the same action in his youth. The Slytherin Head finally understanding the enigma that is his sore spot. Seeing past the cruelty of his enemies, opening his eyes to the real Harry Potter. Would at last give the man some emotional range beyond that of a sixteen year old.
All it would take is a flick of the wrist. No wait. That wouldn't do. That would mean slitting the wrist. You don't want that. Not just yet. Should be a build-up. Maybe a cut on the thigh. No one looks there. Or higher up on the arm. Wear long sleeves. Quidditch is a reasonable enough reason to ward off questioning looks. Come to think of it, Quidditch has been the cause of most of your injuries. Getting off track here. Seriously, your mind wanders off a lot doesn't it? Doesn't seem to want to stay and sort things out. Especially in times when staying still would have been the best option. … Where were you? Ah yes. Cutting. There. It's out now. You named it with capital letter and all. You were thinking of cutting yourself. Not fatally of course. Just a nick here and there. Just enough to see that burgundy flowing. Would the rivulets of crimson be thick and slow? Or bleed fast, spurting red liquid on your robes? How would you feel? Would every scarlet drop leaving your flesh remove the load weighing down your soul? Would the physical pain relieve the mental anguish? Or would the pain just be replacing another? A substitute then. A sharp pain followed by a drawn out ache. Just enough to forget. Forget. Leave reality for some few precious seconds. Because reality? Not really your number one fan.
Would they pity you? Would he? Would she? Could you stand doing something that brought shame? A sense of disappointment? The Golden Boy brought down low. So very low. But that was what started all this wasn't it? All you ever wanted was to be normal. Without the whole status thingie, which of course came with perks of yearly near loss of life and a big, honking Dark Lord.
"Harry?"
You look up, look into those eyes and all of a sudden those dark thoughts fleeting through your mind moments before just go poof. Like magic. A smirk finds its way to your face without any prompting.
"I'll be right there."
Then those eyes anchoring your soul disappear behind the door and you find yourself staring down again. You nod, more to yourself then to the knife, acknowledging. You move towards the door but not before a last lingering look.