He slammed his fists against the cool stone of the castle walls. He wanted to feel something, anything. After Sirius had died he had felt something, but now he was numb. Ron died two days ago yet Harry was unaffected. He loved Ron; Ron was his best friend, his soul mate.
Hermione walked the halls as if she were a zombie, and would sometimes break down at the most random moments. She would be walking down the hallway and begin to wail, tears pouring down her face.
He looked down at his fists. They were bloody and raw, bits of flesh clung on by tine threads. He still didn't feel anything.
He turned his head to his bedside table. A small pocketknife lay there shining placidly in the moonlight. He picked it up and slid the blade across his finger, blood trickled from the wound. It wasn't enough.
He dragged the blade down one wrist. Not enough. He dragged the blade down the other wrist. Still not enough.
He laid beck on his bed; the blood from his wounds slipped down his arm and soaked his bed.
Hermione found him the next morning. His blankets were saturated with blood. She slammed her fists against the cool stone of the castle walls. She wanted to feel something, anything. After Ron had died she had felt something, but now she was numb.
A/N: I wrote this on Friday the 29th, my Grandma went into the hospital, but for some reason I was unaffected. I've been sorta like that since my Grandpa died, so I put those emotions into this story. Anyways, thanks to my beta Thundera86 for going over this.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, they belong to Rowling and her crew. But everything is changeable in a chainsaw (I'm only kidding).