The days passed into February, and it was four days since Dumbledore threatened to call him to his office. Suddenly that day had come. Instead of going there, however, Harry went outside to the large bridge that went over a span of the Great Lake. He sat on the stone railing and looked down on the frigid water below. Hanging onto the sides was the only reason he hadn't fallen in yet; he couldn't deny jumping to his death felt preferable to walking up to the Headmaster's office to discuss his place in the war.

He had been doing better in his classes up until that meeting. Now, he'd blown up three more potions, collapsed an endless amount of tables in transfiguration, lit eighteen metal keys on fire, and sent two people to the hospital ward for wounds suffered by foul spells in defense. People were talking.

But he'd sent Petunia a letter. He felt good about that. It was short and told her he was still settling in, and he hoped she understood what that meant. It was the same at Smeltings – he spent too much time in his head over there, and he'd been doing the same thing over here. She had talked to him about that.

The evening had a bit of a breeze to it. That chilly wind blew against his back, whipping his bangs against his forehead. He liked how his scar showed these days. When people looked at that they remembered why he was famous, and not why he was gone for two months. He never thought he'd like being exposed in that way.

The wind howled softly between the windows of the bridge and muffled the sounds of nature around him, and it concealed the sound of footsteps coming towards him until they were very close. Sudden adrenaline passed through him, and though his instinct was to look and perhaps defend himself, he instead closed his eyes and loosened his grip on the railing; if they were going to push him in he wasn't going to stop them.

The footsteps came very close and stopped. Harry breathed in deeply, his heart racing. Who was it? Ron? Dumbledore? Hermione?

A voice cleared, and he could tell right away it was male.

You didn't take a razor to your wrists, but you have very little respect for your own life. Marty's words echoed in his brain, warning him to take better care of his life.

He didn't, though. The wind blew on.

What a fantastic feeling being about to die felt.

An arm gently wrapped around his shoulders, and another around his chest, clutching his heart. Harry slowly opened his eyes and looked behind him at Ron, whose eyes were wrinkled in the corners with worry, and his mouth was frowning.

Harry matched that expression and leaned into Ron, who tightened his hug and pressed his cheek against Harry's shoulder.

The two of them stayed that way on the bridge for a long few minutes; Harry was gripping the railing tightly now.

"I love you, Harry. You know that, right?" Ron asked.

Harry nodded.

"Remember that. I'd do anything for you."

"I'd do anything for you…too." Harry took a deep breath after he said this and sighed.

Ron pulled him backwards off the railing, and Harry got to his feet, standing a head shorter than his best friend. Ron let him go, but kept standing very close to him. Harry stared at his chest, but couldn't meet his eyes after all the dark thoughts in his head. As the moment added together, Harry, become more ashamed of his self, turned away.

"Where are you going?" Ron asked, because Harry was walking further down the bridge.

Harry didn't answer, so Ron caught up and walked next to him. They walked on, over the bridge, to the edge of the Forbidden Forest.