Harry eyed the crumpled piece of paper in his hand distastefully. It was the small things, like a few creases in an otherwise perfectly fine piece of paper, that Aunt Petunia (and by proxy, Harry) hated. Anything out of place in the house was Harry's fault, and it was up to him to clean it up. He soon learned to loathe disorganization as much as she did.
But this was different, for neither Aunt Petunia nor Uncle Vernon would (hopefully) ever come to know of the flyer currently in Harry's possession. God forbid what they would do if they found out their nephew was holding the number of a therapist's hotline.
He had found the abandoned flyer on an empty sidewalk, and his first instinct was to throw it away once he had realized what the flyer was for. But Harry was just so tired of life. He needed to speak to someone, even if it was just to a random person on a phone.
And so here he was, holding the crumpled flyer in his hand, fingers near the buttons needed to dial the telephone. Harry knew the possible repercussions of his actions if someone were to find out what he had done. He would become more of a laughingstock than he already was at school, and he shuddered to think of what Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon would do.
Harry closed his eyes momentarily. He gathered up the little of his courage remaining, and he dialed the number on the telephone.
"Good evening. My name is Emilia Gonsalves. How may I help you?" The girl on the phone had a sharp and clerical air, with a cool tone of voice. It made Harry feel foolish, being in shambles while the other person was so collected.
"This is anonymous, right?" Harry finally questioned shakily.
"Yeah. Totally anonymous," the girl drawled. It made Harry shiver.
The girl sounded young. Really young. A terrifying thought suddenly occurred to him, one that made him nearly drop the phone. What if this girl lived around the neighbourhood? If they met again, then she'd know it had been him calling. What if she told someone else? Gossip spread across Little Whinging like fire. If one person knew something, the whole street was guaranteed to know by the end of the night.
But then Harry calmed himself. What were the chances that she'd recognize him? After all, no one really knew him on the street. He was just being paranoid. Hopefully.
With his thoughts gathered, he finally brought himself to speak again.
"I-I don't really know how this thing works," he admitted in a rush, his nails biting into his lower elbow.
"That's okay, just start by telling me how you're feeling."
"Um-I," Harry stammered. He wasn't really sure where to start. There was too much to talk about.
"I hate my life," he settled on. "Everyday I wake up, and I feel cold. My family hates me, they always ignore me. And when I go to school, no one wants to be my friend. My teachers all think I'm weird and stupid. The bullies always hit me during playtime, and when I can hide, I'm usually just sitting alone behind a bush the whole time. And when I go home, I have to do all the cleaning and the cooking. Which isn't that bad since I don't have to see my family. But my cousin never has to do anything. Because they love him and not me-"
Harry's voice cracked at the end.
The girl audibly sighed over the line. "School can be tough sometimes. And every now and then, people always get into fights with their family. But it's important to remember that they do love you despite-"
"Can you stop?" Harry interrupted. Then he winced. That had sounded rude.
"Sorry," he muttered.
"What do you want me to do?" The girl (Emilia?) on the other line sounded calm and collected, no sign of nervousness in her voice. It was a far contrast from Harry's voice.
"I-please just listen?"
The last sentence came out as a question.
"Of course," Emilia murmured softly.
"So-some days I don't feel good." Harry's voice was breathy with fear. "It just feels like there's nothing I can do about life. My family hates me, my classmates hate me, and no one seems to care about me. Sometimes I wonder if what they say is true. Maybe I don't deserve to live. Maybe I am just a freak. If everyone says it, that must mean it's true. And it's not just them. Every day just seems to be the same thing. I'm miserable all the time. If everyone hates me, what's the point of life? Sometimes, I just feel like I should give up. That I should just d-die."
Harry let out a breath he didn't know he was holding in. It felt good to say what he'd been thinking for the past few months.
"Are you okay?" she whispered.
"I don't think I am," Harry whimpered, tears building up in his eyes.
"There's nothing wrong with feeling that way," she finally answered after a long pause. "I'm going to give you the number of a suicide hotline-"
"What?" Harry hissed, suddenly angry. "I'm not-I'm not like that."
"I know," Emilia said calmly. "I just think that it would help for you to give the number a call."
"You think that I'm-I'm some sort of suicidal freak! I'm not-I'm not going to off myself!" Harry yelled, uncomfortably aware of the way his voice wavered at the end.
"Harry, I didn't mean-" Emilia's voice came to a sudden stop.
Harry.
"Wait-shit-please don't-"
Harry had hung up the phone before she could try to salvage the conversation.
Tears blurred his eyes and a choked sob escaped his lips before Harry buried his head in his arms. So stupid.
Harry was sure that he would be a laughingstock the next day of school. When he stepped into the building, he braced for taunts along the lines of "suicidal freak" and "go kill yourself if you want to that badly". But they never came. Sure there was the usual isolation from others and snide remarks from Dudley's gang, but it seemed as though nothing had changed from yesterday.
Harry let out a sigh. He was safe. Emilia hadn't spilled his secret. But how long until she would?
Next Monday passes by without any change. Whoever Emilia was hadn't said anything and probably never would. But that doesn't stop Harry from anxiously scanning his classmates for a face he's never even seen.
Days turned into months. Things stayed the same. Harry would go on another day, walking on a thin line of fear and suspicion.
Harry was walking along the halls with Ron and Hermione, both of them bickering over something Harry couldn't be bothered to listen to or find out. He was more focused on the time. He was cutting it dangerously close to being late for Potions, and he knew Snape wouldn't hesitate for an excuse to give him detention or take away points.
He shuddered in revulsion at the thought of being forced to clean another one of his used cauldrons for detention. Scraping crushed bugs and animal dung from the sides of dirty cauldrons wasn't exactly at the top of Harry's bucket list.
Too preoccupied with his thoughts, Harry realized too late that he was walking straight into another person. They collided into one another, the other person's bag splitting down the seams, and books spilling through the rip. A load of papers, textbooks, and quills landed across the corridor, the strong wind that day not helping.
"I'm so sorry," Harry muttered, helping the girl pick up her books. "It's all right," the girl said, taking the offered books from him. "That bag was pretty old, anyways. I was expecting it to rip any day now. It's not your fault that it finally happened."
Harry gave a noise of acknowledgement at that, and continued helping her pick up her things. Harry frowned as he spotted a football magazine on the ground.
"Is this yours?" he asked, handing the girl the magazine.
"Oh, yeah," the girl said, evidently surprised. "I forgot I kept it there."
"Are you Muggleborn?" Harry asked politely.
"No, I'm a pureblood with an interest in Muggle sports," the girl snarked.
Ron and Hermione snickered, while Harry ignored the jibe. "What's your name?"
The Muggleborn girl gave a toothy grin. "I'm Emilia. Emilia Gonsalves."