I fully realize that the previous chapter was shit, but hopefully this one is somewhat better. This chapter is where the trigger warning related to suicide comes in. If you could leave a comment with your thoughts, I would really appreciate it!

Once inside, we watched the Sorting Ceremony. This year was the highest for new Slytherins. Of course, they probably all asked to be in Slytherin, given that we were the most likely to be spared by him. After Sorting, we were halfway through the meal when Snape walked in, Potter trailing after him. I was the first to notice, even before Potter's own friends. Of course, none of them were in love with him. Well, Ginny was, but that's beside the point. I gazed at him in horror as he made his way across the Great Hall, seemingly unaware that his being here hurt him more than anyone else.

After the feast, I went up to my dormitory, immediately falling into a restless sleep filled with nightmares. Nightmares of my father burning Harry, or of making me burn him, laughing as I did so. Once, I woke up with tears soaking my pillow after a dream in which my father was telling me how proud of me he was, and when he pointed behind me, I turned around and Harry was bleeding from his chest and next to him lay his wand, having dropped from his hand when he fell. His chest was bare and there were deep cuts all along its surface. The inside of his stomach was visible, and his heart lay half out of his chest, and the white of every one of his ribs was visible. His eyes were glazed over and looked into the distance, past my shoulder. His lips were curled up in a smile, and I looked above him and saw Ginny sobbing. After I had woken up, I didn't bother going back to sleep, because exhaustion was better than these dreams. It didn't take a genius to figure out that the reason Ginny was in my dream was because it wouldn't only hurt me to see him dead. I wasn't the only one who cared about Harry. And because he cared for her. Not me. Never me. Me, a Malfoy, who had been given the task of torturing him beyond repair. Torture him into insanity, like the Longbottoms had been. Then he would be able to kill him without a problem. I would rather die first. If it weren't for the threatening of my own family, I wouldn't do it. I would rather die than see him dead. After five years of school with Harry, I was in way over my head.

What had started out as an innocent crush had manifested into an obsession, with me constantly watching him during Quidditch matches, whether we were playing Gryffindor or not. I figured it was still just an intense crush. Then, fourth year, when he and Cedric had disappeared into thin air, everyone began talking in hushed whispers as all the professors panicked, I sat in tense silence, even as my friends grew more excited by the prospect of Harry Potter's demise every second. Twenty minutes passed. Then thirty, forty, fifty. After over an hour of my stomach heaving and me holding back tears of terror, Harry returned, holding the dead body of Cedric. All the students rushed down to find out what had happened, but I stayed in the stands, crumpled over, sobbing loudly into my hands. It was then that I realized that I would fall apart without Harry Potter. I was fifteen then at the end of fourth year.

The next year proved how much I needed Harry. With my father growing increasingly aggressive and violent, not only toward Mudbloods and half-bloods, but toward me too. I did my best not to upset him, but he kept getting angrier over the summer as time went on. I returned for fifth year, covered in bruises that I made sure no one could see. My father's abusiveness, paired with the fact that his allegiance to him made it so that I couldn't try and make friends with Potter as I had planned at the end of the previous year, led me into a deep depression. I had been going to the top of the west tower, which has a large balcony at the top, high enough to jump from, with a low enough railing to get over. I was up from the stairs, and was standing on the balcony looking down, my hands braced on the cold black metal. I knew that until it snowed again or the snow melted, my red blood would stain the snow and remind anyone who looked off this balcony of The Boy Who Had No Hope, The Boy Who Couldn't Live, The Boy Who Died, but I didn't care. I would finally be free.

"Malfoy," came a soft voice from behind me. I turned my head toward him, already knowing it was him, and that I would gladly jump in front of him if it meant he would be the last thing I ever saw.

"What?" I sighed wearily, closing my eyes.

"I know what you're thinking." I opened my eyes and looked at him.

"You can read minds now?" I snarkily sneered.

"Malfoy. Don't. Please. What am I supposed to do here without you here to ruin everything for me? What entertainment will I have on the train at the end of the year? Or the start of next year? What will I do without the boy with the badges? Potter stinks and Weasley is our king." He walked closer, lifted the side of my shirt, running his right hand along my side, where there were fresh bruises and gashes from Christmas. I closed my eyes and looked away in shame. I was supposed to be the strong one. The one who never cared about anything that happened because he had it all his way anyway.

"Draco." Hearing my first name from him startled me so much I opened my eyes and looked him in the eye. He was still running his hand up and down my side, occasionally running it across my back and my stomach, where my stomach was peppered with bruises and my back was striped with deep cuts, probably infected by now. "Draco, listen to me. I know we aren't friends, and probably never will be, but I would take you far, far away from him as possible right now if I could. You may not be the best person, but you don't deserve this. You don't deserve to feel hopeless because of your pathetic asshole excuse of a father. I may not like you, but I don't hate you. And I know this sounds weak and pathetic, but I like having you around. I like going to school with you. You've done some bad things in the past, but you've been fine so far this year. I know this makes me sound not at all like the boy who has bested Voldemort four times," he laughed self-consciously, as though he was embarrassed by that fact, "but Draco, I don't know what I would do without you here. Without you. Okay? So please walk with me down to the Great Hall. Stay away from any balconies. Because even if you don't think anyone else cares, even if there really is no one else that cares, I care. And I really hope that the person you hate more than anyone else can be enough for you. Because if I'm not." He sniffled quietly. "If I'm not, I don't know what I'd do. If I'd be able to anything anymore at all."

I looked at him and was shocked to see tears gleaming in his eyes and fear etched across every feature of his face. "You mean it?" I whispered, not bothering to hide the tremor in my voice. He had basically just said that there was no chance of us ever being together, but he also had said in the same breath that he would always care about my well-being.

Harry nodded, then moved toward me and wrapped his arms tightly around me. It hurt like hell, but it was worth it to just feel his strong arms around my torso, holding me steady, even though we were both shaking, from both cold and fear. He took my hand and led me gently and slowly down the stairs. Once we had gotten to the doors of the Great Hall, he turned to me and tilted my chin up toward him. My breath caught is my throat. He leaned toward me and whispered, "Promise to never scare me like that again," in the deepest, huskiest whisper I had ever heard from him. I nodded, and he let go of me, leaving my hand cold. He pulled his cloak out of his pocket and smiled, wrapping it around him and opening the door for me. We made our way in, the only reason I knew he was beside me being because he was continuously brushing up against me. He left me at my table, then went to his. I watched as he suddenly appeared in his seat, and laughed alongside the other Slytherins when Ron fell out of his seat in surprise. I still felt empty on the inside, but Harry fucking Potter had held my hand for fifteen minutes on the way to dinner, so that was something. And he cared about me. Or at least didn't want to watch me fling myself off his house's balcony.

I'm thinking of putting up a list of songs I listen to while writing if you would like. Let me know!