The Uni Gang

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Hey guys! I am writing a chapter don't worry but I'm also working on something else. Tell me what you think...

Harry doesn't feel like he's dying.

His limbs are sinking into the ice cold water and his lungs are screaming for air, and he's supposed to be hurting, but he isn't. Harry stopped feeling a long time ago. The moon is full and the water is trying so hard to reflect it, trying to repaint every stroke. Harry doesn't feel like he's dying.

He has lost the concept of time. His curls are sticking to his wet forehead and his heart is so swollen that he's not sure how his ribcage hasn't exploded. It's winter, he knows, and the water is supposed to feel like a thousand sharp needles stabbing into his skin, but it doesn't beause Harry doesn't feel. He looks back then, back towards the dark woods. Maybe he's expecting somebody to save him. Maybe he's expecting somebody to drown him. He doesn't know anymore.

His toes are numb now, his legs, his skin, his body. They're numb but the feeling isn't unfamiliar, because it's what his heart has been all along.

He feels his lips stretch into something that resembles a smile, because this is it. He doesn't need to pretend anymore.

It isn't suicide, because Harry died a long time ago. His heart is still beating and he still goes through his daily routines, he still reads the same book over and over and he listens to the same music that means everything but it's nothing. It's nothing. Harry is nothing. For the first time, Harry wants to cry a little bit. He steps further into the water and it's up to his chest now, touching his heart and it's still on fire. There's a spark, he knows, and then-

"Are you going to get on with it, then?"

Harry's head snaps up and his eyes meets with the ocean. Maybe not. There's a boy sitting on the other side of the pond with a cigarette sitting between his fingers and he's tan and glowing and he looks like the beach and the ocean and happiness. He looks alive, Harry thinks.

Harry isn't sure why the boy is sitting at the edge of a pond in the middle of the night, better yet wearing a thin jumper when it's almost winter.

"Smoking is bad for you," Harry rasps out after a moment, voice thick with sadness and crying. But Harry hasn't cried. He hates his voice.

The boy laughs then, white smoke uncurling form his lips and his eyes light up even more, if that's possible. It's dark. It's almost winter. Harry's standing in the middle of a pond.

"So is trying to kill yourself, mate."

Harry blinks then, and he tries to smile, but it doesn't come out right because his dimple doesn't show and he feels like he wants to cry again.

"Are you going to save me?" He asks and his voice is so, so small. He feels like a child. This boy is alive, and he's going to save him.

The boy furrows his eyebrows before he tosses the cigarette into the pond, watches as it fizzles and dies down. The cigarette reminds Harry of himself, a lot.

"No," He answers after a lifetime, tounge poking out to lick over his chapped lips.