The Things No One Notices (A HP Fic)

Chapter five

Enough was enough. He could not take it anymore. The nightmares. The guilt. It was eating at him, in ways he never thought possible.

And then there was that voice. That cold snake like voice that did not belong to Voldemort.

"Do it. Do it and you'll be free," it hissed in his ear.

Yes, he thought, Yes. I will be free. Free of this guilt, this pain. I will be free of everything.

"Not with the spell," it spoke sharply.

Not the spell.

Then he saw it. The knife. It was right in his grasp. He picked it up, feeling its weight in his hand. He rolled up his sleeves. The voice encouraging him the whole way.

In the back of his mind there was something desperately trying to reach out to him.

He pulled the knife along his wrist, watching as the blood dropped to the floor.

The voice cheered in excitement, continuing to encourage him. He cut deeper and deeper. He moved to his other wrist.

The destressed wave of emotion washed over him, frantically, trying desperately to get his attention. To reach out to him in any way possible.

His world started to spin. Black dots flashed through his vision. The world around him started to blur. His breathing became shallow. He fell to the floor, still cutting deeper.

"Deeper," the voice urged.

He heard the faint voice of someone telling him to stop. Demanding he stop. It was laced with terrified concern.

No. He had to keep going. He was so close to relief. To being free of the guilt that burdened his life. The constant pain and suffering that suffocated him on a daily. The expectations were soon going to mean nothing. They would be worthless and point. Just a little deeper. The comforting silence of emptiness that accompanied nonexistence was so close. It was in reach. He just had to grab it.

A victorious laugh rang in his ears as the knife clattered to the floor, his fingers too weak to hold it any long. His blood formed a deep crimson red, puddle around him. His eyes were struggling to stay open. He welcomed it.

A cry of desperation bounced around his head, calling to him. Urging him to wake up. To breathe. To stay alive. To fight for something.

The desperation was soon replaced with rage. Rage at him for giving up. For quitting. For not having the courage to face him. For being a coward. A pathetic Gryffindor coward. Rage at the Dursleys. Rage at the Weasleys. Rage at Dumbledore. Rage at himself. Red dark, violent rage.

And then Draco was there, touching him, calling out to him, murmuring a quick episkey. His eyes closed, as a feeling of relief replaced the rage.

~~

When Harry woke up, he could feel the scratchy fabric of hospital sheets. The smell of disinfectant wafted to his nose.

The Hospital Wing, he thought.

There was a weight on the side of his bed, causing it to dip slightly. He could feel a soft hand in his. Everything ached. His head was pounding, as if he had been drowning. He felt calm. Too calm if you asked him.

"Good to see you're still alive," Voldemort said. "The next time you try something like that, I will take control and stop you."

"Why? Don't you want me dead anyways?" Harry asked.

"I want to kill you, yes. I can't kill you if you're dead."

Even though Voldemort was speaking about his desire to kill Harry Potter, it was said with a strong wave of relief.