Warnings: Most of the warnings are in the first chapter. However, a brief warning. This chapter contains graphic self-destruction (cutting). If this bothers you in any way, please do not read. I don't want to get flamed, when in reality, I warned you, and in no way forced you to read it. Now, on that happy note, enjoy! (And remember...it gets lighter later on.)
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He could see them in his mind's eye...hear their pleading screams...
He could see their hands reaching for them...hear their accusing words...
We died because of you...it's your fault we died...you're worthless...selfish...a waste of flesh and bone...
Suddenly, his scar exploded in agony unlike anything he had ever felt before. Unable to continue clutching his wand, it fell from his fingers and he clasped his hands to his face. Harry's knees buckled and before he realized what was happening, he was on the ground - blinded by the pain.
Somewhere in the clearing, he could hear the cold, thin voice of his worst nightmare as it hissed, "Kill the spare."
There was a rushing wind, and a second, reedier voice that screeched the words into the dark night: "Avada Kedavra!"
He could see the green light blazing past his eyelids and there was a sickening thud as something heavy fell to the ground beside him. Nausea swept over him and he retched through the pain. Painfully, he pried his eyes open and blinked. The thing beside him came into focus.
Cedric, lying spread-eagled on the ground beside him. Dead.
Time slowed and seemed to stop. An eternity went by as Harry stared at the lifeless grey eyes, the parted lips that gave his face a mildly surprised expression. Numbness swept over him as he was dragged to his feet.
"No! Let me go!" Harry screeched. The grip did not release him. Rather, the world faded to black, then he saw his parents standing there, their hands reached out towards him. Harry tried to run to them, seeking their comforting arms. But he was held fast. He tried to scream again, but found that his voice no longer worked. He was forced to watch, silent and frozen, as a green light flashed, and the forms of his parents crumpled.
Then he saw Sirius.
His godfather turned to smile at him, a question upon his lips. Then suddenly, another flash of green light erupted, and Harry tried to warn Sirius, to call out, to do something. But it was too late. The Animagus' face took on a look of shock, and he looked up towards Harry, his eyes meeting the younger boy's. Like a graceful dancer, Sirius spread his arms, and fell...fell into darkness...fell into the void...
Fell out of Harry's life, just like the others.
Falling...the sensation of falling...
Laughter echoed around him, and a red glow emerged from the darkness. The red eyes of Voldemort. A thin white hand stretched out towards Harry, descending down upon him.
"NOO!" Harry lurched out of the bed, his heart pounding and sweat dripping down his brow. He fumbled for his glasses on the side table, and shoved them on his face. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he began to relax. The terror of his dream was still vivid in his mind, and he trembled with the thought of it.
"Harry?"
He started, and turned to see Ron's sleep-mussed head coming into focus. His friend wore a concerned expression, as he sat on the edge of Harry's bed. He seemed to have gotten over his earlier bad temper, in light of this new nightmare.
"It wasn't him, Ron," Harry whispered. "It's okay...it wasn't him. I just...had a bad dream."
Ron eyed him for a moment, then seemed satisfied. "Alright, mate. You'll be fine then...You should try to sleep again. Maybe it'll go away. It could be Malfoy poisoning you again."
Harry shrugged, ignoring the jab towards Draco. Ron didn't bother asking him what the dream was about, and Harry was almost glad. If the redhead didn't care, then he didn't need to know. With a sigh, Harry drew his knees up to his chest, as Ron gave him a pat on the shoulder, and returned to bed. Soon, the familiar snoring continued, and as it seemed Harry had not woken any of the other boys up, he was left alone in the darkness, surrounded by friends, yet terribly alone.
Harry stared into the darkness, not seeing anything, as he thought about the dream. It was the same one as usual. Well, it was the only one besides the other one...the other one about his uncle. He wasn't sure which one he preferred.
Harry hugged his knees tighter, searching for some small measure of comfort from himself. But the terror would not go away. And he could still hear the cruel laughter in his mind.
You aren't worth it...
They died because of you...
It's your fault.
Freak.
Pathetic wretch.
Harry let out a quiet sob. "Go away..." he whispered, trying not to lose himself in the horrors that threatened to envelop him. But they wouldn't. And there was only one way to make the pain and fear go away...
With silent footsteps, Harry slid out of bed, reaching under the side of the bed for something taped to the underside, before making his way to the bathroom. Once inside, he closed and locked the door, before turning to the sink.
He looked down at the shining object in his hand. The silver blade looked so beautiful in the light of the bathroom. So delicate, and so effective. Harry rolled back his sleeve, baring the numerous scars already marring his flesh. The scars hidden by day, with the help of the glamours that were necessary.
With a deep breath, he put the knife to his arm, and tugged slightly. It was a precise art, really. Cut too deep, and it's all over. Cut too shallow, and the pain isn't effective relief. It had to be just right. It was the small amount of control that Harry had in his life. Even with everything else spinning out of control - Ron and Hermione's judgment of him, the nightmares, the sleeplessness because of the nightmares, and the ever-present panic of the inevitable battle against Voldemort - he at least had a small ounce of control.
He watched with morbid fascination, as the blood welled from the cut. Red velvet on pale satin. A thing of beauty, really. As he watched, Harry felt the fear and doubt begin to fade, lost in this moment of comfort.
After a moment, he closed the wound with magic, and repeated the process.
Five strokes later, he sealed the last wound - adding yet another scar to his collection, for the scars never fully healed - and cleaned the blade. He cast a cleaning charm over the sink as well, erasing all the evidence. Finally calm, Harry checked the bathroom once last time, then returned to bed, hiding his precious blade in its usual niche.
After a few minutes, he was asleep. He would not be plagued by the nightmares again that night.
•••
Draco sat up in bed in a blind panic. His heart was in his throat, as he swiped at invisible attackers, unable to call out in alarm, his throat blocked by something. Suddenly, his eyes snapped open, and he panted, his eyes darting wildly around the darkened room.
Nothing.
There was nothing there.
He shuddered, wrapping his arms around his bare torso as he tried to relax. The memory was still fresh.
His father pointed his wand at him, and Draco felt blinding pain envelop him.
"You need to be taught a lesson, boy!"
"But I did well, Father! I completed what you asked of me!" Draco pleaded, quivering with fear and agony. Lucius ignored his son's words.
"You did not do a satisfactory task. Such a disappointment." He ended the spell, and watched as Draco lay still, save for the occasional tremor wracking his thin body. "I think that the pain of the Cruciatus is no longer satisfactory punishment for you. What say we move on, hm?"
Draco's eyes widened. What more could his father do?
"Narcissa! Come here, my sweet!" Sensing his father's intentions, Draco opened his mouth to call out to his mother. But Lucius cast a silencing charm on the boy, rendering him mute.
So, it was with silent horror that Draco was forced to watch - petrified by his father - as his mother entered the room, her eyes downcast. She didn't look at her son; she'd never approved of Lucius' actions upon her dear son. But she knew she couldn't fight him, lest it end in death for her and her son. Despite her most earnest of endeavors, it seemed her life was forfeit nonetheless.
"This is what comes of those who fail in their tasks," the elder Malfoy snarled, pointing his wand at Narcissa. She looked up in time to see the green flash and hear the dark words, "Avada Kedavra!"
Draco watched with silent tears tracing down his cheeks as his mother's body collapsed. She was dead.
Dead!
And he was alone in the world.
Draco glanced around, making sure that no one else was awake, before striding over to his trunk. The cool night air, filtering in from an open window, made him shiver slightly, glad for the silk pajama bottoms he wore, and making him wish he'd worn a shirt that night. He opened it, and reached deep down inside the trunk, his fingers finding a hidden latch. Inside the hidden compartment lay an elegant dagger, its mother of pearl handle shining in the moonlight, the silver blade gleaming as well. Draco took out the dagger, feeling the smooth handle in his grip. Without a sound, he closed the lid, and entered the bathroom. A few whispered words, and the wards were up, ready to alert him should anyone stir. Add a few locking charms to the bathroom door, and he was ready.
He didn't hesitate, as he placed the dagger's edge to the vulnerable, seemingly unblemished skin between his wrist and elbow. The pure whiteness of the sink was soon stained with the deep crimson that was the sap of life.
It didn't take long for the dark memories to fade, replaced by the mind-clearing pain in his arm. Draco smiled to himself, satisfied, as he closed the wounds. Afterwards, he downed a potion marked Dittany, after which his scars began to fade. After a few days, they would be gone, no reminders of his dirty deed left. It was an effective method, and it protected him from anyone ever finding out. They couldn't find out.
After all, he was Draco Malfoy. The perfect Slytherin, perfect pureblood, perfect Malfoy heir.
He had been bred and raised that way. As much as he hated his past, it was who he was. And he must keep up that image, or die if he failed.
Draco quickly cleaned up the bathroom, restoring it to pristine condition before, as was his routine. This was becoming more and more common...perhaps he should confide in someone. Maybe Harry. After all, the Gryffindor had (however unwillingly) confided in him. And, letter or no letter, he didn't seem to be holding it against Draco. It was only fair of Draco to at least let the other have a glimpse of what he was really like.
But it was hard. It was hard to even think about no longer being perfect in someone's eyes, let alone letting another in on one of your most private, darkest secrets.
No, he wouldn't tell Harry about this. No one could know about this. And no one ever would.
Draco returned the dagger back to its hiding place, and then slid under the covers on his bed. He rolled over onto his side, his head resting on his crooked arm - the one without the fresh wounds, that is. It took him nearly an hour to fall asleep. And when he did, he tossed and turned for the rest of the night, dream-free, but restless all the same.
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Chapter end notes: Depression is a very real thing, that occurs for whatever reason. This is a battle that cannot be fought on your own. If you are contemplating suicide, or have destructive tendencies, get help. If anyone out there suffers similar symptoms to what Draco or Harry is suffering, please know that you are not alone in this. You can tell someone, and someone will care. You can even talk to me. I care. :) Believe me, life is so much better when you do confide in someone.