Another Turning Point

Pain

(Draco's POV)

I was already there at 7:30, I'd checked to make sure there were no detentions that night and I doubted Snape would be around. So I was practically alone.

I pushed the door to behind me and crossed to the far side of the dingy room. Grey stone walls and a low ceiling, desks packed closely together. I lit the candles as I passed them along the walls but the light they gave off was feeble. If I had wanted to I could have charmed them to be brighter but I liked the room dark, it reflected my mood.

I sat cross legged on a desk opposite the door my back resting against the cold stone wall, the chill penetrating through my robes and chilling my insides. I slowly unsheathed the dagger I'd brought from my dormitory and tuned it over in my hands. Checking it for flaws, testing the keenness of the blade with my thumb. It was quite small, 9 inches in total, with a 5 inch blade. Made from real silver, quite a simple shape but with an intricate Celtic design engraved on the blade. On the hilt was carved a tiny dragon in a circle, in the equivalent place on the opposite side was another circle, this one had my initials engraved in it. It had been a present from my mother when I started Hogwarts. My father never knew of it, it was a private thing between me and my mother. We always stuck together despite the trouble he always seemed to bring on the family.

I laid the knife gently on the desk beside me and rolled up my left sleeve to just above the elbow, carefully folding back the cloth. The process was familiar and somehow strangely comforting. Slowly I traced the pattern of old scars along my arm with my forefinger. That dagger, specially made just for me had seen its fair share of use, I reached for it again never once taking my eyes off my arm. I gripped the handle tightly feeling its cool weight in my hand, its presence was reassuring. Then slowly bringing it closer and closer to my arm until the blade rested lightly on my skin. Swiftly now, applying a slight pressure I drew the blade across my arm, and again. I only meant to create a slight pain to release the hurt and confusion that was building up inside my chest, but I was suddenly out of control and my hand seemed to work of its own accord: cutting and cutting. Catching sight of the blood trickling down to my wrist and soaking into my leg I stopped, gasping for breath. There shouldn't be that much blood, it was only a few scratches. But the scratches looked more like deep gashes and a few appeared to be more like 15 or 16. I felt sick but I couldn't move I just sat that gazing intently at what I'd done to myself. Then a noise made me look up, Harry Potter was standing in the doorway, a determined look on his face.

He asked me why, I told him I had to let the pain out, I was hurting so much. "Why" he asked me again. That word, always that word. The one question I didn't really know the answer to. I started talking...