One Fateful Night

Crawling in my skin... these wounds, they will not heal...

He lay on the cold stone floor, the warm blood dripping into his mouth. The ceiling was his current object of fascination, but that was only cause it was there when he first started. And as he started to think, he realized that the ceilings and the floors were the only ones who had ALWAYS been there. Sure, he had empty promises of 'staying by his side forever', but they had become just that: empty. Everyone had deserted him.

But he couldn't blame them. It was his fault that he had dug himself such a deep hole and filled it with lies, with false pretenses, and with dreams that would never come true. He could keep fooling himself. After all, this is what he was doing, fooling himself.

Fear is how I fall...confusing what is real...

It had started after Voldemort came back to power. He was expected to follow in his father's footsteps. But how do you explain that you don't want to end up like your father? He chuckled to himself at that, creating another sound in that empty room except for his constant drinking and the sound of his heart slowing down.

And no matter how hard he tried, no one wanted to believe him. He was expected to become another hero, just like his father. And his father before him, and his father before him. No one was willing to believe that he didn't want to become just another person on a long list of names.

Without a sense of confidence...

He sat up. His cut had dried up. Cursing under his breath, he ran his fingers along the floor until he found Blade. He laughed at this, laughing at his own stupidity. What kind of a person named a razor blade? And what kind of demented person named it Blade? Me. That's who would name a razor blade, Blade. No one else might, but I do, he thought to himself, afraid of his voice. He was afraid of what his voice would sound like after days of not using it.

My walls are closing in...

And then she had to come dancing into the picture. He just woke up one day and found himself in love with her. But no one would ever believe that he really, truly had feelings for her. No one cared to believe anything about him except just the lies they were fed.

His world was closing down on him. He was drowning in his own sorrow and pity. And no one was going to throw him a lifesaver. What the hell am I supposed to do now? No one gives a damn about me, so why should I care about them? I hope they all die! He thought to himself again, putting the blade into position above an already-scarred arm.

I've felt this way before...so insecure...

The scars brought relief to his insecurity. They were always there too. No matter how many times he woke up in the morning, no matter how many times teachers gave him disapproving stares for not turning in homework, the scars would ALWAYS be there. There was no sometimes, there was no never, it was just a simple always.

The slow relief that came from dragging the blade across his skin soothed his fraying nerves. And his stomach's protest at having to digest blood from its own body made him feel empowered. Not many people could quell the sickness they felt from drinking their own blood. Other people's blood was much too hard to get, and besides, he had a body full right here.

He glanced down at his bloodstained hands. Who said that slicing would be a neat and clean business? No one, he reminded himself. He moved to sit against a wall, his obsession with the ceiling gone as his mind filled with thoughts.

Oh no! He was thinking! Thinking was bad to him. Thinking brought back memories. Thinking resulted in making him realize that he had become a shell of his former self, that now he was just another name on the Hogwarts student registry.

What had the Sorting Hat seen inside his head that day? Had the Hat seen his future? Did It know that he would end up like this when he searched through his mind?

Lost in thought, he didn't realize he had accidentally pushed the blade into his arm instead of just dragging it across over and over again. Was this a sign?

He shook his head and clamped his hands around his ears. These questions had to stop. They were ruining his perfect insanity! They were destroying everything! He had been peacefully destroying himself until the questions started!

The blade slipped to the floor, landing with a click. He stared at it, astonished by the way the torchlight danced across the cold Muggle-made metal. He stared closer at it and he discovered that torchlight dancing across the blade was actually a beautiful dancing woman.

The woman's hair was fiery red, and her eyes beckoned with promises of no more sorrow and pity. Her busty curves were barely hidden by the sad excuse of a red dress she wore, and she danced to some seductive tango unheard by anyone but her. He reached out to touch her, and he felt the slow warmth of blood ooze from his bleeding fingertips; he had forgotten that the dancing woman was just an illusion, and that it was a razor blade's sharp end he had reached out to stroke.

Sucking on his fingers, he thought for sometime before he reached his decision. No one needed him. No one cared about him. And it would matter to no one if he disappeared. That night was the fateful night....

Headmaster Albus Dumbledore awoke suddenly. Something had happened to one of his students. Dumbledore leapt out of his bed, and quickly stepped into his favorite slippers and wrapped his warmest robe around his nightshirt as he began to awake the other members of the Hogwarts faculty.

It was Severus Snape that found him first. Snape had been assigned the upper floors, where the 5^th years and above spent their time together. After systematically checking every room, Snape had one last room. Mumbling to himself about having to be woken up at 2 in the morning and how Dumbledore must be off his rocker, Snape almost didn't check the last one. But something tugged at him, and wouldn't let him go until he opened that last door.

The body was sitting up against the wall, the boy's wand in his hand. "Albus...Albus! ALBUS!" Severus yelled, making almost every other staff member but the headmaster come running.

"It is as I feared. Professor Trelawney's prediction did indeed come true." Dumbledore said, as he wiped away a tear streaking its way down his wrinkled cheek.

"She did make a prediction that someone would die." Minerva McGonagall mumbled.

"She just didn't specify who, though." Professor Sinistra said. After all, who would've thought that the one to die would've been Draco Malfoy?