The Other Potter: Book One

Chapter Seventeen: Making it Stop.

TW: self harm.

[Chapter Seventeen: Making it Stop. Edited.]

I had taken up walking the corridors alone. I was not sure whether it gave me comfort, or made me feel abandoned, but I did it all the same. From the dungeons to the astronomy tower, I would walk each night. It was an hour before curfew on Monday when I reached the seventh floor, noticing a door I hadn't seen before. Curious, I turned the handle, revealing a bathroom.

I walked in, my feet echoed off the tiles. The room was shockingly white, sterile, as though it were brand new. There were three cubicles, a long sink against the opposite wall, and a mirror hanging above it.

"Hello?" But there was no reply.

I was alone in the room like I was alone in my life. Dumbledore had lied to me. No one cared about me at all. That's what my father had been trying to tell me for years. Trying to make me understand that I was a worthless sack of meat that no one could ever love.

I gripped the basin, staring up at my heinous reflection. I was looking worse than I had in the Mirror of Erised a few weeks prior.

"What are you doing, Willow?" I asked, hoping I'd come up with some answer and save myself.

I gazed down at my hands on the basin. They were thin, sallow like the rest of me. Something else caught my eye. A straight blade razor on the sink.

Why was it there, I wondered, why did it seem to be humming to me. I wanted to know how a tiny piece of metal could draw me in, whisper to me, entice me.

I held the blade in my hand, turning it over and over, trying to ignore what it was asking me to do. I gave in, locking myself in the middle cubicle.

It seemed like the right thing. There was poison underneath my skin. I needed to release it. I needed to let all the dark things out.

I'm a lot more screwed up than people think.

I dragged the razor across my skin, leaving a trail of red dots. The shock of the pain was enough to sooth me for a moment, but moments pass. I needed the soothing feeling again, so I swiped again. Again. Again. Again.

I stopped myself, exhaling a shaky breath. I was shaking. My left arm was completely bloodied. Hardly able to get enough air into my lungs, I wiped the blood off with toilet paper – wincing as it stung my arm – and threw the razor and paper down the toilet. I watched them be flushed away, before pulling my sleeve down and leaving the room. I hoped I'd never see the bathroom again.

I awoke the next morning to an empty room. Hermione hadn't bothered to wake me up. Probably because I was such an awful person to be around. Maybe she'd hoped I had been in a coma, or that I would just never wake up.

I wished that too.

My 'friends' hadn't asked me about Christmas. They didn't know – they didn't want to know. Why would they? To them, I'm just another person with problems.

They spent all this time trying to find out about Nicolas Flamel, but they couldn't be bothered to find out about me. No one cared.

Why should they?

You're just annoying.

They all hate you.

My nightmares continued to worsen, and hallucinating the image of my father was becoming commonplace. The only way to help myself was by taking the Bloodroot potion almost constantly – I was exceeding the dosage, but I had no other options. I was terrified of finishing the bottle, which was becoming a greater problem as the days dragged on.