Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to the Harry Potter series. None of the characters are mine. Anything you recognize as pertaining to the books or movies is not mine. Now let the story begin…

They don't know my secrets. What I do at night, when darkness is plentiful, when my bed curtains are drawn shut. When nobody else in the dorm is awake; nobody else can see. They don't know what's in my little box; in my bag; under my pillow; in my bathroom cubby; slipped into the binding of my books. Hidden in the hem of my jeans. Behind the Gryffindor crest on my robes. Everywhere. They don't know what I'm hiding, or even that I'm hiding anything. I've become quite good at concealing things, you know. None of them suspect a thing. Thank Merlin for scourgify charms.

My false smiles, the cheery laughter, the passing grades... That's all you need to focus on, right? Right. Everything's fine if you're happy and smart. Perfect. What more could one need? Show up at supper regularly, and everything's just great. Eat enough so as not to arouse suspicion, and excuse yourself to finish your Transfiguration essay. Nobody suspects a thing. Nobody. That's the wonder of it…

"I'm going to head up to finish that essay that's due tomorrow. I don't know how I forgot that it's due. I'll talk to you two later!" I say brightly as I stand up and wave to Harry and Ron. Harry mumbles a "Bye Hermione," and immerses himself in the Daily Prophet once more. Nobody's died that we know. Yet. Ron just makes a strange grunting noise, forking more mashed potatoes into his gaping mouth. Honestly, I can't see how that boy can stand to eat that much.

I push my chair in and stride out of the Great Hall, turning left once I'm out of the noisy room. As I walk up the many staircases, the portraits converse with each other, sparing only a glance for the student wandering the castle. My footsteps echo off the stone structure of the ancient building as I stride down the familiar corridor and push open a door. A tearful ghost lets out her usual wail as she rockets down the pipe of a broken sink.

I shake my head, walking into one of the rarely used stalls. After a moment of rooting through my pocket, I find an elastic wrap and tie my bushy hair back into a ponytail behind my head. Crouching down onto my knees, two fingers slip into my mouth almost of their own accord and flex. I feel a small heave in my stomach, and do it again, shoving them a bit deeper. With a little manipulating, my supper is streaming out over my hand and into the water of the ceramic toilet bowl. The most recently eaten to least recently; the most calorie dense to least. A dark, rich brown from the cake, milky white from a few bites of ice cream, pale chunks of pasta, reds from the tomato sauce, greens from the lettuce, and finally some bright orange bits from the carrots; my signal I'm done.

I remove my fingers and use some toilet tissue to wipe the food from my hand and mouth, and then toss it into the toilet with the rest. Standing, I flush the colorful mixture and walk out, going to the sinks to wash up. I roll the sleeves of my black Hogwarts robes to my elbows and carefully wash my hands of any evidence. My knuckles are beginning to bleed slightly each time I do this: a side-affect from the stomach acid sliding over them so often. No worry; I'm getting better at being able to just push on my stomach just below the left side of my ribcage and heaving. It's coming up easier every day. Quieter, too.

I shake my head to clear my thoughts and gaze at my arms. White, purple, pink, brown, and shockingly red marks blemish my skin, going in every direction. Small groups of parallel lines, carved designs, haphazard slashes. I feel my lips curve into a faint smile, and cup my hands beneath the water. I wash my face and dry the water off on my sleeve. Then I decide to just slip the robes off, since they're wet now anyway. Carefully, meticulously, I fold them and lay the bundle on the sink next to the one I'm at. That's how my life is. Everything done to perfection. Nothing but perfection is an option.

My fingers slip beneath the waistband of my pleated uniform skirt and soon find a rip in the fabric. Moments later, a thin, glittering steel blade is pulled out, held deftly between my pointer and middle fingers. The familiar feel is almost soothing. Almost. I turn the razor over in my fingers, examining every detail of it. The abrupt change in the shine as the sides slant toward each other to form a perfect, flawless edge. The way the thicker, rounded rectangle of metal is folded over the dull edge to make the metal easier to hold onto in ones fingers. An oval shaped hole directly in the center of the flat plane, and one half oval on either blunt end. Every bit of it is as perfect and flawless as the last.

My eyes abruptly change their focus onto my arms. It's a foolish place to do anything self-inflicted, I know. But it's most convenient, and while I've never been overly fond of sleeveless shirts, I've been studying glamour charms to mask the outward marks if I ever need to. Until such an occasion appears, however, I choose to enjoy being able to glance down, slip my sleeve up ever so slightly, and see a quick glimpse of red to calm me before returning my attention to the lesson.

Softly, my fingers trail over the freshest wounds. Miniscule scabs break away, and I watch as equally miniscule droplets of red rise up to take their place. I close my eyes and trace each scar and wound on my arm. I silently count them in my head as I go along. Each time I lose track of where I was or count the same mark twice, I start over at the beginning once more.

It's become almost a ritual now. My life has become a ritual. Each day is as carefully planned out as the next. From when I wake up, to my classes, to what I eat, how many bites I take, how many lines on each roll of parchment, the number of times I tap my quill, this… It's all done to perfection. Shining, precise, exact perfection. Nothing but my best is acceptable. Every letter must be identical. Every line of writing perpendicular to the edge of the paper. Every single one of my teeth straight and porcelain white, with the help of charms. Every bite of food quickly and carefully calculated, measured, timed. A never ending cycle of perfection.

I finish counting, and smile again. A nice, even, round number. Perfect. As usual. Gently, I let my blade ghost over each and every line marking my pale flesh. Crimson droplets roll down my arm, leaving a red trail in their path. Like one long, straight, perfect footstep. More perfect than I'll ever be.

The truth is, I'm not as perfect as everyone believes I am. I'm never going to be perfect, but not being perfect is not an option for me. It never was, and it never will be. I must be perfect. I have to be perfect. The best. The smartest, the neatest, the thinnest… It's never going to end. Not until I'm perfect. Only when I have achieved that state of perfection will I be worthy enough. Worthy enough for what, I don't know. But I'll know once I'm perfect. I won't be perfect until I know. Knowing and perfection go hand in hand.

I watch as my hand drags the small piece of steel across my skin as if it has a mind of its own. I don't stop it. There's no need to. Blood quickly fills the cavern created in my skin and spills out, running down my arm, my wrist, my hand, and into the whiteness of the sink. It looks almost orange against the blinding white porcelain.

Another slice, parallel to the first. Wounds just beginning to heal are ripped open again, blood flowing out to join the rest. The blade switches hands and slices twice in exactly the same spots on my other arm. Exactly. Yet again, a smile forms on my lips. The feeling is exhilarating; refreshing. It's almost like a high. I gaze at my arms, and a faint giggle escapes my throat.

Almost perfect.

I walk to the door and peek out into the hallway. All is silent. Curfew has passed by now, and Ron and Harry are probably playing chess in the Gryffindor common room like they do every night. Slowly, I walk to the staircase and make my way down. They stop moving at night. They don't switch between classrooms as they do during the day. There's no need to.

My footsteps echo as quietly as they did earlier. The portraits are slumbering quietly in their frames. A few of them are snoring. Scarlet drips from my fingertips, making its way from my arm to the stairs and floor. It's beginning to slow, and I'm feeling only slightly faint. Not much blood has been lost from my wounds. The cuts weren't that deep. Just enough to bleed nicely. I step over the vanishing stair and a few moments later, I am standing in the entrance corridor near the Great Hall. The house hourglasses rest in niches in the stone wall, gems glittering in the faint moonlight from the tall windows. Rubies for Gryffindor, topaz for Hufflepuff, sapphires for Ravenclaw, and a deep emerald for Slytherin.

I look down at my arms and smooth my fingers over the drying blood that has caked on. The razor is still held in my fingers. I slash at each arm, reopening the wounds. They begin to bleed in earnest again, and I can't move my eyes away in morbid fascination. I cup my hand and blood begins to form a small pool. Quietly, I walk to the blank wall just below the hourglasses. Dipping three fingers in the blood held in my hand, I raise them above my head and spread the scarlet liquid over the stone in almost mechanical movements.

Feeling a bit dizzy now, I lower myself to the floor in front of the wall, leaning my back against it. I wipe the silver blade against my skirt to remove the redness. For a minute, I watch the blood slowly stream down my arms. My body is buzzing almost pleasantly. Yet at the same time, it's numb.

I feel only a brief, sharp pain as I swipe the sharp metal against the arteries at the back of each knee. Another sharp pain for both cuts from elbow to wrist. Across each wrist. A quick stab deep into the large artery visible in the crook of my elbows. The blood is flowing quickly now as I let the blade fall from my fingertips. The hall around me is beginning to spin, slowly one way, then a tug and its tilting and spinning the other way. Black spots of random sizes flash across my vision, each one outlined with specks of colors, like glitter. I tilt my head back to gaze up at the dripping scarlet on the wall. Suddenly, I feel a weight being lifted from my chest, I'm light as air, and I'm spinning, falling…

Four words grace the wall beneath the shining hourglasses. Four words will greet each and every Hogwarts student come morning. Four perfect, straight, identically sized words.

Am I perfect yet?