The air was stale with blood and the musk of dirt, the moonlight filtering through the grime smeared window panes, an overall atmosphere of taint pervading over the bathroom. Steady eyes gazed down at the cracked pair of glasses on the floor, both hands braced against the sides of the sink as he hunched over, fighting the nausea that rose up his throat.

Silhouettes danced ominously in the corners of his vision, egging him on silently in the austerity. The teen ducked his head, arms shaking violently as he leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the mirror; biting his lip hard enough to tear through the cracked skin.

His arm ached dully, the throb consistently present in his absent mind, burning through the paleness of his skin with a vengeance. The teens bleary eyes focused clumsily on the blood blossoming and trailing down his hand and wrist, framing his thin arm in a spiderweb. Harry brought one hand up, studying it intently, the blood bubbling up from the inflamed skin. He'd banged it up pretty badly by smashing it against the brick wall.

The fifth year swallowed heavily, letting his eyes flicker shut as tear tracks made their way down his drawn features. The teen leaned down further, shoving the heels of his hands into his eyes, ignoring the blood that wet his lids. His breathing was shaky at best as his knees went weak, causing him to stumble slightly against the bathroom sink.

A groan choked up from his throat, voice wavering as he draped himself over the sink, elbows slipping into the cold blood coated basin.

His scar was throbbing with a vengeance like someone was shoving jagged knife into the wound. As he looked back up into the mirror the bright green eyes framed with red struck him as odd.

This wasn't him. This wasn't who he was.

He could feel every tendon and joint in his arm cry out in protest as he smashed his fist against the mirror, right where his nose was. Instantly Harry drew his hand back and cradled it against his chest. His legs gave out against him once more and Harry found himself flat on his back with pain shooting like pins and needles up and down his arm.

His breathing slowed down as he stared up at the stained glass of the bathroom ceiling, and the shaking slowly stopped. Every shred of anger was bleeding out of him and he couldn't feel it anymore. He wasn't feeling much anyway at this point.

His eyelids felt heavy over his eyes and all his efforts to move were firmly rejected by his brain. Harry curled up on the grungy bathroom floor and held his throbbing hand against himself. His skin felt cold and he knew he was going to fall unconscious again soon.

It was like this, every time he let things bottle up, then it'd explode at the smallest thing and the new headline would read something along the lines of "Crazy Boy Who Lived Does it Again" and he'd beat himself up over it, pass out, repeat. It was nothing new.

And Harry knew he'd wake up again in the morning, patch himself up and sneak back into the dorms like nothing had happened.