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Water slowly dripped from the shower-head and steam fogged the mirror, distorting the reflection of the teenage boy standing before it. Had the reflection been clearer, one could have observed that the boy in question had brilliant, emerald green eyes and a scar on his forehead in the shape of a lightning bolt.
In the blurred outline provided, it was still possible to tell that this particular boy had a shock of black hair, appeared rather on the scrawny side, and was clad only in a pair of boxer shorts.
Harry reached for the heavy robes that lay discarded on the floor, but did not put them on. Instead, he reached into one of the capacious pockets and withdrew a short, sharp, silver knife – his potions knife, which he had purchased at the beginning of the year from the apothecary in Diagon Alley.
Tossing the cloak aside, Harry examined the blade closely, checking for any indications of uncleanliness. The last thing he needed was for an infection to give away his secret. He knew that if anyone discovered this habit of his they would be horrified. He knew that what he was doing wasn’t exactly healthy, but the release helped him, and he did not want to be subjected to any lectures about his behaviour.
Inspection complete, Harry Potter guided the blade downwards, tracing a horizontal line just above his right hip. There was a slight stinging sensation, and the cut he had made shone red as a thin line of blood came to the surface. His face remaining impassive, he drew the knife across his skin once more, parallel to the first cut.
A number of fading white scars littered his left hip, which had been subject to this same routine the week before. The boy was careful never to leave cuts where others would see them. Wrists, arms and legs were off limits, for fear that somebody would notice the scars and put a stop to it. But his hips were always well hidden beneath layers of clothing or his voluminous black school robes. They were secret. They were safe.
“Harry!” Ron’s voice came from the other side of the door as Harry made his third incision.
“Come on, mate, you’ve been in there for ages”, his friend’s voice grumbled as he rattled the doorknob to no effect. The dark-haired wizard froze, panicked, as Ron’s voice commanded ‘Alohomora’, and the door swung open.
“Sorry mate, but I really need to use the loo and you’ve been…”
Ron froze in the doorway, his eyes widening almost comically as he took in the scene before him; the furious expression on his best friend’s face, the sharp knife lying on the stone floor where Harry had hastily tossed it, and the bleeding cuts on his hip that the dark-haired wizard was making a futile attempt to hide.
“Get out, Ron”, Harry hissed, tension radiating through his wiry frame. Ron didn’t move from the doorway.
“Is everything alright, Ron?” Seamus’ voice floated in from the dormitory. “Is it safe to go in?” he continued, sounding amused. Harry shook his head forcefully, silently begging Ron not to expose him.
“Er, no… don’t come in just yet”, Ron called, his voice sounding slightly strangled. He stepped inside the bathroom and groped behind him to lock the door, his eyes not leaving Harry. Harry watched his friend warily, unable to gage his reaction.
“What the bloody hell are you playing at?” the red-head demanded.
“Get out, Ron”, Harry repeated, his eyes cold and hard.
“The fuck I will!”, Ron retorted, the tips of his ears burning red. “How long has this been going on?”
Harry didn’t answer.
“Why would you do – that – to yourself?” Ron continued, gesturing to the blood on his friend’s hip. Harry looked away.
“It doesn’t matter”, he said quietly. Ron stopped his tirade, shocked into speechlessness. Harry took advantage of his friend’s silence to wash his hands, wipe the fresh blood from his cuts with a damp towel, and put his robe on, covering any trace of injury.
“Harry…” Ron said eventually, all the anger gone from his voice and his tone now reflecting his confusion and sadness, “It matters to me. I don’t know what drove you to this, but I can’t let you hurt yourself. You’re better than that.”
At this statement, Harry’s eyes tightened and he pressed his lips together, turning away from Ron as he ran a hand through his unmanageable hair, hopelessly trying to make it lay flat.
“Clearly I’m not”, he said tightly, not looking at his friend. “I’m sorry to ruin the façade, but your precious ‘Chosen One’ isn’t perfect, alright?”
“No, it’s not alright!” Ron placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder, turning the slighter boy to face him. “I don’t care if you’re the Chosen One or not, you git! I care about the fact that you’re my friend, and you’re hurting yourself!”
Harry seemed to thaw a little at this.
“Don’t worry about me, Ron”, he said softly. “I’m fine.”
“You’re obviously not fine”, the red-head replied.
Harry bit his lip but didn’t answer. He silently bent down to pick up his knife, the blade glinting dully.
“Harry, please”, Ron entreats. “I care about you, mate. I just want to help.”
Harry looked at him, his eyes hollow and sad.
“You can’t.”