Shattered Moonstone

The potion was supposed to be a simple Draught of Living Death. But Draco’s hands were shaking so bad the crushed moonstone slipped off the blade and scattered across the table like tiny glittering tears. He pressed his lips together, tried to breathe—in, out—but the air felt thick, syrupy. The whispers of his classmates blurred into a distant hum, not loud enough to drown out the voice in his head.

*You’re worthless. You’re disgusting. You deserve this.*

Snape’s lecture on stirring techniques faded to static. Draco stared at the knife in his hand, the way the light caught its edge. The promise of a clean, sharp line. His skin prickled under his robes. The familiar emptiness in his stomach twisted, demanding to be fed—or emptied. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday. Last night he’d binged—treacle tart, pumpkin pasties—then purged it all into the second-floor toilet, crying while the water swirled pink.

Now the urge to cut was coiled tight in his chest.

He couldn’t do this. Not here. Not in front of everyone.

“Professor Snape? May I be excused? I’m feeling unwell.”

Snape’s dark eyes flicked to him, narrow and suspicious, but Draco had perfected looking pale and fragile when it served him. After a moment, Snape gave a curt nod. “Five minutes, Malfoy. Don’t dawdle.”

Draco shoved his chair back, grabbed his wand—that’s all he needed—and walked out. Measured steps. Heart hammering. The corridor was empty, lit by guttering torches casting long shadows. He knew where he was going. The second-floor bathroom with the cracked mirror and the dripping tap. The one no one used because it smelled of mold and despair.

He locked the door behind him. The click was loud in the silence.

Small bathroom, black and white tiles, one stall and a sink. Draco set his wand down and rolled up his left sleeve. Scars crisscrossed his forearm—some old and silver, some pink and raised, some still scabbed. He’d been doing this since third year. Since the breakup. Since Blaise looked at him with those cold, beautiful eyes and said, *“You’re too much, Draco. You’re broken.”*

He’d believed him. He still did. But the pain—the sharp, bright sting of the blade? That was real. That was truth.

He conjured a small sharp knife with a flick of his wand. Easy. Too easy. Pressed the tip to the soft skin of his inner forearm, just above the wrist. Drew a thin red line. Blood welled up, beading like rubies. Draco let out a shaky breath. The pressure in his chest eased, just a fraction.

He did it again. And again. The cuts weren’t deep—he never went deep enough to need stitches, not yet—but they were enough. They were always enough, until they weren’t.

When he was done, he knelt in front of the toilet and shoved two fingers down his throat. Gag reflex kicked in. Bile came up hot and acrid, burning his throat. He heaved until his stomach was empty, until there was nothing but dry retches. Then he slumped against the side of the stall, trembling.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He fumbled it out, blinking through blurred vision. A text from an unknown number, but he knew it by heart.

**Unknown:** *I’m done pretending. This isn’t healthy for either of us. Don’t contact me again.*

Blaise. After months of threats, he finally sent the breakup text. Draco had known it was coming. He’d been bracing himself, hoping if he made himself small enough, quiet enough, good enough, Blaise would change his mind. But no. He was too much. He was broken.

The phone slipped from his fingers, clattered to the floor. Draco pressed his forehead to the cool porcelain. Let the tears come—silent, hot, running down his cheeks into the water.

He didn’t hear the bathroom door open.

He didn’t hear the footsteps.

“Bloody hell—Malfoy?”

Draco’s head snapped up. Harry Potter stood in the doorway, Ron a step behind. Both frozen. His sleeve was still rolled up, fresh cuts oozing blood. Toilet bowl stained with vomit. Phone on the floor, screen lit with Blaise’s message.

For a long, terrible moment, no one moved.

Then Draco scrambled to his feet, yanking his sleeve down with a sob. “Get out! Get out, Potter!”

“You’re bleeding—”

“I said get out!”

Ron’s face was pale, eyes wide. “Harry, maybe we should—”

“No.” Harry turned to Ron, expression hard. “Ron, go find McGonagall. Tell her Malfoy’s sick. I’ll stay.”

Ron hesitated, looked between them, then nodded and hurried out. The door clicked shut. They were alone.

Draco backed against the wall, chest heaving. Sleeve already staining red. “Don’t touch me. Don’t come near me.”

Harry held up his hands, palms out. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to help.”

“I don’t need your help.” Draco’s voice cracked. “I don’t need anyone’s