Salty tears trickled rapidly down my pale,drawn cheeks and weighed down my long, dark eyelashes. I didn't even try to fight against them as I achieved what I had so desperately desired. To feel. To have real emotions and not feel numb- zombie like even- for the first time in months. To know what its like to be a normal person whom parents could be proud of... like Al.

No! My little brother is not to blame! How could I be selfish enough to even consider that? I am the one has caused myself so much pain. Why was I such a disappointment? Maybe if I had inherited Grandma Lily's emerald eyes or (my namesake) Grandpa James' humour I would deserve for my father- the great Harry Potter- to give me that look. The look I've seen him send fondly repeatedly to Albus and Lily so many times. The look I know so well but have never received. The look of... pride.

A stab of guilt washed over me so I picked up the blood-encrusted blade that once belonged in my favourite razor. I used to belong in my family. Before when I was pulling pranks with Freddie at Hogwarts or playing Quidditch with Teddy. But that person left a long time ago: in his place an empty shell that doesn't even recognise themselves anymore. So I do the only thing that I know to stop these thoughts and drag the rugged, silver blade across the snowy surface of my arm.

I gasp as a stream of scarlet flows down my arm as the blade is etching across more of my skin. Smiling sightly, I feel strangely calm and peaceful as every bit of poison and despair within in me is now escaping futher down my wrist and reaching my elbow.

Pulling down my grey jumper sleeve, I watch as my blood seeps though the material and creates a small, permanent, ruby, red stain. Permanent. Just like the delicate web of pain that will forever more scar my skin. I laugh at the thought, but now it is time to face reality.

After briefly splashing my face with icy cold water from the bathroom sink, I vaguely feel the painful sensation on my wrist. However believable my excuse for my absence will be, that feeling would remind me otherwise. I am not ok.

Glancing in the mirror, I then gingerly practiced a faux-smile to mask the fact on the inside I was falling apart. Hiding the blade in the pocket of my dressing gown Thung on the bathroom door), I silently pray that nobody will see through just another of my painted smiles.