Abyss

Harry walked through the corridors of Hogwarts, trying to avoid the gazes of other students, but it was impossible. They were all there, whispering among themselves, waiting for him at every corner. Some even laughed openly as they passed by, as if everything around him was funny—everything except him.

"Murderer", — That word never left his ears. Harry could feel it piercing into him, could feel how every movement he made became a consequence of that label. He tried to ignore it, but with every step, the weight of it grew heavier. Especially in the places where no one would have dared to treat him the way they did now.

In Potions class, Professor Snape curled his lips at every answer Harry gave, as if his very existence was an insult to everyone around him. He couldn’t understand what had happened to Harry, but like many others, he had decided that Harry was guilty. It was easier that way. Life was always simpler when there was someone to blame rather than admitting that the world was not perfect—and that sometimes, the most painful truth was impossible to comprehend.

Not only Snape but also many students Harry had once shared moments with—Ron and Hermione—were now avoiding him. They spoke to him only when necessary, and their gazes had turned cold and tense. Sometimes, Harry overheard them talking about how strangely this "killer" was behaving, how their relationship with him was broken.

But the worst part was how he was tormented by those who had once been his friends. Even if they didn’t say it outright, he could see it in their eyes. He knew that, to them, he had become a stranger — someone they could no longer stand to be around. At times, when they weren’t looking, Harry could still feel their sharp gazes piercing his back like invisible needles, stabbing deep into his chest.

In the Great Hall, whenever he sat down, even students who had always been distant from him—like Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy—suddenly became deeply interested in their plates, pretending that his presence was nothing more than a coincidence. Every time Harry tried to speak, whether to start a conversation or ask something important, silence followed. It was as if everyone around him instinctively took a step back, as if his words were poisoned.

And then there were the nights. Nights when insomnia became his only companion. He couldn't close his eyes because there was no shelter in the darkness. No peace, no rest. Just his own thoughts, relentless and unyielding. Thoughts that whispered no one loved him, that no one needed him. And maybe — maybe it was true. Because if they truly believed him, wouldn’t everything be different?

Umbridge, that woman with her perpetual smile and torturous methods, seemed to sense his weakness and exploited it. Every punishment she handed down was petty and painful, like a sadistic ritual. Harry, sometimes breaking into shouts, would respond to her, but there was no certainty in his words. He couldn’t fight back when everyone had already believed he was guilty. Even in her eyes, he wasn’t just a suspect anymore—he had become a target of ridicule, a person who deserved everything that was happening to him.

His life had become filled with these small humiliations. Each morning began with him trying to find the strength to get out of bed. His thoughts tangled like a mosaic, offering him neither peace nor clarity. And though he knew he should keep fighting, that he had always found the strength to move forward, inside him there was something that was slowly consuming him, deeper and deeper with each passing day.

«You know this is the end.», — He heard the quiet words, whispering in the darkness. A voice that returned to him every night when he couldn’t sleep. A voice that wasn’t his, yet somehow became part of his thoughts.

It was worse during the day.

During the day, when the whole of Hogwarts was living its life and he was merely existing. He was a shadow, an empty space at the Gryffindor table, an unwelcome guest in his own home. The teachers didn't hide their contempt, and the students...

Today, they were waiting for him again at the exit of the Great Hall. A group of Slytherins, but not just them—several Hufflepuffs, a couple of Ravenclaws. All those who wouldn’t have even spoken to him before now looked at him with hatred.

"And finally, Potter, how does it feel to kill a friend?" someone asked mockingly.

Harry remained silent.

"And in the end, why did you do it? Was winning the tournament more important?"

He gritted his teeth, holding back the urge to hit.

"And in the end, you didn't even try to save him, did you? You just watched him die."

"And in the end, why did you survive and he didn't?" the Slytherin smirked. "Maybe you knew what was going to happen? Maybe you set it all up yourself?"

"And in the end, it always comes down to one thing: you bring death to those who trust you."

Something broke in him.

He rushed forward.

A fist crashed into his jaw, the feel of bone under his skin, someone else's blood on his hands. Someone screamed, someone laughed. Then a blow - to the side, to the face. He fell to the floor, but did not stop hitting.

He was pulled away only a minute later, when he could hardly see who was in front of him.

The director said that he should restrain himself..

McGonagall said he was acting like a savage..

Umbridge said he would remember the lesson this time.

And here he was, sitting in her office, holding the damned pen again.

«I shouldn't exist.»

The letters were carved into the skin, but Harry felt no pain.

Only emptiness.

Only a voice in my head, soft, satisfied.

«You're finally starting to understand.»