He sat at the Slytherin table, depression eating at his stomach. The mark on his left arm still stung from the night before, and the pain was almost unbearable. The Dark Lord looked him straight in the eye that night and trusted him. He trusted him to follow his orders and serve him well. Draco looked down at the silver knife that sat beside his plate, and an image came to mind.

The blade pressed harshly against my skin, and the blood slowly rushed out onto my robes. Everything that I had wished for as a kid didn't exist anymore, so why live for it?

He shook his head, clearing the image out of his mind. The thoughts had come to him often, as if he didn't have any friends or family to live for. His parents treated him with no love, for he was already a boy of sixteen. And Crabbe and Goyle only hung out with him because they were terrified of him. He heard a fork drop to the floor, and his mind was racing again.

The ends of the fork grazed my skin feircly. sending straight lines of blood down my arm. Tears fell from his eyes, staining the table cloth with blood and tears.

He shook his head violently again, refusing to let the temptation take him. He caught sight of the Gryffindor girl, the one with the bright red hair. She sent a warm, shy smile his way, a blush creeping up her cheeks. He turned away quickly, feeling my heart slow down. He saw another knife, yet this time he only thought about using it to cut a small piece of chicken, a smiling making its way to his lips.