“Fleur? Fleur open the door! Please Fleur, please just open the door!”, Harry begged, his hands pounding on the bathroom door. No reply. He tried the doorknob once more. It rattled uselessly, locked from within.
“Dammit!”, He growled, backing up slightly, before he spoke again, louder, “Fleur, if you can hear me, back away from the door! I’m coming in!”
With a grunt, he kicked the door near the doorknob. It shook, clattering against the doorway, yet stubbornly refused to open. Snarling, he backed up again. His foot lashed out, impacting the wood, and with a crash, the door flew open.
The first thing he saw was red. Red stained the white tiles, rivulets running across the marble, pooled under his charge’s wrists. Pale, slim wrists crying a river of red, blood staining her silvery blonde hair, Fleur Delacour lay unresponsive on the bathroom floor.
“Fleur!” Eyes widening in shock, Harry rushed in, dropping to his knees next to his charge, lifting her body (She was cold. She was so cold.), bringing her chest to his ear.
Silence.
Despair gripped him, an unfathomable sense of betrayal and hurt settling over his heart. Why? Why again? They had been doing so well. She had been doing so well. Not a relapse in months.
So why now?
A thump.
He started, his fingers finding her neck. A pulse. Feeble, slow, but there.
He exhaled a great sigh of relief, before snapping into motion.
He tore off his shirt, grabbing a towel from the rack, next to the shower. Swiftly, he bound the injuries, making sure to tie the cloth as tightly as he could.
Propping her up against the wall, he lifted her arms, placing them on the toilet so that they remained above her heart.
Darting back to his bedroom, he grabbed his phone off the nightstand, his fingers dialing his hospital even as he made his way back to the bathroom, back to Fleur.
“Dr. Potter?”, the receptionist's voice was sleepy, with good reason, seeing how late it was.
Harry couldn't care less, “I need an ambulance!”
“Doctor?”
“I need an ambulance at my residence immediately! We have a suicide attempt!”
Frantic activity came from the phone’s speaker as he knelt down next to his charge again, applying pressure to the area above her self-inflicted wounds.
“An Ambulance is on its way, Doctor Potter. It should be there in a few minutes.”
Sighing, he nodded, “Thank you.”
Glancing back down at his patient’s too pale skin, psychiatrist Harry James Potter spoke, “Don't worry Miss Delacour. You’re not dying on me. Not now. Not ever.”