It Was His Own Grief Turned Magically

Harry Had The Impression That Even The Barman Was Listening In. He Was Wiping The Same Glass With The Filthy Rag; It Was Becoming Steadily Dirtier.

At That Moment, Harry Fully Understood For The First Time Why People Said Dumbledore Was The Only Wizard Voldemort Had Ever Feared. The Look Upon Dumbledore's Face As He Stared Down At The Unconscious Form Of Mad-eye Moody Was More Terrible Than Harry Could Have Ever Imagined. There Was No Benign Smile Upon Dumbledore's Face, No Twinkle In The Eyes Behind The Spectacles. There Was Cold Fury In Every Line Of The Ancient Face; A Sense Of Power Radiated From Dumbledore As Though He Were Giving Off Burning Heat.

He Had Been So Busy Getting Away From The Library, He Hadn't Paid Attention To Where He Was Going.

I'm Serious, Harry, Don't Go." But Harry Only Had One Thought In His Head, Which Was To Get Back In Front Of The Mirror, And Ron Wasn't Going To Stop Him. That Third Night He Found His Way More Quickly Than Before. He Was Walking So Fast He Knew He Was Making More Noise Than Was Wise, But He Didn't Meet Anyone. And There Were His Mother And Father Smiling At Him Again, And One Of His Grandfathers Nodding Happily. Harry Sank Down To Sit On The Floor In Front Of The Mirror. There Was Nothing To Stop Him From Staying Here All Night With His Family. Nothing At All.

Depression Isn't Just Being A Bit Sad. It's Feeling Nothing. It's Not Wanting To Be Alive Anymore.