Author's Note: This story takes place when Harry is an adult. There are elements of abuse in this story. This is also a HP/SS piece. It's already finished and posted elsewhere, so you don't have to worry about long delays between posting.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter & co. belong to J.K. Rowling, and I'm an unemployed soon-to-be grad student, so please don't sue.

Review: And if you feel the need to flame for OOCness or poor syntax, grammar, major plot flaws, general ickyness &ct, please hold off until…March 1. Sorry, family medical tragedy has me preoccupied and a little unwilling to experience criticism, constructive or otherwise, but God willing everything will be fine by March 1. So, yeah.

He can't remember why he started it. Though he knows the thoughts that were likely running through his head at the time. The guilt. Yes, he knows the guilt. But he can't think back to the exact point when cutting seemed a good idea to him. Probably because he knew, all along, that was the most idiotic thing for him to do, the most useless, and wasn't being useless what got him to that point in the first place? Useless. Waste of space, education, love, food, air. He heard it all the time really. From family. From ghosts of friends. And others too, but he can't think about him right now. He's busy looking at his arm, the thin lines, the only time he ever looks beautiful, with that red slowly bleeding into white, like a bloom in the snow. And it's not as if what he is doing is dangerous. That's not just a statement based on comparative basis with his yearly brushes with death. He simply doesn't cut deep. If he were in the Muggle world, he wouldn't even need a bandage for the slight scratches he carves into his body on Thursday nights. And no, he's not suicidal. Well, he realizes that if he is caught he's as good as dead, but that's not quite the same thing, is it?

He sighs as he fixes the sleeve of his robe. The beauty never lasts, at least on him. No permanent marks. He can't even afford to show off the blood, like he occasionally did when he was younger, delighting in coming up with excuses. Paper cuts, tie pins, picture frames, some bastard left broken glass in the bathroom and I just happened to be rolling around on the floor at the time. He gave up the charade within a few months, disheartened by the lack of response. And he knew that it wasn't a cry for help, not really, so why bother making his hobby public? He believes self-abuse to be a private avocation, thank you very much. One of the reasons he fell out with Neville in his seventh-year actually, finally tired of watching the boy torture himself day after day by trying to live up to Severus's expectations of him. It was humiliating for Neville, and Harry, being empathetic to emotional war wounds, couldn't stand it any more. He stepped away, handing the reins of the "Bolster Longbottom's Self-Esteem and Academic Record" over to Hermione, who grudgingly accepted command. He felt for Hermione, he really did. She had been tutoring nearly a dozen students that last year and had practically sobbed with disappointment when Harry gave up on his promise to lighten her load. But, at the time, Harry didn't have room for that kind of guilt in his life, so he moved on rather quickly. Still, that week, he cut more than his forearms, a tribute.

That was years ago. He hasn't spoken to Hermione in weeks and he ought to call, touch base. She's working…he's not even sure. She changes jobs every few months, has been since they finished at Hogwarts four years ago, trying to experience every occupation that was open to her before settling on a career. Harry thinks she's back at the Ministry now, but he can't be sure. He'll owl. Of course he will. If he doesn't, a howler will shout at him, probably in the Great Hall, "Harold James Potter! Why haven't you written me? Are you alive and well?" Or something to that effect, but the second name will definitely make an appearance, to maximize his shame.

Harry adjusts his robes for the third and final time before entering the hall and sitting at his seat at the head table. He silently thanks Minerva again for seating him next to Filius. Harry never reached the six-foot mark, hovering like a scared child at 5'9", and the contrast against Flitwick comforted him. Maybe he could ask the Charms professor if he too was raised in a cupboard under the stairs. It could become a drunken joke, something to laugh about at holidays, pointing out short-statured students at the sorting ceremony, saying, "He's a broom closet man, but she, she's definitely a garden shed." Yes, Harry thinks he would enjoy trivializing his childhood embarrassment. But perhaps not with Flitwick. He might be sensitive about his lack of altitude, and Harry enjoyed the friendship he had with the diminutive professor. What he needs is someone with a drier sense of humor.

"Back from another round with the knife?" Snape asks sneers goads at his right. Was that supposed to be a joke?

Oh, yes, Harry has just come from a tutorial with the seventh-years on self-defense without magical aid. Snape's remark has nothing to do with the Thursday evening tradition.

"We're still on baseball bats, actually," Harry answers, as he pours one capsule of muscle relaxant into his pumpkin juice, the only physical reminder of his 5 minute eternal cringe under the Cruciatus curse during the Hogsmeade battle three years ago. He is prone to seizing, even now, but everyone agreed that it should have been a lot worse. Life in the vegetable patch worse.

"Baseball?" Flitwick asks. "I was given to understand that that is an American sport."

"Yes, but baseball bats are Scottish weapons," Snape answers for him. Harry knows that the Potions master is correct, if unoriginal. Ever since the riot during the World Cup of '99, academic journals have been cramming psychological studies of mob mentality, along with examples from Muggle football, down the learned public's collective throat. Harry often marvels at said throat's lack of gag reflex. If only he were so lucky, he supposes he'd be more popular.

"Severus, do you know if the school's supply of wormwood is sturdy enough to withstand my taking about three ounces worth? I've just run out."

"Are you planning to administer Living Death to the whole of Hogwarts and a good portion of Hogsmeade beside?" Snape asks, eyebrows done up in a mockery of concern. Of course, Harry knows that Snape is never concerned about anything to do with Harry.

"No," Harry answers. He shouldn't be so stubborn. He should submit himself, because really, they'd all see how broken he is if he doesn't get that wormwood by morning, but it's Thursday evening and Harry is very happy for himself and Snape doesn't have to take that away from him today. He can wait.

"Come to my office after dinner," Snape grunts. Harry nods, wonders if that was a yes or no, and continues to eat. Some of his new first-years who invariably appoint themselves as The Harry Potter's guardian have kindly told him that he looks emaciated. Well, they said he looks sick awful thin. Harry knows the cause. It's not a lack of food or sleep, only health. The wormwood is stripping years off his life, but he imagines that the children wouldn't care to know this. So he tells them it's a simple cold. Except that one time, last year, when he told Annie Butler that he was a werewolf, just after the change. He apologized once he decided that Remus probably wouldn't have laughed.