Small incision ff.net version

Hi there guys, this is my first story on FF.net.

In case you didn't read the warnings, this story will be a hard R story. It isn't yet, but I'd say the "stuff" is going to come in two or three chapters. Right now I have to write this stuff so as to make an attempt at giving this creation a plot.

also, I do not own Harry Potter or any of the other characters. J.K. Rowling owns them. I am merely borrowing them for a short time, and I will return them as I found them, unharmed. (Well, a few of the boys may be walking funny for a while, but no real damage will be done ^_^)

Please REVIEW ::looks with watery eyes::

Chapter 1

//I gave myself to the pain ages ago

I've forgotten that I was ever loved

Maybe I wasn't...//

Summer at the Dursley's. The thought of spending the summer with his aunt, uncle, and cousin was once enough to fill Harry with dread. Now, as he sat looking out the window of uncle Vernon's car at the passing houses, Harry realized he didn't care anymore. He stopped caring about a lot of things after Sirius died.

The car ride to Number four Privet Drive was uneventful. No one asked Harry how his school year had gone, or why he seemed so gloomy, or if anything new was happening with him. He hadn't really expected them to anyway.

They arrived at Number four and Uncle Vernon heaved Harry's trunk up to stairs and into the small room Harry occupied during his stay with the Dursleys. Harry followed, carrying Hedwig's cage and his Firebolt. Uncle Vernon had been persuaded by Mad-Eye Moody not to lock Harry's things in the cupboard, and to let Hedwig fly when she wanted.

Once all of Harry's stuff was in his room, Uncle Vernon left without a word, which was fine with Harry. Harry sat on his bed, not bothering to unpack, and stared at the wardrobe on the other side of the room.

As hard as he tried, he could not stop thinking of Sirius. His brain began to go over the "what-ifs" once again. If I had only used the mirror instead of Umbridge's fire… I could have gotten to him. Unless he didn't have his mirror with him while tending to Buckbeak. And a worse thought: If only I had taken my occlumency lessons more seriously... if only I had studied harder. Voldemort wouldn't have gotten to me. He kept thinking of the mirror, and the ache grew worse. Sirius is gone, and it's my fault. I don't care what Dumbledore or anyone else says. I had to play the hero, I didn't think things through. I should have asked for help. He's gone because of my carelessness… The ache was unbearable, and a tear slid down Harry's cheek.

He brought his hands up to cover his face and sighed. He thought of taking a nap… he felt so very tired. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep though. He shifted on the bed and heard something crinkle in his pocket. He stuck his hand into the pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. He opened it and saw familiar handwriting. It was from Dumbledore. He must have slipped it in my pocket before I left, or maybe Moody or someone did it for him at the station.

Harry,

I'm sure you'll be happy to know that you'll only have to spend three weeks with the Dursleys this summer, then you'll be able to stay with Ron and his family for two weeks. However, it is my wish that you continue your Occlumency lessons with Professor Snape. After your two weeks with Ron, you will come to Hogwarts and spend the rest of your summer learning Occlumency. This is very important. I know you dislike Professor Snape, but you know the reason I can not teach you myself. I'm very sorry that I can't, but, in addition to the fact that Voldemort must not know that you and I are closer than Headmaster and pupil, I have very pressing issues to contend to that concern the Order. I also hope that this will be a chance for you and Severus to overcome your differences and 'bury the hatchet', so to speak. With the coming war, you two must learn to work together and trust each other. Please do not be too angry with me, Harry.

Sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

P.S. Burn this letter once you've read it, lest it fall into the wrong hands.

Harry finished reading the letter and sighed. Weeks ago the thought of spending time with Snape would have sent him into a fit of fury with Dumbledore. He reminded himself that he didn't care anymore. He re-read the letter to make sure he didn't miss anything, and then he reached for his wand to burn it, only to realize that he wasn't allowed to do magic. Sighing, he stood to walk over to his wardrobe and fish through a drawer, looking for a lighter. Moments later he found one, and he used it to set fire to the letter. It burned quickly, and he crumpled the crisp remains in his hand and walked to the open window and opened his hand, letting the wind scatter the ashes.

He watched as the ashes of the letter floated on the slight breeze that was blowing, and then turned his eyes to the sky, hoping to see a glimpse of Hedwig. He had let her out to stretch her wings before they left the station. He was confident that she would find her way back to Number four. He wasn't too worried because she shouldn't have been carrying any mail, which meant that no one would have a reason to intercept and harm her.

He stood at the window, watching the sky grow darker. It was relatively quiet outside. He heard a faint knock on his door and turned around to see his Aunt Petunia opening it to look at him. He stared at her, confused. She wasn't wearing her usual expression of contempt that she reserved for him.

"Dinner's ready." She said softly, continuing to stare at him until he nodded in acknowledgement at her announcement. She turned, shutting the door as quietly as she had opened it, and he heard her going down the stairs. He turned back to the window and shut it, then headed out of his room to go downstairs for dinner.

Dinner was quieter than it usually was in the past, and no one really looked at him. He was sued to being ignored at the Dursley's, but something felt different. He didn't feel like he was being ignored out of anger. Actually, he didn't feel as though he was being ignored at all. He had the distinct impression that everyone at the table was acutely aware of his existence at the moment, and he saw no anger or annoyance. He ate second helpings to see if Petunia would yell at him (she usually didn't let him eat more than one helping). To his surprise, she actually pushed the bowl of mashed potatoes toward him. Even Dudley was quiet, and refrained from torturing Harry as he usually did.

What's wrong with them? Did they take Moody seriously? Of course they did… he is pretty intimidating. Harry remembered the warning that Mad-Eye had given Vernon at the station, telling him that they better be nice to Harry, or else. They must have taken him seriously, because they weren't being a complete pain, but the weren't exactly warm and loving either. Harry had to admit that he was glad that they didn't try to talk to him, though.

After dinner Petunia took the dishes to the sink and began to wash them. Harry stood for a moment, trying to decide whether he should leave or offer to wash them. Petunia usually made him wash them, and he found it odd that she wasn't making him tonight. They are making an effort to be civil… maybe I should meet them half way.

He walked up to the sink and stood next to Petunia. "I'll do those." He pointed at the dishes. She looked at him for a moment, then stepped to the side. "You wash and rinse, and I'll dry and put them away." She said, handing Harry the dishrag. He was taken aback for a moment, then realizing what he was supposed to be doing, he took the rag and started washing. They finished in a short amount of time. Petunia headed for the living room, and Harry went up the stairs, intending to go back to his room.

He was about to step through the doorway to his room when he heard the stairs creak. He turned his head to see Dudley standing at the top of the stairs, staring at him and fidgeting nervously. "Harry... I wanted to thank you for saving me from those dementor things last summer..." Dudley was still fidgeting and he looked down at a spot on the floor at Harry's feet. "No problem." Harry looked at Dudley a moment longer, then walked into his room, closing the door behind him.

He made his way across the room and sat on his bed, thinking about all that had went on this evening. Sure, Moody is intimidating, but I didn't think the Dursley's would act like this. He thought.

He climbed onto his bed, not bothering to undress. He lay with his arms behind his head, and he looked at the ceiling in the darkness. He was once again aware of the gaping void inside himself that once harbored the happiness that had been Sirius Black. That happiness was now gone... it had been snatched away when Sirius died. There was no more joy.

First my parents, now Sirius. I can't really remember Mum and Dad dying... but Sirius...And it was all my fault, I could have saved him! "The Boy Who Lived"! What a joke. I wish I hadn't lived. I wish I had fucking died when my parents died. Cedric would be alive, Sirius would be alive. It's my fault they're dead. He felt the wetness on his face and the burning in the pit of his stomach. His insides were alive with his grief... with his guilt. He wanted to wretch, he wanted to throw everything inside of him out, to lay on the floor and die.

He bit back a sob as his mind replayed the image of his godfather dying... He wanted to scream as he kept seeing the graceful arch of that beautiful lithe body over and over again, as Sirius fell through the veil and disappeared.

Why didn't I go in? Who cares if one can never come out?! I would be with Sirius right now. A lot of lives would probably be saved as well. There's no telling how many more people are going to die because of me... for me! He rolled onto his stomach and buried his face into his pillow as the hot, wet tears streamed from his eyes. He tasted their bitterness on his lips. He cried himself to sleep.

//The pain never subsided

I only became numb of its existence

I have lost the pureness of my youth

I have lived when all that I wanted was to die...

I am a child, but my soul feels ageless

It has been shattered a thousand times over

And yet I continue to rise from the ashes of my burning soul, reborn like the phoenix

Unwilling to live, yet unable to die.//

He woke sometime during the night, his face sticky and eyes puffy, and his mouth felt as though it was stuffed with cotton. He listened. The downstairs t.v. wasn't on, and he couldn't hear anyone talking. He looked at his bedside clock. "Three a.m...." he whispered. "Damn, I'm thirsty."

He got out of bed and quietly opened the door to pad softly down the hall and steps to get to the kitchen. He looked in the fridge. "Orange juice... apple juice...hmm..." He pulled out a glass bottle of Cream Soda then went to the silverware drawer to look for a bottle opener.

He couldn't see that well so he had to feel around a bit. He gasped as he felt something cut the tip of his finger. He pulled out what had cut him. It was a knife... one that he had rarely seen Aunt Petunia use.

He looked at the blade in the dim light and saw the red tinge of his blood on it. He stared at it, fascinated. He placed it on the counter and continued his search for the bottle opener. He found it a few seconds later and popped the top off of the Cream Soda bottle to down its contents in a matter of seconds. He threw the bottle in the bin then grabbed the knife off of the top of the counter and made his way back to his room.

Once inside he quietly shut the door and walked to his bed to turn on the lamp that sat on his nightstand. He sat on the edge of his bed and examined the knife in his hand. The blood it had drawn when he sliced his finger in the drawer was already starting to dry on the blade.

//A child doesn't feel what I feel

A child doesn't know what I know

A child is innocent and pure...

And I have been denied those childlike qualities.

The pain was all I had ever known

But now I feel nothing

Are you human if you feel nothing, not even pain?//

The hand holding the knife moved as if of its own accord, bringing the blade to rest against the wrist of the hand that wasn't holding the knife. He lightly scraped the blade across the skin, across the vein he could see under the skin. He shuddered. I'm too weak, I can't do this part yet. He moved the knife higher, past his elbow and to his shoulder. He pulled up the sleeve of his shirt. He pressed the blade against his skin and dragged it across his arm, gasping as he cut himself open. It wasn't a very deep cut, but it hurt.

His heart was racing. The physical pain made him forget the burning hole inside of him. He moved the blade down a little and began to cut another line under the first one, his hand shaking with anticipation. He bit back a whimper as he cut deeper. He felt the blood trickle down his arm. Again he felt the absence of his emotional pain as the physical pain took over.

//I strive for physical pain

To exhaust me, to make me forget what I am

Whatever that may be

I live my life flinging myself against the fear that oppresses me

Against the self-loathing that threatens to consume me//

Anything to make it stop... Maybe I can bleed the memories away. He thought as he sliced a new line. Rivulets of blood ran down his arm.

//I look at the blade and love the way it feels against my yielding flesh.

Maybe I can bleed the memories away...

But the shame is always there...//

He felt exhausted. He grabbed an old shirt and wiped the blood off his arm, then pulled his sleeve down to cover his shoulder. He turned off his bedside lamp and climbed beneath the blankets on his bed. He felt the old guilt, the presence of the hole, but he was too exhausted to cry... too exhausted to do anything. He had one last thought before he slipped into unconsciousness. Maybe I can bleed the memories away, but the shame is always there.

//Destroy me

I am destroying myself

Why shouldn't you?

Give me pain

Show me that I'm alive

Let me know that I'm not as dead as I feel on the inside.//

---Bastet

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