Title: Chased by a Madman
Chapter: (1) Scars
Rating: M (For obvious reasons here and later)
Genre: Drama/Mystery/General
Disclaimer: I do not own anything that belongs to JK Rowling's works.
"As I walk'd by myself, I talk'd to myself And myself replied to me; And the questions myself then put to myself, With their answers I give to thee."
Author: Bernard Barton
Source: Colloquy with Myself, appeared in "Youth's Instructor", Dec. 1826
Chapter One: Scars
Harry blinked, not bothering to wipe away the tears now streaming down his face; his emerald eyes never straying from the dying embers of the common room fire.
Sirius, I didn't mean to do it – can you ever forgive me?
The fire had gone out by now, and still there was no response to his question. A quiet sob escaped the young mans lips. "Sirius?"
Five more minutes of silence and it finally hit Harry that he wasn't coming back. He was really gone. There would no longer be anybody to comfort him, hold him, and tell him stories about his parents. For there was no Sirius Black anymore. He was dead.
Dead.
The word hit the boy's core like a rock pummeling off a cliff. The dropping sensation just didn't seem to end, and after so many months… the rock finally hit the bottom.
Rock bottom.
A pointy rock bottom with sharp edges that cut, sliced, and shattered any hopes of surviving…For a plummet to ones death is more then often caused first by being shot in the heart.
Harry tucked his knees under him, grabbing his arms tight to his chest as large heaving sobs escaped his lips. The tears and bitterness of everything bad in his life pouring out like a waterfall, stinging on the way down like harsh spray.
"S-Sirius… I-I-I'm so sorry…" He hiccoughed after a while, still sitting in the same position. "I-if I had k-known I-I-I would never h-have g-gone…"
He found he didn't have the will to finish his sentence and collapsed onto the floor, digging his fingers into the carpet as he dragged himself over to the fireplace.
"I-it's all m-my fault…"
He reached the fireplace gate and with a lot of effort, raised his arm – and brought it slashing down right on top of the fire poker.
A small gasp was all that the boy emitted before he collapsed back to the floor, panting and holding his hand close to his chest. Red streaks were seen seeping through his nightshirt and slowly dripping onto the floor. Harry took three deep breaths, taking a brief moment to recognize how stupidly rash that decision was, before sitting up.
Rash just like Sirius…
"No!" He whispered hoarsely, "I'm not going to think about that anymore…I've got to move on." With a glance back down at his wrist, he took out his wand and after a moment's hesitation attempted a small healing charm.
He watched mesmerized as the skin folded itself back together with a dark stitch before totally disappearing, leaving only a faint scar in its place. The blood being the only thing left on his more or less unmarked skin. He wiped it off onto his robes, thinking he should have done a cleaning charm first to prevent infection. It wouldn't do good to go to Madame Pomfrey with an infected hand and a crappy 'My dog bit it' excuse. She'd never buy it - or the Headmaster.
Harry sighed, letting his wrist fall from his grasp to lay on his lap, gazing at the small scars visible there. He was highly ashamed of them. Just the mere glance at them made him feel queasy – yet at the same time he almost felt the need to see the blood, and feel the pain – as if it would somehow lessen it more.
It never worked, and the cuts just kept piling up.
The first one he had received was just before his fifth year, when he accidentally cut himself with a knife during his summer at the Dursley's. If he shut his eyes he could still see the slow and steady drip of each drop as they fell onto the counter. The cut seemed to just stare at him, and rawness like he had never felt before, flooded in.
It was a disgusting feeling – he hated it. But at the same time he just couldn't stop. It had become an obsession of his that he felt the weekly need to use.
After a while the pull to do something so repulsive got to him, and he ended up regurgitating most of his evening meals into the toilet after. This resulted in his extremely small skinny frame getting even skinner, and he often had to resort to a daily glamour just to resemble something healthy.
The light was fading into the common room by now. Harry blinked, then heaved himself up off the floor and up the stairs to his room before somebody noticed his absence. Nobody had noticed anything over the last year other then the same old angst he emitted from time to time with an insane Dark Lord after his arse. So nobody questions him when he excuses himself after dinner to 'go and think' either.
He planned to keep it that way.
The less people knew of his disgusting habits, the less they would think him a freak - just like his relatives always reminded him he was. After all that had happened through the years, and people dying because of him – he didn't even doubt it anymore.
Closing the curtains around his bed and casting his nightly silencing charm, he drifted off into an uneasy sleep, and waited for the nightmares to come kicking in.
He wasn't disappointed.
To Be Continued…
A/N: Here is chapter one. I hope you enjoyed it, and please review if you have the time, thanks so much!
Cheers,
-Psychosis Sucks
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