Disclaimer: don't own, don't sue
a/n: hope I don't horribly dissapoint you... thanks for reading!
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Harry woke suddenly in the middle of the night, breathing rapidly, his hand on his forehead.
"Ouch," he whispered, rubbing his fingers up and down his burning scar. It had been this way for weeks; more often than not, he would be unpleasantly woken in this way after an unpleasant dream. Only, Harry knew these were more than dreams.
They were real.
He sat up slowly. He sighed deeply, and looked out of his window at Privet Drive. Not a single window was lit, not a single person was awake. Everyone was sleeping soundly, without being woken by sharp pains and visions of the most evil wizard in the world.
Harry sighed again, and lay back down on his bed, staring at the ceiling. It was hard trying to go to sleep again, knowing what he would likely see. Night after night, viewing these events.... It was wearing him down, wearing him out, taking him to the point where he dreaded going to sleep each night.
*I just wish it would stop,* Harry thought. *If there was only some way I could make it stop....*
*But there *is* a way,* thought another voice, the one that says the things you don't always want to hear. *You know what it is. It would be so easy, you've got that knife Sirius gave you for Christmas right there in your trunk.*
Harry closed his eyes momentarily and exhaled, pulling himself together. He wouldn't do anything as drastic as that.... Yet he still found his gaze settled on his trunk.
***************************
Harry sat on his floor, leaning against his bed, looking around his room. He preferred to stay in here being quiet, away from his muggle relatives and hoping they'd forget about him. He was gone almost ten months each year, after all.
Harry tried to think, think about anything except Voldemort, but here it was hard. He glanced up at Hedwig's empty cage. He had no one to keep him company, either.
*I wonder what Ron's doing,* Harry thought idly, and with a lot of effort. He stopped, then turned his gaze back to his trunk. He stared for a few seconds, his pulse starting to speed up, and then, in an instant, he was at the trunk.
He fumbled slightly with the latches as he hastily opened the trunk and found what he was looking for. He opened the blade of his precious knife and examined it closely, his heart racing.
*Oh, what a fine knife it is. It's perfect.*
A sound. Harry jumped slightly, and looked around. Hedwig. He watched her fly into her cage and start drinking some water. No letter, though.
Harry glanced back at the knife he was still holding. If they knew, if Ron or Hermione or anyone knew.... Harry tossed the knife onto the floor in the corner, and sat on the floor in the corner opposite, stroking Hedwig when she came over to greet him.
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*What a stupid, meaningless life I have. Yes, that's really all I can say about it. You can't really call this meaningful, stuck here day after day, with nothing to do and nothing else to think about.... And you certainly can't call it really living. It's just... existing. Yes, that's all, existing, being nothing more than a warm and breathing body. Cedric stopped breathing...* Harry closed his eyes tightly, trying to block out the memory. Why wasn't there anything to distract him? Why?
Harry looked around vainly, desperately for anything unharmful to distract him from his thoughts. He found nothing. All he saw was the inside of the smallest bedroom of number four, Privet Drive. He glanced out the window. Nothing but the cruel, grey suburban sky, above the tidy, identical suburban houses. It was completely normal, completely unremarkable; there was nothing magical, none of what Harry thrived on, but at the same time cause him so much pain.
Harry held his closed penknife in his hand, stroking it gently, contemplating it. It could be so easy... but would it be right? He didn't know.
Harry glanced up suddenly as Hedwig swooped into the room.
"Hey, Hedwig," Harry said quitely to his owl, and untied the letter she was carrying.
"It says I can come Sunday," Harry told the owl, who was looking at him inquisitively. Hedwig glanced at the knife Harry was still holding and back at him, and Harry realized what she was questioning him about. He swiftly tossed it under his bed, out of view.
"It's okay, Hedwig. See? It's okay," Harry said half to himself, stroking the owl. "It's okay."
Hedwig hooted and went back to her cage to drink her water while Harry wrote a reply. He tied it to her leg, then she hooted again and left.
Harry watched her path through the air for a moment, then retrieved the knife from under his bed. He resumed his place, sitting, thinking, holding the knife.
a/n: hope I don't horribly dissapoint you... thanks for reading!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Harry woke suddenly in the middle of the night, breathing rapidly, his hand on his forehead.
"Ouch," he whispered, rubbing his fingers up and down his burning scar. It had been this way for weeks; more often than not, he would be unpleasantly woken in this way after an unpleasant dream. Only, Harry knew these were more than dreams.
They were real.
He sat up slowly. He sighed deeply, and looked out of his window at Privet Drive. Not a single window was lit, not a single person was awake. Everyone was sleeping soundly, without being woken by sharp pains and visions of the most evil wizard in the world.
Harry sighed again, and lay back down on his bed, staring at the ceiling. It was hard trying to go to sleep again, knowing what he would likely see. Night after night, viewing these events.... It was wearing him down, wearing him out, taking him to the point where he dreaded going to sleep each night.
*I just wish it would stop,* Harry thought. *If there was only some way I could make it stop....*
*But there *is* a way,* thought another voice, the one that says the things you don't always want to hear. *You know what it is. It would be so easy, you've got that knife Sirius gave you for Christmas right there in your trunk.*
Harry closed his eyes momentarily and exhaled, pulling himself together. He wouldn't do anything as drastic as that.... Yet he still found his gaze settled on his trunk.
***************************
Harry sat on his floor, leaning against his bed, looking around his room. He preferred to stay in here being quiet, away from his muggle relatives and hoping they'd forget about him. He was gone almost ten months each year, after all.
Harry tried to think, think about anything except Voldemort, but here it was hard. He glanced up at Hedwig's empty cage. He had no one to keep him company, either.
*I wonder what Ron's doing,* Harry thought idly, and with a lot of effort. He stopped, then turned his gaze back to his trunk. He stared for a few seconds, his pulse starting to speed up, and then, in an instant, he was at the trunk.
He fumbled slightly with the latches as he hastily opened the trunk and found what he was looking for. He opened the blade of his precious knife and examined it closely, his heart racing.
*Oh, what a fine knife it is. It's perfect.*
A sound. Harry jumped slightly, and looked around. Hedwig. He watched her fly into her cage and start drinking some water. No letter, though.
Harry glanced back at the knife he was still holding. If they knew, if Ron or Hermione or anyone knew.... Harry tossed the knife onto the floor in the corner, and sat on the floor in the corner opposite, stroking Hedwig when she came over to greet him.
****************************
*What a stupid, meaningless life I have. Yes, that's really all I can say about it. You can't really call this meaningful, stuck here day after day, with nothing to do and nothing else to think about.... And you certainly can't call it really living. It's just... existing. Yes, that's all, existing, being nothing more than a warm and breathing body. Cedric stopped breathing...* Harry closed his eyes tightly, trying to block out the memory. Why wasn't there anything to distract him? Why?
Harry looked around vainly, desperately for anything unharmful to distract him from his thoughts. He found nothing. All he saw was the inside of the smallest bedroom of number four, Privet Drive. He glanced out the window. Nothing but the cruel, grey suburban sky, above the tidy, identical suburban houses. It was completely normal, completely unremarkable; there was nothing magical, none of what Harry thrived on, but at the same time cause him so much pain.
Harry held his closed penknife in his hand, stroking it gently, contemplating it. It could be so easy... but would it be right? He didn't know.
Harry glanced up suddenly as Hedwig swooped into the room.
"Hey, Hedwig," Harry said quitely to his owl, and untied the letter she was carrying.
"It says I can come Sunday," Harry told the owl, who was looking at him inquisitively. Hedwig glanced at the knife Harry was still holding and back at him, and Harry realized what she was questioning him about. He swiftly tossed it under his bed, out of view.
"It's okay, Hedwig. See? It's okay," Harry said half to himself, stroking the owl. "It's okay."
Hedwig hooted and went back to her cage to drink her water while Harry wrote a reply. He tied it to her leg, then she hooted again and left.
Harry watched her path through the air for a moment, then retrieved the knife from under his bed. He resumed his place, sitting, thinking, holding the knife.