WARNING: Mentions of self-harm. HP is not mine, I just feel sorry for the bugger.
Hermione kept calling him angsty – what did she fucking know? She hadn't got the weight of the entire world resting on her shoulders, muggle and wizarding. She didn't get to make the decisions everyday about who would live and who would die. She didn't hear her dead mother pleading with her in her sleep. To be a better person; to save them all.
Harry was angry, he was enraged beyond belief. Quidditch was no longer enough to push him out of it; school work had never been enough. The only thing holding him back right now was hidden beneath the long sleeved robes of his uniform.
Was written into his wrists with a blade.
Old blood didn't taste as good as new blood, so fresh cuts had to be constantly made until he was sick on the taste of himself. Until within his drapes the sheets ran red and his stomach churned with the curse.
But soon even that wasn't enough. He started to sneak out at night under his invisibility cloak. Found his way into the forest out of sight, where he would strip himself bare and hurtle through the trees until his feet bled and his arms and shoulders were littered with scratches. He would run rough stones across his stomach and roll in the warmth of himself, one hand on his cock; pumping until he climaxed with the pain.
And when his body began to ache beyond conceivable repair he finally felt like his outside matched his soul – damaged, cursed. Ugly and untouchable. The golden boy of Griffindor was waving his white flag, doused in the blood of himself:
Come and get me Voldemort, Try and hurt me now.
