DISCLAIMER: All recognizable characters belong to JK Rowling, and the title of this story is the name of a song by the Manic Street Preachers.
WARNINGS: AU, and dark themes such as depression, self-injury, and eating disorders.
SUMMARY: It started with a game of Quidditch and ended, one year later, in the hospital. Along the way he found a friend, an addiction, a lifeline, a death sentence. The light and the dark lie within himself as he battles between his mind and his body, between logic and demons. But how can you win the battle when it's yourself that you've been fighting all along?
BEGINNING NOTES: I promise that this will NOT turn out to be another overdone and boring cliché. As far as characterizations go, I'm going to try to keep this story as close to canon as possible. Snape will probably play a big role in Harry's life at some point, but he's not going to suddenly become Harry's best friend, or turn into the sensitive, concerned parental figure. There will not be hugs, tears, and promises for a better future. I decided to write this story because I was sick of seeing these themes turned into clichés, and I wanted to challenge myself: write an original, creative, dark!Harry, Snape-centric plot.
RitH takes place during Harry's 6th year, but I'm not going to go by the events that happened in the 6th book; it doesn't fit in with the plot I've already decided on. So just pretend it never happened. Okay? Please let me know what you think; I'll try to update at least once every two weeks, but life is crazy at the moment so I can't make any promises.
Beep.
"What happened?"
Beep.
"How did he get like this?"
Beep.
"Why didn't we notice!"
The sound of quiet sobbing accompanied the ominous beep of the Muggle heart monitor in the background. In the corner, a girl was crying into her palms, head bowed, chestnut hair curtaining the unusually pale face; next to her a boy stood straight and rigid, jaw clenched, hands drawn tightly into fists. They were acutely aware of the presence of the third member of their infamous trio, but the shallow rise and fall of the unnaturally skinny chest did little to console or reassure. The pair's hearts were as heavy and unsteady as the patient's.
Beep.
"I'm sorry, but visiting hours are almost over. I'm afraid I'll have to ask you two to leave for the night." Kind brown eyes, an apologetic smile.
Beep.
"But – but can't we stay just a little while longer? Please, just five more minutes?"
Beep.
"I'm sorry, but I cannot allow that. The patient is very weak and we have a strict…"
Beep. Beep. Beep.Beep.Beepbeepbeep…
The white-robed mediwitch trailed off as the gentle beeping gave way to a foreboding wail, similar to the one let out by a weeping Hermione.
Suddenly there were rough hands shoving the two teenagers aside as mediwitches and healers rushed into the room. Strong arms held the pair in place as more alarms went off, and finally, after seconds - minutes, hours, lifetimes? - of pandemonium, the room was again quiet. The visitors went still in the following chilling silence. Was this was a good sign or bad? A confirmation of death, or the beginning of recovery?
Everyone standing in the pristine white room waited anxiously with bated breath as the healer turned to them to deliver the final prognosis.
Status: TBC
Ending notes: I hate how this chapter turned out. They won't all be like this, I promise. I am going somewhere (eventually), so please don't judge RitH on the prologue alone.
