White Out
Summary: A little depressing one shot about Harry on Drugs after Sirius died.
Disclaimer: All of the characters in this pathetic little story were created by J.K. Rowling, a.k.a. 'God'.
Ten-kih: sigh I'm sorry people, it's been forever since I updated, you probably think I'm dead. My computers have been spastic, but while I couldn't post, a zillion stories have been written. There will be a flood of them once I get my hands on a floppy disc.
Mika: Enjoy the depressing fic, I liked it a lot :D
Harry sighed and looked down at himself. He was lucky he had been skiving off class, he didn't know what a teacher would do if they saw him in this state. Not that it mattered anymore. Harry was asleep long before Ron got to bed, and he knew very well that Hermione was too afraid to talk to him. He didn't blame her.
It was noon, and his head pounded like mad. He wore nothing but a pair of boxers and a grimace, crunched in a fetal position and clutching his forehead. It had been a while since he was in this agony. Not since the first time. He glanced at the bedside table. It was covered with needles, and dark purple veins popped through the bare pale skin on his arm. He was thinner than usual, and hadn't eaten in days. He thought about how he got like this.
It was summer. His first summer A.S. That was how he thought of his life now, B.S. and A.S., before and after Sirius. He paced the block each day trying to be rid of the constant ache in his heart. Even the Dursleys recognized it, and were somewhat kinder, which only made more pronounced the fact that it as different without Sirius.
Then that fateful day, when he saw the needle on the corner. All he wanted was for it to be over, for the pain to stop. And that had been it. Now his desk was littered with needles and empty prescription bottles, but now he didn't even forget any more. Now he just needed the drugs to function, and functioning normally was out of the question.
After lying alone for a while, he drifted into a fitful sleep.
Just like every other dream, these were haunted by Sirius. There was no escaping, awake or dreaming and Harry knew this. There would be nothing but pain from here on out. Waking up, Harry knew what to do.
He grabbed every bottle, and took a few pills from each. He grasped them in his hand for a moment, and then shoved them all in his mouth at once. He barely had time to swallow before he passed out.
He awoke in the hospital Wing. Hermione was standing over him, tears streaming down her face and dampening his sheets. Ron looked away from him, pale, and obviously trying not to break down. His brain was foggy, and his forehead seared. Hermione, seeing he was awake, squeaked and threw herself on him, sobbing. He felt sad, in a way. He was looking forward to it being over. Instead he was here, giving his best friends heart attacks and feeling very guilty. They needint worry, he thought. He wouldn't be a burden much longer.
Summary: A little depressing one shot about Harry on Drugs after Sirius died.
Disclaimer: All of the characters in this pathetic little story were created by J.K. Rowling, a.k.a. 'God'.
Ten-kih: sigh I'm sorry people, it's been forever since I updated, you probably think I'm dead. My computers have been spastic, but while I couldn't post, a zillion stories have been written. There will be a flood of them once I get my hands on a floppy disc.
Mika: Enjoy the depressing fic, I liked it a lot :D
Harry sighed and looked down at himself. He was lucky he had been skiving off class, he didn't know what a teacher would do if they saw him in this state. Not that it mattered anymore. Harry was asleep long before Ron got to bed, and he knew very well that Hermione was too afraid to talk to him. He didn't blame her.
It was noon, and his head pounded like mad. He wore nothing but a pair of boxers and a grimace, crunched in a fetal position and clutching his forehead. It had been a while since he was in this agony. Not since the first time. He glanced at the bedside table. It was covered with needles, and dark purple veins popped through the bare pale skin on his arm. He was thinner than usual, and hadn't eaten in days. He thought about how he got like this.
It was summer. His first summer A.S. That was how he thought of his life now, B.S. and A.S., before and after Sirius. He paced the block each day trying to be rid of the constant ache in his heart. Even the Dursleys recognized it, and were somewhat kinder, which only made more pronounced the fact that it as different without Sirius.
Then that fateful day, when he saw the needle on the corner. All he wanted was for it to be over, for the pain to stop. And that had been it. Now his desk was littered with needles and empty prescription bottles, but now he didn't even forget any more. Now he just needed the drugs to function, and functioning normally was out of the question.
After lying alone for a while, he drifted into a fitful sleep.
Just like every other dream, these were haunted by Sirius. There was no escaping, awake or dreaming and Harry knew this. There would be nothing but pain from here on out. Waking up, Harry knew what to do.
He grabbed every bottle, and took a few pills from each. He grasped them in his hand for a moment, and then shoved them all in his mouth at once. He barely had time to swallow before he passed out.
He awoke in the hospital Wing. Hermione was standing over him, tears streaming down her face and dampening his sheets. Ron looked away from him, pale, and obviously trying not to break down. His brain was foggy, and his forehead seared. Hermione, seeing he was awake, squeaked and threw herself on him, sobbing. He felt sad, in a way. He was looking forward to it being over. Instead he was here, giving his best friends heart attacks and feeling very guilty. They needint worry, he thought. He wouldn't be a burden much longer.