Disclaimer

All names, places and concepts related to

Harry Potter are the property of JK Rowling.

This applies to the entire work.

I have given a rating of PG.

This rating may be increased for later chapters.

Oliver gave a drowning sigh as he got to his feet, the gold and red material that clung to his legs falling lucidly free. The needling cold of the floor bit through his feet as he took those three steps to his window to shut Oliver Wood out.

Site and sound were gone now. The only thing was touch. And yet such a small consolation touch was, it was truth. He rubbed his arms for warmth but the cold wouldn't fall away. Not even when the skin was red would it stop. He looked at his clock that cricketed on the wall and the bed that lay open and bare, and a shameful weight fell in his chest. Oliver couldn't stay in here any longer. It was too loud.

Kicking through the stains he got to his door but didn't open it. He knew what the handle was and what it would do to him. The handle did more than turn, it chocked and stole and lied. Oliver's hand drew back as he touched it, like an unspoken reprimand. It was only a door and he needed to get out of the room, find somewhere quiet, a quiet that didn't pound in his ears and hurt his chest.

"Is that you Oliver?"

Four seconds. That had to be a record. Not even half a step out and his mother was already calling to him. She was in the kitchen cooking breakfast, probably wondering how many eggs he wanted, but Oliver couldn't answer her; he was looking for something.

"Oliver?"

"I'm going for a shower," he answered not stopping.

The door he looked for lied like all the doors but its lies made things better. The door opened into quiet and stillness and was the only place that could eat away the chill. He latched the bathroom just as the sickness started to gnaw at him. There wasn't medicine for how he felt, only scalding water and choking steam. It was the only thing that could push it back down inside him. Make him clean for another day and hide the dirt so deep no one could see it.

Oliver pulled back the shower curtain and put his hand on the tap. It was red and red meant hot. He turned it as far as it would go hoping each day he could get it to go a little further. And each time it didn't he wondered if it would work again, if it could burn away these feelings.

The steam rose up and carpeted the floor, hiding the smallest part of him.

Oliver undid the buttons of his shirt one by one, each clasp like a shard of death that was hard and small and cruel. His pants fell to the ground and he slid them aside, his socks placed on top.

Was this him? His stood there looking at himself in the mirror as it slowly became fogged. He touched his face, his chest, his stomach, his hands then falling beside him. It was naked and soft but was it him? He looked at every length but couldn't find the answer. It felt like him, or how he used to be. It had skin and hair, but Oliver was lost; lost in an endless steam that hid him, that he himself had caused.

When he had become nothing more then a dark shape he stepped into his solace. The water beaded over him streaming down and into the drain. The spidered design of the pipe-covering grew in his eyes so that every speck of defilement flashed before him. Every smell and taste and feeling that he knew, every memory of sight and sound, every thought of desire and contempt funnelling away.

"I hate you."

There was more then water lining his face. Angry tears met the hot rain and were devoured.

"I hate you," he said again, fighting back the tortured convulsion.

Oliver was bleeding, bleeding into the sewer everything he was.

"I hate you."

He slid down the tiled wall.

"I hate you."

He fell into the river of choking steam.

"I hate you."

His tears cut his face.

"I hate you."