A/N: Readers! Hey. So... yeah. :) Coolio.

Anyway, I just wanted to say, in case people were wondering that Harry isn't going to stay like this as a character forever. Its simply that he, up until now, hasn't been accepting what has happened to him, has been pushing it down and not caring for anything. Now, with all this time alone everything suddenly comes crashing down around him and he realises the horror of all that has gone on. So... I just wanted to warn everyone that this book will probably be less 'light hearted' than The Boggart (this story's prequel), which feels really strange to say since The Boggart is about an abused suicidal Harry... anyway, this is going to be more serious (even if there will be funny bits too).

He felt utterly pathetic.

He hasn't left the house in over a month, clinging to the absurd hope that he would never have to leave, to the hope that he could stay there with Luna forever, protected from the outside world. Harry wasn't getting better, it was killing him on the inside that he wasn't getting better, he still screamed out at night at invisible intruders, still clamped his legs together tight in the bath whenever he was naked, terrified that someone would come and push his legs apart. He sobbed into his pillow, veered clear of the kitchen, and hung off of Luna like a pathetic limpet.

Luna said he was still healing, that almost thirteen years of wounds couldn't be healed in one month, that a house soaked in dark magic with a guardian who wasn't completely reliable wasn't a suitable place. Harry could only stare at her, at the window, as if they both would burn if he touched them, as if he was dirty and rotten and toxic, everything he touched would burn away like Sirius' name on the Black Tapestry.

Harry tried not to dream, he would stay up for nights and nights, eyes burning in exhaustion, limbs weighed down like lead, blankets thrown off so that the cold could keep Harry awake. But it was never enough, he always succumbed eventually, sleep always dragged him away from Luna's words and soft songs, pulled him into terrifying worlds of pain and memories. He never knew he was sleeping in dreams, it was all so real, he was back there.

Harry was weak, others would have already gotten over this. The Dursleys were dead, they were gone, why was he still so afraid? There were no hands knocking on the door, banging on his cupboard for him to get up and clean, no hands turning doorknobs ever so quietly with malice traced into his footsteps, no hands reaching for his shirt, no hands reaching, always reaching, always touching, he was never safe, Harry couldn't breathe-

It had happened more than once. He had always known it had, always known that it was something he hadn't been able to escape. Harry had been numb, unwilling but numb, body no longer his own, only a prison to consume him, walls so high he couldn't see over. No wonder Occlumency had been so easy, Harry had trapped himself in his mind long ago, separating himself from a body he could no longer accept, a body he no longer owner, a body that belonged to his Uncle.

It had happened more than once. Harry had layed there and took it like a whore, he had sobbed into his pillow, crying out, but had he fought? Yes, at first, he had hit that man with tiny hands and teeth and scratches and begged his magic to work, but then he had stopped, and snapped in half, and his fingers had numbed and dropped away, and his hands had clenched in the sheets. That morning he had got up, showered blood from his arse, and got to work as if nothing had happened. Harry hadn't cried, hadn't told anyone, hadn't locked his door with magic that wouldn't work.

Harry had walked back into that room, that prison, had worn an extra shirt, and had leaned down onto the bed, knowing it wasn't safe there. He had known that his uncle could come back and he had known it wasn't safe, it had never been safe. My fault his mind cooed with painful honesty.

He could've run away, Harry could have done so many things, but he didn't. Partly from shame, partly because he thought he deserved it, and mostly because he had tried to escape before and it never worked. It was his life, an inescapable life that Harry was saddled with until he died.

Harry curled up like an injured puppy, holding himself together in his arms, blanket folded over him and the bright red armchair. He whispered mournfully to himself, no more tears left, one hand scratching at his forearm, over and over like the beat of a drum, to the rhythm of his heart. Maybe the pain would help.

Luna was there. Wasn't she always there? Beautiful and precious and innocent in her little blue nightie, a picture of a unicorn on the front, and large fluffy penguin slippers. She was so strong too, stronger than him, she was his protector. Luna would lie with him on his bed, or by his chair, or by his feet, always on lookout, always there to protect him from intruders. She held up a tiny gentle healing hand to the chair, knowing that he could grab onto it, like a life line. In her other hand was her wand, looking at the closed door, the only entrance, fixed by Sirius when he apologised for his outburst.

"...and he touched me Little Moon, put his hands on my skin. God, I can still feel him, he's inside me, I'll never be rid of him. I can't breathe Luna, he's always there, he's dead and he still owns me, I'm still his, I'm so dirty. So weak. God, I am ruined. He was inside of me, and it was warm Little Moon, it shouldn't have been warm, I should have puked, but I couldn't breathe. Hands on top of me, always feeling, always reaching for me, I couldn't move, he held me down, fucked inside of me, inside of me, I swear I didn't want it, and he screamed at me that I did. I'm a whore, only his, he said it over and over and I almost believed him. I tried to get away from it Little Moon, tried to end it, tried to no longer be his, but I didn't die. Fuck I'm ruined. I hate myself. I'm so dirty, I'll never be clean, please let me get rid of him..."

Harry was sobbing, grieving, scratching at himself for the pain. He gripped Luna's hand with fierceness he didn't think he possessed any longer, solemn tears dripping hotly and wetly down his face. Snot on his chin, eyes wide, vision blurred and red, mouth tasting salt and blood and dirty skin. His arm was bleeding, fingernails like razor blades, and it stung, but it was better. If only a bit. If it only distracted him for a little while, let him forget for a little while.

And it was his hand NOT his, the man's name never to be spoken, making it hurt, so it was okay, he was his own, no longer his uncle's. And the scratches would fade under his glamour anyway, but he would still feel them there, Harry could remind himself that he belonged to himself now. He did not bow down to his dead uncle, he did not bow down to his headmaster, he did not bow down to society. He could belong to himself...

Luna's body sung in sympathy and acceptance, 'You're gone from there, you're with me now, and I'll protect you'. She was crying too, only a bit, she had almost run out of tears after hearing it all, but she was strong for him. She had to be, Lord Harry was healing, but he would be better soon. Luna tried to reassure herself, he had to get better, the fates said so. Her Sight had never been wrong before.

Harry stared at himself in the mirror for a long time, the dark eyes looking back at him no longer seeming like his own. He tried to remember when he had been happy, but remembering those times only made him cry more. It was too much, it was constant, burning always under his skin like an addiction, he could never get away. Sleep was just another prison, there were only scarce hours of clarity, playing Go Fish and Rummikub with Little Moon in the parlour, her bringing flowers in for him to water, the stark temporary pain from when he made the bath scorching. But it faded, it all faded, back to that dark place that he couldn't escape. It was constant, always on his mind, always vying for his attention like a stalker sending blood filled suitcases and roses in the form of beheaded snakes.

How romantic.

His stalker woke him up in the middle of the night with rapes and pleadings for suicide. It wrote on greeting cards that life was meaningless, that they were all going to end eventually that it didn't matter what they did in life, that no one would care if Harry died, that they would be relieved if he was dead. And he tried, god, he tried, almost every day he tried, but he could never die, tethered to the world with an angel's curse.

Even Luna couldn't get rid of it, even with her hugs and soothing words and fancy magic. She could never distract him for long with their midnight library visits and cookies sent from her worried father. Not even tales of mysterious and mystic creatures roaming all around the planet, or far off gods and realities that Harry could only try to glimpse while Luna looked on with glazed eyes, off in another galaxy.

He was stuck, stationary, glued to the same broken record of broken thoughts. It was terrifying, to want to die, to be so blasé about it, to accept that life wasn't good enough. Sometimes Harry gasped at his train of thought, sometimes he hesitated for being so selfish to want to die when so many never really had the chance to live, but then those hands would return to him, grasping at intimate places, calloused and sweaty and sticky, and Harry would scream, but no one could stop it.

Sirius didn't look at him anymore, he couldn't meet his eyes, not when Harry sobbed or scratched at himself or muttered under his breath about 'the man'. It would almost be funny that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had a competitor, but it wasn't, for his godson was so broken. Sirius spent most of his time in other rooms of the house, holding himself together, trying not to break apart, spending hours scanning the Black Library for a ritual to get rid of Harry's many scars.

Sirius had only seen them once. It had been at the start of the holidays, him still not yet letting his mother's retorts close him off to the world, and Harry seeming... okay. Or maybe Sirius just hadn't noticed what had been eating at his godson, the more he looked back the more oblivious he felt. Or perhaps just selfish, he had always been selfish, whether it had been with his brother, with James and his bullying games, or even with Remus, who he had taken for granted.

Sirius smiled to himself as he made his way over to Harry's room. It was on the fourth floor, at the edge of the safe-house, in a dilapidated room that Sirius tried to forget. It was right next to Regulus' old room, still furnished by that mad house elf Kreacher's antics. He still choked up a bit near that room, remembering his brother who he had cared for, and his downward spiral into joining the Death Eaters.

He crept his way over to his godson's room, knocking on the door once before opening, mouth open to ask Harry if he wanted to go to the World Cup. Sirius had read about it in the newspaper and thought it might be a good way to bond the two of them. The door swung open, and Sirius was about to speak, before his eyes caught on the horrid sight of his godson.

Scars reached all down his naked back, whipmarks that Sirius had only seen on one other person: Snivellus, once, in Fifth Year when a fight had left them both with no shirts, and a lust filled gaze not suited for enemies at all. He did what he had done then, recoiled, eyes even more afraid when Harry turned around, and Sirius could see scars all across his face, burn marks down his chest, knife wounds on his ribcage, white outlines across his stomach. It was a patchwork of pain and torturous memories, and Harry could only gasp with wide eyes as Sirius found out an unwanted truth.

Sirius thought Harry would have wanted the scars gone, and had looked up rituals, but every time he came to suggest one or another he stopped. Harry had never seemed to want them gone, for whatever reason, and didn't even want to be around Sirius.

Harry stood in the hallway, hair grimy and skin an unhealthy pallor and pale from so much time indoors. His skin looked soft and gentle, smooth and unblemished, but he dared not touch it. Harry could still feel the scars under the skin, even if they were blocked from a human gaze. He let the mirror fog up with his breath, nose touching the surface, eyes gleaming into his own green reflection, before he travelled down the hall.

His body seemed to weigh him down, gait stiff and nervous, hands shaking ever so slightly. Harry could hardly breathe, again, and he was so sick of it. Everything terrified him, everything was a jump scare, everything held on too tight or too long. For once he just wanted to be better, to not be so sad or afraid...

Something gripped at his heart, something hard and unforgiving, and Harry's long gone stubbornness flared. He walked back to the mirror with purpose, taking out his wand (thankful for the heavy wards on Grimmond Place that managed to block the magic sensors) and flicking it at himself, feeling the soothing and unbiased drain of magic.

Harry looked back to the mirror, using a steady hand to clear away the white condensation, and stared down at himself with devilish eyes. Dark onyx eyes, long and confident limbs, hair down his his neck, falling in Black waves, cat black. His face was sharper, eyes softer, and mouth curled in a smirk. Stunning, beautiful, arrogant, confident, Slytherin.

No, he was not afraid, he was Silas Black.