Right, this chapter is again based off some pretty personal experiences, and it has some trigger warnings.

TRIGGER WARNING FOR THE FOLLOWING: Self Harm, transphobia, murder, abuse, depression.

This story has a Blaise/Harry pairing, and will contain NONBINARY characters. If you don't like that, don't read this and don't flame me.

AndrewZachariah

There comes a time in every person's life when you try to hide a portion of yourself. Sometimes, it's as simple as hiding your bad habit of indulging in a touch too much chocolate right before bed. Sometimes it's far bigger than that, and for Harry Potter, well; he was hiding lots of pieces of himself.

Harry stopped wearing make-up two days after his falling out with Annie. He was, after all, a boy and boys did not wear make-up. Harry made sure he kept his hands to himself on the rare occasion he was ordered to clean Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon's bedroom, and he steadfastly ignored the urge to sneak in and play with his Aunt's make-up when his relatives were out for the day. Harry knew it was pointless, but he hoped his freakishness would eventually be suppressed if he stopped doing freakish things. At the very least, he could come off as normal to other people, and that was the most Harry could ask for.

He refused to even think about the dresses in the closet, and he did his absolute best to ignore the heavy feeling in his chest that grew worse and worse with each passing day. The heavy feeling was becoming too much though. It was all Harry could think about, and it made him want to fall to his knees and sob. It made him want to break very expensive glass figurines, and it made him want to tear his eyes out just so he could feel something other than this heavy nothingness!

It started out small, these little things that he hadn't even really noticed he was doing. At first it was just biting his nails down to the nub. They were broken and filthy and Aunt Petunia was quite disgusted with his terrible habit, but Harry couldn't bring himself to stop. In fact, it got worse. He usually bit his nails till they bled. They ached and throbbed almost every day, but Harry didn't really mind that. The pain helped with, well, everything.

His raw nails weren't enough though, and as the weeks passed Harry started scratching. When he was left alone with just his thoughts, that's when it was worse. When all he could do was sit and stare into the shadowed corners of his cupboard, Harry would scratch the most. Freak. Monster. Fucked up. Boy. Boy. Boy. Boy. Freak. His thoughts would circle and circle and circle and they didn't stop. It got worse and worse, until he was barely keeping afloat in the raging, storming sea that was his mind. Words would crash around his ears, and shame would choke him as it slid down his throat from and icy, salty wave. Tears would wet his cheeks and mingle with the droplets on his face. A drop for each dress and a drop for every beating he deserved, and a drop for every beating he would get, and a drop for every time he had to remind himself he was a FREAK.

Needless to say, Harry's face was rather wet thanks to his thoughts. But the scratching…oh the scratching was like a piece of driftwood. It wasn't very stable, and it didn't do a whole lot, but it gave him something to lean on, and it helped when the heaviness in his heart started to drag him down, down, down. The scratches hurt differently from his fingers. They stung and burned and ached for days and Harry needed (hated? Abhorred? Adored? Loved? Wanted?) that. He needed a new kind of pain to make the thoughts quiet. To make his mind shut up, so he didn't slip beneath the water. To help him power through the stormy waves.

But just like his fingernails, the scratching soon wasn't enough. And Harry was drowning again. The waves were growing stronger and he couldn't breathe and he needed something, anything to help him (someone help me, please please please please!).

And then he found something new. Dudley had managed to crack and shatter his new handheld pencil sharpener, and it had been tossed in the trash bin. A few hours later, had Harry had been shoved into those same bins by his cousin and his friends during another round of Harry Hunting. As he slowly began crawling out of the metal containers, the boy had slipped and fallen on the broken sharpener. His palm had stung and burned and it was so much better than his fingernails!

Harry had picked up the broken sharpener and hid it in his pants. That night he had fallen asleep with tears on his face and blood on his thighs. A preacher had once told him he was on a sure path to Hell. If he wasn't already going to Hell, Harry was certain he was now.

-.-.-.-

Blaise was curled up in the corner rocking quietly as he pressed his forehead to his knees. His hands were wrapped over his head protecting his neck and his favorite blanket was laying over him. Blaise loved this blanket, because it made a curtain. A curtain he could hide behind when things got bad. Like tonight, when he was huddled up against the cabinets, desperately trying to ignore the angry words filling the air.

"I won't stand for it! The girl has to go! This is something that needs to be fixed, Alessandra! There is something—something wrong with her, and I won't have her under this roof!" Harrison screamed. Blaise knew the wizard was probably jabbing an accusatory finger in his direction, but the boy didn't care. Mamma would make him go away. Mamma always made the angry men go away.

"That is enough Harrison!" Alessandra nearly hissed. His mother's shoes clicked menacingly on the tile floor, and Blaise rocked faster. "My son is perfectly healthy, and there isn't a damn thing wrong with him. You are an ignorant, arrogant bastard! How dare you tell me what to do with my child?! You, who hardly know him! The only person who needs to be fixed in this room, is you!" Blaise flinched violently at the sound of flesh on flesh, unmistakably a slap of some sort. Everything was eerily silent after that, and Blaise felt his breathing stop.

"You have ten minutes to gather your things and leave this house." Mamma warned and Blaise paled. They never left fast enough. None of them ever did.

Ten minutes later, Blaise was being cradled and rocked in his mother's arms as she cooed to him. "I'm so sorry sweetie. I didn't want you to hear that. Hush now, you haven't done anything wrong, I promise. Shhh, you're okay, you're okay." Blaise refused to look at the floor, refused to think about the blood that was probably staining the previously pristine tile.

"Is he gone Mamma?"

"Yes baby, he's gone now. Just you and me, right?"

"Right Mamma." Alessandra rocked her son again as she left the kitchen for her bedroom. "What do you say we go get you a haircut tomorrow hmmm? Your hair is growing awfully long again." Blaise nodded against his mother's shoulder.

"Can we get ice cream too?" Alessandra grinned as her little boy blinked up at her with sleepy, chocolate brown eyes.

"Of course baby." She promised as she ran a hand through his curly hair. She pressed a kiss to his forehead and tucked his blanket around him. "I love you my precious little boy." She whispered, as she slipped from the room to floo a cleaning crew. She had some filth in the kitchen that needed to be…disposed of.