So, I didn't quite make my end of the month, but my Muse and I had a fight. She's pushing for this one-shot, which I've got half written. But, I put my foot down, and now I've got an update. If you can see, that's her pouting in the corner. Wait long enough and that pout will turn into a quivering puppy dog look complete with trembling lower lip. I won't be able to resist much longer because she really wants that one-shot. So, be ready for a new story.
WARNINGS: Mentions of self-harm but no actual graphic action of it. But if this is triggering please be careful. Hints at sexual abuse. Again, nothing graphic. Some swearing.
Flashbacks are in bold italics.
Thoughts are in italics.
Enjoy!
~Shameless
As soon as the retreating footsteps were out of earshot, Harry's eyes snapped open. A cold grip of panic seized his innards, and it took him several breaths to regain his control over himself. He really did hate the dark. Far too often, he had been blindfolded and been accosted. Sometimes, they didn't even care to blindfold him. No, stop it Harry. Stop thinking about them. You know what it will send you into if you don't. An unconscious shiver ran through his veins. Such thoughts only ever placed him in two different situations: a panic attack or grasping the handle of a dagger.
He paused there. It was then that he noticed that he had not even thought about his blade since he had arrived at Riddle Manor despite everything that he had experienced. Oh, well, it's not like I would be able to use it anyway in my current state. Perhaps…NO, they can't know about that. Snape is already suspicious. I saw him looking at some of my wounds more intensely than others when I was at the meeting. I can't let them know about my problem. I can't let them think that I'm weak. Get a hold of yourself, Harry. This is the Death Eaters. They'll rip you apart if they find out about your little problem. How would I survive if they found out? They'll betray me; they all will no matter what they've said…just like Ron and Hermione.
~.oOo.~
Harry was sitting in the Gryffindor Commons and struggling to understand his potions assignment. Contrary to popular belief, he really did enjoy potions, but he just couldn't seem to get a grip on some of the principles. It didn't help that Snape was out to get him in the class. He never believed him when he accused the Slytherins of throwing random ingredients into his cauldron and sabotaging his potion.
God, I'm so pathetic. I would want nothing more than to win that bastard's approval. He is the only one who doesn't treat me like some Merlin-be-damned hero. I'm not a hero. Harry looked down at his covered arms and cringed. I'm a weak, pathetic scrap of human flesh that lets anyone and everyone use me for their pleasure. Harry quickly shook his head to dissipate the gathering tears. No one was allowed to see him cry; he wasn't allowed to cry. Crying was for sissy boys who deserved to be used. Not that it ever made much of a difference to Uncle Vernon. He uses me whether or not I cry. Sadistic bastard. I won't ever be rid of him.
Harry looked down at his arms again. He knew the criss-cross mesh of cuts in various stages of healing that dwelled beneath the ragged hand-me-downs. Wounds were there that he refused to heal magically. Sirius would be so ashamed of me for using the dagger that he gave me for this. I wish that I could tell him what I'm going through…Maybe. No, I can't. He would be disgusted by me. I'm a wizard, and yet, I let those men do that to me.
Harry reached into his bag and wrapped his grip around the handle of the blade tightly. He wanted to use it so badly, but he knew he couldn't, not there in the middle of the Commons. Some innocent, naïve little Firstie could see you do it. How would you live with yourself, Harry, if you scarred a child? Haven't you ruined enough lives? Maybe you should just end it. You know that you can't defeat Voldemort. He's had decades of experience and knowledge. You're a pathetic, disgusting, and used little freak. The paragon of mediocrity. You know that you are nothing special, Harry. It was your mother; it's always been your mother, sweet Lily Potter. You killed your mother so you could live.
Harry's head thunked down onto the table. He squeezed his eyes shut. He hated being pitiable and useless. He hated himself. And he hated being his own worst enemy. The damage that Voldemort inflicted upon him couldn't even hope to compete with what he could do to himself. When he was being honest with himself, he didn't even really fear Voldemort anymore. And he sure didn't fear Death; no, he welcomed Death like an old friend. Each time he tore into his flesh, he came closer and closer to that warm embrace. He also no longer feared Dementors. Their icy chill brought the welcome numbness over him that he craved. Of course, it wasn't like he had a pocket-sized Dementor to carry around, so he improvised. His fingers caressed the flat of the dagger.
It was himself that he feared the most. Harry remembered the boggart that he had encountered in an obscure hall of Hogwarts in the dead of night when no one was around. At the time, he had expected it to morph into the customary Dementor, had craved it would do so. But, instead, he was greeted with a dark version of himself. The figure had stood curled slightly into itself. It looked even smaller than his five-foot, three-inch frame. And then Boggart-Harry had started to laugh quietly to himself. The fists that had been enclosed to his breast unraveled and revealed thickly blood-stained palms. Harry stared at his counterpart, who raised his head to look at him with red-streaked green eyes. The figure's eyes were wide, and the whites visible around the entirety of the iris. Blood was splattered across his face; blood dripped down his chin and onto the flagstone floor. Then, Harry noticed the scars and wounds that marred Boggart-Harry's arms. He cringed; this was him as he was now.
Boggart-Harry advanced on Harry; he walked strangely. There was a wary spring in his step. He was still crouched in on himself; he guarded his abdomen religiously. His back was hunched over. He moved defensively, like he expected an attack at any moment. Harry recognized it immediately. He had started to move in much of the same way recently, especially around Grimmauld over the summer. He had jumped spectacularly when Fred and George had spooked him the other night in the staircase leading to Gryffindor Tower. It had taken minutes to control his breathing again. He had been paralyzed, much as he was now.
As the boggart got closer and closer to Harry, he found himself more and more incapable of movement. Finally, the creature was mere inches from Harry's face and grinning maniacally. He leaned up and put his bloody lips to Harry's ear.
"I've seen your mind, Harry Potter, and it is my own," the monstrous counterpart whispered softly in a grating, scream-hoarse voice.
Harry stiffened but did not move away. He was stuck, entranced by this alter ego of himself. The figure stepped back and stared intently at Harry. Harry stared back and then smiled sadly.
"I know."
And the boggart had dissipated with a snap.
Perhaps there is more than one way to defeat a boggart. Harry thought as he was pulled out of his musings. Acceptance. His fingers continued to move along the length of the blade in his bag until they turned course and began grazing the edge that Harry religiously sharpened. Just as he was considering doing more than caressing his dagger, he was interrupted.
"Hey, Harry, why weren't you at dinner?" Hermione called as she and Ron entered through the portrait hole.
"Not hungry," came his immediate reply, like always. He just wasn't ever hungry, and he didn't really feel like explaining that to them again. Summer was getting closer; he couldn't afford to eat as much; little awaited him at the Dursleys.
"Harry, mate, you didn't eat anything today," Ron said, "You need to eat something. How are you going to keep your strength up for the game on Saturday if you won't eat?"
"There's more to life than Quidditch, Ron." Harry sighed. The truth was that the sport wasn't even able to fill him with the same joy it used to. It was just like everything else. He was expected to succeed, to be the best, to be something he wasn't always. Flying, on the other hand, still enthralled him and was able to at least give him some form of emotional release, but even that wasn't enough sometimes. That was when his blade was his one true friend.
Harry began to pack up his materials; he grimaced at his barely-started potions essay. Three sentences did not an essay compile. He would have to work on it later when no one was around. "I'm going up to bed."
"But, Harry. You haven't even given us a decent reason for your absence at dinner nor have you finished your essay. Harry, you know you need to start actually trying in school. This is our O.W.L.s year."
"God, Hermione. Lay off. I'll finish it later. And I already told you, I'm not hungry. Just leave it be!"
Harry finished gathering his materials and turned to head up to his dorm. Of course, he didn't plan on staying there. He had planned on going to the bathroom or maybe the Astronomy Tower. But, as he began to move towards the staircase, he felt a hand harshly wrap around his arm. He hissed in pain. A part of him reveled in the slight release in pressure that the pain brought. The other part cringed visibly, fearful that they would discover what caused him to react so strongly.
And that was exactly what happened. Hermione, who had been the one to clutch his arm, immediately pushed the sleeve back and stared at the patchwork of open wounds that marred Harry's arm. Harry, for his part, tried to wrench his arm back and bolt for the dorm, but Ron had moved behind him and grabbed his shoulders.
"Harry James Potter! What is this!" Hermione all but screamed. Harry was thankful that they were the only ones in the Commons. He didn't need the attention such a scene could bring.
"It's nothing," Harry responded coldly as he fought against the grips that both of his friends had on him. "Let me go."
"Mate, why are you doing this? How could you be so stupid? If you keep this up, what are we going to do without our Seeker? Who is going to fight against Voldemort? You know that it is you that he is after. If you die because of this weak obsession, he'll turn to someone else. You're the only thing that keeps him focused on harming as few as possible."
Harry froze at that. Of course. That's all I am. The hero. The seeker. The bait. "So all I am is bait, a diversion, Ron? I'm so glad that you think so highly of me. Now, let me go."
"Oh no, Harry," Hermione said as she moved to pull him towards the exit, "We are going straight to Professor Dumbledore. He's going to fix this. You can't be like this. It's pathetic. What would your parents think if they found out you can't even behave as a Gryffindor should? Where is your courage? Imagine what people would think if they knew that you self-harm. The press would have a field day. Voldemort would attack Hogwarts because you are so weak. Oh, no. Dumbledore will take care of this."
That was when Harry burst into action. He managed to wriggle out of Ron's grip and get his wand into his hand. He shot a stunner at Ron first and then proceeded to pull Hermione to him.
"Forgive me."
She, too, collapsed on the floor next to Harry's other best friend. Harry, for his part, slumped back into a chair and covered his face with one hand while the other ran through his hair. What a fucking mess. I can't believe they forced me to this. I never wanted them to know, but I had thought that would support me if they did find out. And now this. They're no different than the wizarding world. They expect me to be something that I'm not.
Harry stood with his wand grasped firmly and pointed it at his friends. I wish that it hadn't come to this. "I can't have you knowing about this. Not now after how you reacted. Obliviate."
He supplanted a memory to replace the real events. One where he had simply stormed off and left them sitting at the table that he had been working at. One where they did not discover what was hidden beneath his clothes. Harry then placed the bodies of his two one-time best friends into chairs at the table. After dropping off his stuff in his dorm and getting his invisibility cloak, he came back to the unconscious forms. Harry put on his cloak and pointed his wand at Ron and Hermione as he stood by the portrait hole; his dagger was tucked safely into his back pocket.
"Ennervate."
The two Gryffindors shot awake and looked around. They had just enough time to hear the door close shut.
~.oOo.~
When Harry came back to himself, the salty of residue was dried on his cheeks even as more continued to fall down. He also realized that he was no longer alone in the room. Oh Merlin, how could I have forgotten that I am in Snape's room? Christ. How long has he been there just watching me?
"How long have you been there?" Harry whispered.
"Oh, are you finally back among us, then?" the Potions Master retorted. Harry cringed but nodded his head. He was making a conscious effort to stop crying. It was weak, pathetic. I'll never be strong enough. But I have to make it look like I am.
"I've been here long enough. Is something bothering you? Why aren't you resting?"
"M'not tired. And no."
"Because you just cry for no reason. Stop lying to me, Harry. I'll probably understand more than you think I will."
Harry turned his head away from his professor and looked at the wall, which was slightly illuminated by the partially opened door. Why does he just being here and asking questions make me want to talk to him? I don't want to share. I don't. I don't. They can't know.
"Just about Ron and Hermione…how they betrayed me," Harry whispered, much against the will of his inner voice.
"And how did they do that?" Snape just wasn't going to let it go, but Harry was not going to allow himself to say anything else. He just shook his head; he would not look at his teacher. He simply stared at the wall and controlled his need to talk, to cry, to release the pressure.
"Fine, I can see that you won't tell me. Will you tell me why you don't want to sleep? You need to so you can regain your strength." Harry cringed. Yes, Harry, be strong. Always strong, never weak. "If you don't, it will take you far longer to heal." Harry stiffened at that; it was unexpected. He looked over at the Potions Master.
"I can't."
"Can't, or won't?"
"Won't," Harry whispered firmly. Too many things await me in my sleep.
"Why not?" Snape pressed questioningly.
Harry just shook his head. He'd already said too much. He did not want to talk; he didn't. Suddenly, a hand rested on his shoulder. Harry flinched, but the hand remained on his shoulder just gently resting there.
Snape crouched down so that he was at eye level with Harry as he asked, "Do you want me to sit with you? Maybe then you could fall asleep."
Harry closed his eyes.
"Okay."
Just so everyone knows, self-harm is a very serious issue that can consume your thoughts and easily become an addiction. Tell someone if you are self-harming or feel like you want to. Not everyone reacts the way that Harry's friends did. And you guys had such a firm reaction to Dumbles's interfering. I wonder what you are going to think of the Gryffindors. Death threats against them are welcomed, especially if they are creative and original. I'm all ears.
So, not the most action-packed chapter, but I wanted to develop Harry's character and past. I hope that you liked it.
Thanks go out to: AlwynneaRune, Ty Rose, TwistedSavior, SeverusDmitri18, blackroseBleeding13, WolfGirl75, Pri-Chan 1410, GoddessonmyKnees, dragonfreak1991, marksmom, and MirrorFlower and DarkWind for their reviews.
Thank you to everyone else for the favorites and alerts.
You guys warm my heart.
~Shameless
