Vanishing Act

by nockout

Taking place after the First Wizarding War and before the boy who lived, this is the wizarding world of the 1980's and early 90's. A disturbed Dumbledore deals with violent anti-muggle sentiments, Alastor Moody attempts to catch whoever is behind a string of murders, and the overwhelmingly muggle-born class of 1984 tries to prove themselves. Slow-burn for characters and plot.

20. Player Piano

November 1985

He got out of bed at eight every morning, whether he was awake or not. He walked down the hallway and watched himself turn on the cold water. He stood under the spray of water in the dark, unable to wince or reach for the light switch. Hot water and light cost money that was better spent not keeping him comfortable. It didn't matter that he was comfortable, only that he was alive and out of sight.

His hands scrubbed his skin and pulled too hard at his hair. Soap ran into his eyes and he couldn't blink or wipe it away. He turned off the water and reached for the towel. He dressed, pulling on clothes he hadn't selected. None of it mattered, not the cold water or the darkness or the clothes that were too tight, because this was right and he was NO happy. This was all NO fine and he NO was FUCKING NO happy.

His feet turned back to the bathroom. He saw himself in the mirror and couldn't DO YOU SEE ME TOO FUCKING LOOK AT ME look away. He lathered and spread the cream on his face, even though he liked himself better with some hair on his chin. He raised the blade MOVE IT JUST FUCKING MOVE IT and cut the hair off his MOVE IT TO THE NECK CUT THE NECK cheek.

This was all fine. And he was happy.

TURN THE BLADE CUT THE NECK

He tried to imagine blood running down his throat. No, he was FUCKING NO happy.

He was in the kitchen making coffee. He hadn't noticed. He had put on a record and sliced MY THROAT OPEN bread, toasted it, and spread BLOOD strawberry jam. He set it out on a plate. His body stood in the corner, facing a wall. Sometimes, he stood in the corner for hours. He had memorized the lines PRISON BARS of the wallpaper. An hour passed. The FUCKING PUPPET MASTER DROPPED THE STRINGS toast was cold. The coffee was cold. With a sudden motion that startled him, he dumped out the coffee and made more toast. He took TAKE the knife AND FUCKING END IT and spread more jam. He watched himself rinse the knife clean, dry it with a towel, and put it away. The puppet master didn't make mistakes. He never tripped or fell or drowned or slit his throat.

Because this was all fine. And he NO NO NO NO was I'M FUCKING NOT happy.

He heard footsteps. His body turned and faced the corner again. The puppet master didn't like looking him in the face. He heard him eat his toast NO and drink his coffee and then he was alone. He stood in the corner, away from the windows, where he couldn't hurt himself NO or FUCKING NO anyone else.