Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter, don't want to.
His Box, His WorldIt came of interest to him, that whenever he cut, that blood kept flowing and flowing. Down and down, always flowing. He wondered when it would stop. Another sweet string of blood red pearls was his only gift from Queen Reality.
Maybe it was his blood, it just wasn't normal. Maybe he didn't have enough platelets to coagulate the blood and trap the pain. Maybe it was just him, always scratching off new scars
Sometimes, when he was feeling quite brave, he would cut much deeper than usual. Then he would really see that blood draining.
He didn't know why this fascination had developed so quickly, but it was getting towards an addiction.
When he cut when he bruised when he fell, he always felt pain. It was his destructive beauty, the little secret he never told any of his friends. In the end, he was always forced to heal his little wounds. Magic was finally useful in the most awkward of situations.
He could use a memory charm on himself, to make him forget his "disease" but he didn't want to, what would he be without his loveless blade?
And one night, resting in his second floor-contaminated room on number 4 Private Drive, Harry realized something; he was fucking sick of life.
Not the kind of 'I am so fucking depressed, kill me' angst just the usual revulsion of today's nice little racist/discriminative/stereotypical/vindictive society.
He thought people were just vile greedy bastards with no care of what they do to others as they peruse their dreams of luxurious life-styles. He couldn't blame them, they were as manipulative, as avaricious, as self-oriented as he was and is; you couldn't change humanity.
Sure, there were others like him, some lone punks prowling the streets living their lives to the fullest with big flashy statements of 'Fuck Society.' And then there was the wizard world where everything was completely surreal.
He had never questioned the liability of his 'people', they were simply more open-minded than muggles, but even more deprived of knowledge of what life is really like.
He hadn't seen any homeless wizards roaming Diagon Ally. Everything was wickedly perfect in the realm of wizards, as if nothing could ever go wrong.
But there was Voldemort, his archrival, his true adversary; his only reason for, ever being valued was because he had to kill this wizard. His anger would boil for what Tom Riddle had done to his parents, he would feel alone without them, but now he was old enough at the age of 17 to realize that mommy and daddy wouldn't be holding his hand anytime soon.
He knew that Dumbledor was using him as a pawn; he was singled out, by being forced to destroy his soul purpose of existence.
But now, Voldemort was dead. Gone. Far away in some alternative hell. It hadn't been Harry who had killed him, obviously not, he had just been the bait for the swarms of charging Auroras that were dispatched minutes after Voldemort had captured Harry.
It had all been a scheme made by the Ministry of Fucking Magic to make Harry believe that he was really going to die in his final battle with Tom Riddle; he had even written good-bye notes to Ron and Hermione.
He had wanted to avenge his dead parents, to make things right, to fight for freedom, and he had been betrayed by his own side.
Society had fucking betrayed him. And it made him mad. Made him think things that he was never supposed to think of, made him want to become the new dark lord and destroy every single person in his way. He had withdrawn from everybody he had known. Ron and Hermione had tried, and they still do now, to get "the old Harry back"; he was Harry, just a bit older and a bit more insane, but still Harry.
That's what made him cut. He hated himself with all his dignified glory. He hated everyone around him as much as he loved them.
He didn't care about them because they weren't him. He was just like them, with a few small differences. He didn't want to go back to Hogwarts this year but he was going to anyway, since he had nothing else to do now but try and study.
He still wanted to live in a nice little apartment with a nice little couch and nice little homely things and have a decent job so that he could put food in his mouth; he was still a dreamer. He would go back and make new friends and be a stupid ignorant prink and not talk to any of his 'old friends' because he felt like making them hurt. He didn't deserve them so the only way to get rid of them was to make them hate him, then he would do just that.
He missed them a lot and it showed all too badly, but he couldn't contaminate their minds with his insane babblings, they didn't need him for that.
And that was the day when Harry Potter finally changed. A cutter, an unstable bastard, a psychotic, an ex-do-gooder, a fucking bipolar, he was Harry.
-Hogwarts Express; Station in Hogsmend-
Oh he had surprised everyone as he had expected. He had seen their faces go still with shock and their eyes register the horror, he had seen them stuttering to each other like a flock of gossiping sheep. He really wasn't being an exhibitionist by wanting all this attention; he just wanted everyone to leave him alone for his last year at Hogwarts.
And his longer cut hair and his rather newly pierced eyebrow and the corner of his lip, sure, even made wizards and witches be stereotypically bias.
He had ignored Ron and Hermione's surprised shouts as he walked past their compartment, even if he had wanted to hug Ron and kiss Hermione on the cheek and make all things better, he wouldn't, couldn't shatter their perfect understanding of the world.
His heart was hurting like an old forgotten razor was living inside him and slowly tearing it open, he couldn't make the pain stop even if he had wanted to. Afterwards, he had rushed to the small bathroom and sharply cut a diagonal line over a small portion of his right arm, at least a bit of pain washed away into the porcelain sink. The water had been red.
Now, he was back "Home", back at Hogwarts, back to the clutches of people who had made him a fucking martyr.
And then the fun would begin. He would get attacked for being different, he was still relatively small for his age, standing at 5"7 and hardly any muscles to show off, he would be the perfect victim for discrimination. Fuck it all, they didn't need Golden Boy now.
In the end, what was he without his pain?