Harry inhaled sharply, a hiss of pain reflecting the action that caused it. Once the initial stinging passed, Harry closed his eyes and leaned back, head against the wall. The metallic scent of blood filled the air as crimson beads gathered on the Boy-Who-Lived's stomach, occasionally running down over pink and white scars. He sat there for hours, contemplating life, as he knew it, watching the world move on the back of his eyelids like a Muggle video.

What is so powerful about my blood? Harry thought. And why is nothing ever enough?

Feeling the fight ooze out of his will, Harry picked up the knife and cut again, again, again.

It's mesmerizing, how perfect skin can be broken. A moment of pain to silence the demons, ushering in moments of brief clarity and oneness, with what - I'm not sure, but I'll take what I can get. One cut, and then the skin parts, revealing its secrets to the world. I'm hypnotized every time by what I see there, veins, muscle, blood, water.

Fresh wounds were laid on old ones, fresh cuts opened up former scars.

My golden skin turns pale, covering my bones in harsh contrast to the deep ruby sparkles glistening as they glide across other cuts, across other unbroken skin. A change…why can't I change so easily?

Beads of bloods turned into trickles, then streams, then gushing rivers.

Why me?

He picked himself up and crawled into the bathtub, stopping up the drain with the old, stained plug.

Feel it, the blood, so red, so warm, warming the blackness, filling the emptiness.

Harry leaned against the back of the tub, his head resting on the edging.

Colors swirling, red, blue, green, white, black. How much of the movement is dizziness and headache, and how much of it is blood loss and malnutrition and injury and hatred?

Harry's eyes fluttered, his pupils shrinking to tiny pinholes before rolling back in his head. A small speckle of blood drained from Harry's mouth. He shook once, twice, then fell into unconsciousness.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The red looks like blood. So pure, so free, so alive. It moves and dances around me, a dance of life and growing and changing. It pulls me in and seduces me, kissing me. I give in to the call of the blood and let out more.

The blackness is so different, so cold, so dead as it returns. It always does. It sweeps in towards me silently, pressing its existence on to mine. I give in to the call of the darkness and let it surround me.

The only two colors left in the world – in my world – are red and black. The others were not strong, they have been eaten by the redness, been consumed by the blackness. They come at me from every side, pulling me in opposite directions. Do I choose the red - the blood, the life, the heat, the anger, the hatred – or do I choose the black - the death, the end, the numbness, the apathy, the cold? A decision must be made before one can be made for me. Everything is so red and so black at the same time. I don't know what to do, which one to choose.

A thousand visions whirl in my head. I see sunrises and sunsets, dead bodies, rivers of blood, the angel of death, an eagle, a raven, fire, ashes, the two colors swirling into each other. The thought of a scab comes into my mind - a thing that begins life red, but ends black.

The two are one, I realize. There is no apathy without emotion; there is no heat without the cold. To live is to die, and to die is to live.

I am more comfortable with the blackness, so I will choose it first. I will live in death, and prepare to die in life.

My soul is black.


My blood is red.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry hovered on the shores of the river of life for three weeks before he finally gave up and decided to live. It took him another few days to recuperate to the point of opening his eyes and blinking furiously in the harsh glowing light that surrounded him. He was in a bed, with a nightstand next to him, a chair next to that. Curtains around his bed, the hum of voices just beyond.

Hogwarts, he thought to himself. The infirmary.

"No," he heard, coming from the outside. "He's not awake yet. We'll let you know when he is."

Madame Pomphrey.

A pause, a quieter voice speaking, too low for Harry to hear.

"He should be fine."

Another pause.

"I'm not sure what happened. The wounds look self-inflicted, but you never know with these Death Eaters around. Especially since he was found well outside of Surrey."

Soft murmuring.

"Albus isn't sure how he made it to Germany unnoticed. With all of the wards on the house and the locator spells tagged into his energy, Harry should'nt've been able to walk into the next street without alarming us."

Goes to show the power of the darkness, Harry thought grimly. Once I found the spells, they weren't too hard to disarm with Dark Magic. Good thing Voldemort never discovered that.

"Yes, Albus did say something about the wards being shut down. He's sent Professor Snape to try and figure out how."

I can blame it on Voldemort and no one will ever know. I was kidnapped, taken to…..taken to the Durmstrang area, held in a prison, waiting for Voldemort's orders. It might work.

"Well, the school term won't start for another two weeks or so. He'll be fine by then."

Fine is a relative term. I will be fine. I will show them fine. I will give everyone what they want.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry never told anyone – even Dumbledore – what had really happened that day, in that inn bathroom, in his heart. In rare unguarded moments, he appeared darker than ever before, but few saw those moments. His housemates thought him tired by the war, worn out, but never dark. Harry thought Snape knew, thought that many of the Slytherins sensed a change in him, for they never really tormented him again. They accepted him silently, slyly, as one of their own.

~*~*~*~*~*~

I have to shut out the world,  Harry would remind himself. It was his morning mantra, getting out of bed and telling himself that isolation was the key. When people look at me with some demand, some anger, or supposed warnings its the same as when they look at me with love, or concern, or open expectations.

How stupid can they be?  He thought in the shower. I will never live up to what someone else has planned for me. I will never be understood. I am not anyone's but my own, and the idea of taming me is hilarious.

On the way to Potions, getting ready to face the one professor that might understand what he was going through: When a person has nothing to lose, don't you think the slightest thing that can get them angry can one day turn deadly? Don't you fucking know this?

Every time a friend looked confused at Harry's behavior, the Golden Boy smirked, thinking; don't fuck with something you don't understand.

At night, Harry would lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, carrying on an internal dialogue so harsh, his enemies would've been cowed by the dark passion it carried. No one understands me. It's not a surprise they don't understand my motivations. They never assume the truth, that I'm just naturally dark. He would toss and turn for hours. Why is it so damn fucking hard to breathe? Once Harry would fall asleep, dreams and nightmares would awaken him, sending him over the edge of sanity. Why can't I dream of happy things? The cynic in him, what was coming to be him, answered; that one's easy, at least. One question out of my thousands, I can answer. I am not happy. I have never been happy. I will never be happy. Why would I dream of things I don't understand? Don't know? Never experienced? As he drifted off to sleep an hour before he had to rise, Harry's thought became hard and unforgiving.  This is my life. This is what people expect. This is what they need. And this is what they'll get. He never slept well.

He sat at breakfast and skimmed the Daily Prophet over grapefruit and toast. Hide behind your stupid fear, whatever it is you're afraid of now. Hide behind your fear of Voldemort, your fear of me, for all I care. It's a rush, knowing I have enough power over someone to provoke a flinch when I glare at them, to provoke a throbbing when I grin their way, Harry would think, his eyes scanning the Great Hall above the printed paper.

Your fear is not doing anyone any good when you play it off as something tough; he mentally coached his friends, his schoolmates. Your toughness is nothing to me. Try waking up every day to a world you can't bear; to breathe anymore. Try not being able to speak because you can't stand the sound of your voice. Why do you hate? Why do you think you can hate more than me? Why do you think your hate is more powerful? I've always been stronger.

And it was true. Harry always was stronger.

~*~*~*~*~*~

His seventh year passed quickly. Harry graduated near the top of his year, behind Hermione, Draco, and the one or two odd Ravenclaws. He had taken extra tutoring in the dark arts from Professor Snape, who watched Harry carefully, as if the student were a coiled cobra, waiting to strike. It amused Harry, but never cheered him.

With graduation came the full onset of the war. Harry joined the Order of the Phoenix and became Dumbledore's second in command. He gave in to the darkness inside of him, slowly, as the full power of his magic met the power of the Unforgivables. Many Death Eaters quailed at the sight of the emotionless Golden Boy, the sight of a face of purity covering such a black heart driving a few insane. Those who stood, shocked, died first.

The others soon followed.

After every battle, Harry stood on the ground, watching as Aurors captured those Death Eaters still alive and marking those dead.

Pain is a comfort, Harry would think silently. I need pain, am addicted to it. It's almost sufficient, but not quite strong enough to fill an aching void inside. Why won't it be enough? I long for a knife that I can slice open my flesh with. A clean knife that will dig out the pain from inside of me, that I thought was gone. A clean knife that will spill blood and hope and breath and leave me gashed yet alive.

"It was a good fight," someone would say to Harry, a different Auror every week.


Pain is a terrible lie.

"It was indeed," Harry answered every time.

It promises so much.

"Until the next, Harry."


It gives nothing.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The void was never completely filled, not even on Avalon, where Harry turned into something else, where he became Tanaiste, the Phoenix Lord. The blackness continued to haunt his dreams as the redness threatened to swallow him up.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Five years after graduating, he knew he was close to finding the answer. The sense of fulfillment lingered in the air around him, heavy as a ripe peach waiting to be picked.

Not yet, he thought, standing outside the room. But today.

He felt the call of his Order, and calmed his breathing.

Everyone is waiting, Harry thought to himself. I need to go in.

And so he did, only to begin another adventure. One more, in the life of Harry Potter – the adventure of love.