Title: Strawberry Gashes
Author: frkwerewolf
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: none
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A boy alone does some thinking.
Spoilers: up to OotP
Warning: self-injury
Author's Note: I know a lot of people don't like the idea of self-injury, and some yet may find my telling of it inaccurate. As a former cutter I'm attempting to make this ficlet as realistic as possible. So, if you can't take the idea of everyone's Golden Boy cutting himself, then don't read.
It was enough and he hated it. It should be through, but no, they insisted. No matter what Harry Potter did, the world would never treat him properly. At first, he just thought it was the way things were. Living with the Dursley had that effect on you. Things were just better for other people.
Then Hogwarts came. A world was suddenly opened up for Harry to experience and he thought that he had finally got his break. No more slurred insults from family you didn't want. No more beatings from a fat cousin you hated. He could belong somewhere and be his own person.
It seems that would never happen. Harry Potter wasn't even normal in the wizarding world, he had to be a hero. Actually, it was more than that. He had to be the only one to defeat, of all things, the Dark Lord.
Harry had lost everything. His parents before he was old enough to remember. His godfather, his only real family left. His innocence, after watching the murder of a fellow student. And now, he suspected he was losing his sanity as well.
The curtains of his bed were closed. The soft sounds of scratching could be heard from Neville's bed. The boy was attempting to do his Potions homework without asking Hermione for help. Harry laid on his back, staring up at the roof of the four-poster bed. A shiver ran through him as he felt the liquid on his arm slide another inch downward. Sighing, he reached for the tissue he had placed nearby.
Lifting his arm, he stared at the crimson path leading around it before swiping it clean with the tissue. The cut could now be seen. It was clean and fresh, and perfectly acurate in it's depth. Harry watched the wound well back up, the blood threatening to spill over and onto the bed. Harry glared at it for a moment.
'You see what you make me do?' Harry thought to himself, grabbing his wand. 'This stupid school and the stupid world. Dumbledore and his stupid prophecies.' Harry lifted the wand and the blood vanished. The wound cleaned itself and healed, leaving not a sign it was there before. 'Let the fate of the world rest on my shoulders. I'm barely an adult and I feel like death.'
The wand was raised once more and pressed against the inside of his arm. Muttering the incantation, he calmly slid it along his skin. The blood once more apeared as the wand's tip cut into the delicate flesh.
And that's how Harry felt. Delicate. Everyone treated him as thought he was about to break apart. And yet, the moment Voldemort comes into the picture he must be the strong one. The fighter. He must win the battle.
'It's impossible.'
And Harry truly believed that. He was powerful, so everyone stated. But what good was power if you aren't trained to use it? The blood poured slowly from the wound, as though it didn't care where it went. Harry didn't care either. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to stain the bed with more than just this simple wound.
'What would the Wizarding World do if their so-called hero was gone?'
The thought intrigued Harry. Surely, if he was to die, he would get reuinited with those he loved? The sudden longing to not be alone ravaged him and he quickly cleaned the wound and healed it.
The slight calm and comfort from the stinging his arm still felt eased Harry. It was proof that he was still alive. He wasn't just a figment of someone's imagination. He was real.
Sighing, Harry Potter sat up in his bed. He looked at the bloodied tissues that had been strewn around him for the past hour. A heavy feeling hit his chest, but he ignored it. Grabbing them all, he disposed of them quickly, before slipping out of the comfort of his bed. After pretending to yawn he slowly made his way to the door.
"Heya, Harry." Neville greeted, looking up from his parchment. "Feeling okay?"
"Yeah." Harry slipped easily back into his happy facade. "I feel just wonderful."
And with that, he opened the dorm door and left the room. Neville watched him go, before frowning slightly. Harry Potter, to the eyes of Neville, was not okay. Shaking his head, the Gryffindor decided to forget about the crying he had heard from his friend's bed earlier.
Author: frkwerewolf
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: none
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A boy alone does some thinking.
Spoilers: up to OotP
Warning: self-injury
Author's Note: I know a lot of people don't like the idea of self-injury, and some yet may find my telling of it inaccurate. As a former cutter I'm attempting to make this ficlet as realistic as possible. So, if you can't take the idea of everyone's Golden Boy cutting himself, then don't read.
It was enough and he hated it. It should be through, but no, they insisted. No matter what Harry Potter did, the world would never treat him properly. At first, he just thought it was the way things were. Living with the Dursley had that effect on you. Things were just better for other people.
Then Hogwarts came. A world was suddenly opened up for Harry to experience and he thought that he had finally got his break. No more slurred insults from family you didn't want. No more beatings from a fat cousin you hated. He could belong somewhere and be his own person.
It seems that would never happen. Harry Potter wasn't even normal in the wizarding world, he had to be a hero. Actually, it was more than that. He had to be the only one to defeat, of all things, the Dark Lord.
Harry had lost everything. His parents before he was old enough to remember. His godfather, his only real family left. His innocence, after watching the murder of a fellow student. And now, he suspected he was losing his sanity as well.
The curtains of his bed were closed. The soft sounds of scratching could be heard from Neville's bed. The boy was attempting to do his Potions homework without asking Hermione for help. Harry laid on his back, staring up at the roof of the four-poster bed. A shiver ran through him as he felt the liquid on his arm slide another inch downward. Sighing, he reached for the tissue he had placed nearby.
Lifting his arm, he stared at the crimson path leading around it before swiping it clean with the tissue. The cut could now be seen. It was clean and fresh, and perfectly acurate in it's depth. Harry watched the wound well back up, the blood threatening to spill over and onto the bed. Harry glared at it for a moment.
'You see what you make me do?' Harry thought to himself, grabbing his wand. 'This stupid school and the stupid world. Dumbledore and his stupid prophecies.' Harry lifted the wand and the blood vanished. The wound cleaned itself and healed, leaving not a sign it was there before. 'Let the fate of the world rest on my shoulders. I'm barely an adult and I feel like death.'
The wand was raised once more and pressed against the inside of his arm. Muttering the incantation, he calmly slid it along his skin. The blood once more apeared as the wand's tip cut into the delicate flesh.
And that's how Harry felt. Delicate. Everyone treated him as thought he was about to break apart. And yet, the moment Voldemort comes into the picture he must be the strong one. The fighter. He must win the battle.
'It's impossible.'
And Harry truly believed that. He was powerful, so everyone stated. But what good was power if you aren't trained to use it? The blood poured slowly from the wound, as though it didn't care where it went. Harry didn't care either. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to stain the bed with more than just this simple wound.
'What would the Wizarding World do if their so-called hero was gone?'
The thought intrigued Harry. Surely, if he was to die, he would get reuinited with those he loved? The sudden longing to not be alone ravaged him and he quickly cleaned the wound and healed it.
The slight calm and comfort from the stinging his arm still felt eased Harry. It was proof that he was still alive. He wasn't just a figment of someone's imagination. He was real.
Sighing, Harry Potter sat up in his bed. He looked at the bloodied tissues that had been strewn around him for the past hour. A heavy feeling hit his chest, but he ignored it. Grabbing them all, he disposed of them quickly, before slipping out of the comfort of his bed. After pretending to yawn he slowly made his way to the door.
"Heya, Harry." Neville greeted, looking up from his parchment. "Feeling okay?"
"Yeah." Harry slipped easily back into his happy facade. "I feel just wonderful."
And with that, he opened the dorm door and left the room. Neville watched him go, before frowning slightly. Harry Potter, to the eyes of Neville, was not okay. Shaking his head, the Gryffindor decided to forget about the crying he had heard from his friend's bed earlier.