In the dark of the night, a young boy lay tossing and turning. Sweat covered his brow, trickling down his cheeks and neck to soak his over-sized nightshirt.
Harry Potter was caught in the throes of one of the most horrific of his dreams yet. Since Voldermort had discovered in his last year that Harry was able to see his little torture sessions, He was steadily become more and more aggressive, more and more violent with his followers in those times that he knew Harry would be watching.
Perhaps if these had only been morbid, dark dreams Harry would have been OK, would not have been quite so frightened. But the fact that these things were actually taking place right now ........ that this was not his own imagination, that people could actually behave in such a way ........
And perhaps if Voldermort had simply stuck to violence, he would not have been reduced to the empty, frightened shell that he now was.
But there were the conversations. The times when Voldermort would sit there, speaking calmly and rationally to Harry of all the things he hoped to accomplished, detailing the attack that was currently taking place, holding Harry in his "dream" until the act could be accomplished. Wouldn't do to have any of his followers captured by the Ministry of Magic, now would it?
Tonight, he was torturing a nameless young woman, clothes ripped from her body and scattered around her as various death eaters had their "fun". Lucius Malfoy was not one of them, harry was surprised to note -- he wold have expected the older man to be the first one to have his fun with this obviously muggle young woman.
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Harry lay awake in his bed, staring at the plaster peeling on the ceiling above him. In his right hand he held a sharp kitchen knife -- one of his aunt's favorites, actually. His right arm was littered with sharp cuts and bruises, from the time he had spent in this same position almost every night of the summer vacation. Most of the time, he didn't cut deep enough for blood to be released. Tonight, however, he just needed to see that -- to see the proof that he really was still human, that he could feel just as much as anybody else.
Funny -- the only time he truly felt alive was when he was trying not to be.
Grinning darkly at that morbid thought, Harry brought the knife down up his arm yet again, watching as more blood welled up to join the rest, sliding silkily down his arm. Mesmerized by the sight of it, Harry slowly leaned down, running his tongue lightly through the red liquid, moaning softly at the taste.
Self Mutilation. That was what people called this. They would say that there was something wrong with him, for wanting to hurt himself, wanting to inflict bodily harm upon himself. They'd think that there was something wrong with him, try and put him into some sort of psych ward. They, They, They. It was always about somebody else. Always trying to please everybody else, always trying to be the perfect golden boy for them so that they could sleep easier at night.
Just last year, he wold have said that his sleepless nights were just the price he would have to pay to make the world seem a safer place for those around him. He kept it inside, didn't let them see the fear that he lived with every day. Because if he was afraid, then so wold they be. But if he showed no fear, acted as if all was right with the world, then their fear would diminish. After all, if the sole target of the Dark Lord wasn't afraid, what right did they have to be? Sighing softly, Harry leaned his head back against the cool wall behind him. He'd been locked in his room for five days straight now, receiving one meal a day, consisting of whatever Aunt Petunia deemed to be edible leftovers. More often than not, he just got stale, crusty bread with a piece of meat and cheese, and a glass of water -- in a plastic cup, of course, to stop her from having to do any unneeded dishes.
Slowly closing his eyes, Harry idly wondered what would happen if any of his relatives were to walk in and find him like this. Would they fee l sorry for him? Laugh at him Help him to finish the job?
He didn't want to die. He actually rather enjoy ed the act of living. Of breathing. Of being able to change things around him.
Even if he was expected to save the entire bloody world from a raging madman whose sole ambition was to commit genocide on all those unfortunate enough not to be born with the ability to perform magic. Muggles, in other words. And squibs. Couldn't forget the squibs, poor unfortunate souls that they were -- doomed forever to live among the wizarding world, yet never truly become a part of it.
Harry shifted his position so that he could stare out his window, noticing not for the firs t time that his uncle had failed to place bars on the window. He could easily climb out, possibly making it down to the ground without alerting his relatives to his leaving. He couldn't take all of this things with him, just the essentials and the small amount of wizarding money that he had exchanged for muggle money at Gringott's on the last Hogsmeade weekend before returning here for the summer.
Could he do it? Did he want to do it? Mind suddenly straying off to think about the various beatings and assaults that he had been privy to since he'd first come "home", Harry's eyes suddenly narrowed into small little slits and he slowly stood up from where he sat against the far all of his room.
It really was a no-brainer. Stay here, in this little room and recieve various beatings every day for simply being who (and what) he was, or leave this damn hellhole in exchange for something better.
He couldn't go to Hogwarts, or The Burrow, for that matter. They would just instantly send him back here, and he knew that his relatives would be none too pleased with that -- he'd be lucky to survive that beating that he'd recieve in that instance.
So, that ruled out two possibilites. Plus, he wasn't feeling too keen on Albus Dumbledore at the moment. The man had to know what went on here, how he was hurt, how he was treated. And yet, in all of his intense wisdom, the older man did nothing. Just sat back and let it happen.
Glancing at the old clock sitting beside his bed, Harry narrowed his eyes once again. 3:00 in the morning. If he was going to do this, he had to do it now, before anybody else woke up. He only had one chance at this, and he couldn't blow it.
Harry Potter was caught in the throes of one of the most horrific of his dreams yet. Since Voldermort had discovered in his last year that Harry was able to see his little torture sessions, He was steadily become more and more aggressive, more and more violent with his followers in those times that he knew Harry would be watching.
Perhaps if these had only been morbid, dark dreams Harry would have been OK, would not have been quite so frightened. But the fact that these things were actually taking place right now ........ that this was not his own imagination, that people could actually behave in such a way ........
And perhaps if Voldermort had simply stuck to violence, he would not have been reduced to the empty, frightened shell that he now was.
But there were the conversations. The times when Voldermort would sit there, speaking calmly and rationally to Harry of all the things he hoped to accomplished, detailing the attack that was currently taking place, holding Harry in his "dream" until the act could be accomplished. Wouldn't do to have any of his followers captured by the Ministry of Magic, now would it?
Tonight, he was torturing a nameless young woman, clothes ripped from her body and scattered around her as various death eaters had their "fun". Lucius Malfoy was not one of them, harry was surprised to note -- he wold have expected the older man to be the first one to have his fun with this obviously muggle young woman.
-------- -------- -------- -------- -------- -------- -------- --------
Harry lay awake in his bed, staring at the plaster peeling on the ceiling above him. In his right hand he held a sharp kitchen knife -- one of his aunt's favorites, actually. His right arm was littered with sharp cuts and bruises, from the time he had spent in this same position almost every night of the summer vacation. Most of the time, he didn't cut deep enough for blood to be released. Tonight, however, he just needed to see that -- to see the proof that he really was still human, that he could feel just as much as anybody else.
Funny -- the only time he truly felt alive was when he was trying not to be.
Grinning darkly at that morbid thought, Harry brought the knife down up his arm yet again, watching as more blood welled up to join the rest, sliding silkily down his arm. Mesmerized by the sight of it, Harry slowly leaned down, running his tongue lightly through the red liquid, moaning softly at the taste.
Self Mutilation. That was what people called this. They would say that there was something wrong with him, for wanting to hurt himself, wanting to inflict bodily harm upon himself. They'd think that there was something wrong with him, try and put him into some sort of psych ward. They, They, They. It was always about somebody else. Always trying to please everybody else, always trying to be the perfect golden boy for them so that they could sleep easier at night.
Just last year, he wold have said that his sleepless nights were just the price he would have to pay to make the world seem a safer place for those around him. He kept it inside, didn't let them see the fear that he lived with every day. Because if he was afraid, then so wold they be. But if he showed no fear, acted as if all was right with the world, then their fear would diminish. After all, if the sole target of the Dark Lord wasn't afraid, what right did they have to be? Sighing softly, Harry leaned his head back against the cool wall behind him. He'd been locked in his room for five days straight now, receiving one meal a day, consisting of whatever Aunt Petunia deemed to be edible leftovers. More often than not, he just got stale, crusty bread with a piece of meat and cheese, and a glass of water -- in a plastic cup, of course, to stop her from having to do any unneeded dishes.
Slowly closing his eyes, Harry idly wondered what would happen if any of his relatives were to walk in and find him like this. Would they fee l sorry for him? Laugh at him Help him to finish the job?
He didn't want to die. He actually rather enjoy ed the act of living. Of breathing. Of being able to change things around him.
Even if he was expected to save the entire bloody world from a raging madman whose sole ambition was to commit genocide on all those unfortunate enough not to be born with the ability to perform magic. Muggles, in other words. And squibs. Couldn't forget the squibs, poor unfortunate souls that they were -- doomed forever to live among the wizarding world, yet never truly become a part of it.
Harry shifted his position so that he could stare out his window, noticing not for the firs t time that his uncle had failed to place bars on the window. He could easily climb out, possibly making it down to the ground without alerting his relatives to his leaving. He couldn't take all of this things with him, just the essentials and the small amount of wizarding money that he had exchanged for muggle money at Gringott's on the last Hogsmeade weekend before returning here for the summer.
Could he do it? Did he want to do it? Mind suddenly straying off to think about the various beatings and assaults that he had been privy to since he'd first come "home", Harry's eyes suddenly narrowed into small little slits and he slowly stood up from where he sat against the far all of his room.
It really was a no-brainer. Stay here, in this little room and recieve various beatings every day for simply being who (and what) he was, or leave this damn hellhole in exchange for something better.
He couldn't go to Hogwarts, or The Burrow, for that matter. They would just instantly send him back here, and he knew that his relatives would be none too pleased with that -- he'd be lucky to survive that beating that he'd recieve in that instance.
So, that ruled out two possibilites. Plus, he wasn't feeling too keen on Albus Dumbledore at the moment. The man had to know what went on here, how he was hurt, how he was treated. And yet, in all of his intense wisdom, the older man did nothing. Just sat back and let it happen.
Glancing at the old clock sitting beside his bed, Harry narrowed his eyes once again. 3:00 in the morning. If he was going to do this, he had to do it now, before anybody else woke up. He only had one chance at this, and he couldn't blow it.