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Pain. They're the property of JK Rowling, and whoever was lucky enough to
get the merchandising rights. The plot, however, does belong to us. You
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Oh, and this rated R for a reason, so don't read if you're really
squeamish.
Ghost of Myself
Chapter 3
Harry woke up a few hours later, somewhere right before dawn, judging by the slightly lightening sky outside his window. He winced in pain, barely suppressing a moan as he lifted his head slightly from the pillow. His cheek once again felt wet. Damn. The clotting blood must have attached itself to the bedding. Petunia would have his head on a platter when next she washed the sheets. But then, she only washed them once, maybe twice a month, so maybe he would be at school before she found out... If only he were that lucky. Given the way his life was going right now, he wouldn't be surprised if she started washing them twice a day, if only to give Vernon more reason to beat him up. Not that Vernon required much reason. Breathing seemed to cut it most times.
Cut. What Harry wouldn't give for the garden shears right now. The thin, burning pain, the blood, controlled, precise, painful yet beautiful. He looked down at his arm, at the faint, silvery scars, barely visible, hidden under the crusted blood from Vernon's latest attack. Battle wounds, survival wounds, marks to bear with pride, scars no one would ever know about. Not that anyone would want to see. Who wants to see a crazy hero?
And he knew, on some level, that what he was doing was crazy, that it wouldn't make any sense to anyone else. But it was the only thing that got him through the day anymore. That one moment of complete control, of release. That one thing he could do to prove his life was still his own to control, to play with, that he was still alive. They were scars he could be proud of, crazy scars that proved his sanity, proved his grip on reality. Scars that were his own, not like that stupid lightning bolt branded across his forehead. That one wasn't his, never was his. It belonged to the wizarding world, to The Daily Prophet, to wizards' dreams of a hero, to young wizards' fantasies and adventures, to the Deatheaters. To a little boy whose parents died in a car crash, a little boy who died when he was four, the first time that massive fist pounded down upon that scar.
But he couldn't make anymore scars right now, not without the shears. He couldn't stay here like this, either. Slowly, painful, every nerve screaming in agony, Harry sat up, then managed to balance on his feet well enough to hobble into the bathroom across the hall from his room. He tried to be quiet, but he was so consumed by his pain, he didn't much care. Upon reaching the bathroom, he sat down heavily on the toilet lid, resting. Years of practice had trained him to not look into the mirror, not yet, not until he had had a chance to clean the most superficial of wounds. He knew he would be beyond recognition, that the sight might be enough to make him throw up. No, not throw up, that would mean having something in his stomach 'to' throw up. But the dry heaves and gagging were just as bad, if not worse.
So Harry took one of the dark towels, running it lightly under warm water, just enough to make it damp, and slowly, gently began to clean the blood from his skin, patting delicately at the skin, occasionally applying a little more pressure, or rubbing when the blood was to stubborn. It hurt like hell, but he couldn't go downstairs tomorrow looking like this. He had tried to, once, when he was five. He had blocked most of the memory of what Vernon had done in retaliation, but what little he did remember made his stomach turn, and his body quake. Best not to think of it right now, not when there's still so much to do to become presentable, and too much work on too little sleep waiting for him with the morning as it was.
After washing down his skin, Harry examined his wounds, then grabbed a bar of soap, creating a small lather on the bloodied towel. He ran the towel over his skin, cleaning the wounds as best he could, then passed over the skin again with an unsoapy corner, to wash away the bits of suds. Most of the wounds didn't look too bad, but there were a few that would need greater attention.
With a shaky hand, Harry nudged open the mirror, careful not to look at it, revealing the medicine cabinet behind it. He took out the bottle of antiseptic, carefully removing the top, and applying just the slightest drop to the worst of the wounds. He knew Petunia watched things like this like a hawk, and if he used too much, she'd be furious at him. And Vernon would get to go at him a second time in one day.
The final wounds tended to, Harry put the bottle away, and closed the cabinet again. He closed his eyes, leaning back against the tank of the toilet, and let out a sigh. A wave of acute pain wracked his system. He looked at his body, trying to find the source, when he noticed his left arm hanging limply in his lap. Being right handed, Harry hadn't needed to use the left hand or arm in his ministrations, so it was only just now that he realized it was broke. He squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to combat the pain, cursing his body for letting the shock wear off his senses, bringing everything back into sharp focus.
For all it hurt, though, the break didn't look that bad, once Harry could bring himself to examine it more closely. He'd certainly had worse; this one hadn't broken the skin. He should be able to make a makeshift splint for it, come morning, once he was outside, and had access to twigs to stabilize the bone. He'd have to bring fabric with him, though. The Dursleys would skin him alive if he ruined any of the hand-me-downs he'd received from Dudley, or any of the linens. That left his school robes. Oh well. If he really needed to, he could replace it at Diagon Alley, with the money he had at Gringot's. Assuming, that is, he ever went back to the wizarding world. At this rate, he might be dead before school started. Or maybe they didn't want him back. Hell, his best friends hadn't deemed him good enough for a single word of communication this summer. Why would anyone want him in school?
Shaking himself from such thoughts, knowing they wouldn't do him a lick of good, Harry stood up, and turned on the faucet, cupping his right hand to catch water and bring it to his lips, careful to keep his left arm as still as possible. After drinking as much as he could, Harry made his way back into his room. He went to his trunk and rummaged around for one of his older robes. It was quite odd, Harry mused, that after all these years, the Dursley's had finally decided to let him keep his school things with him during the summer. Though maybe, at this point, they'd finally realized that one of the greatest forms of torture for him was to have his Hogwarts things at his fingertips, but not be able to use them. Because if he did any magic at all, he'd be expelled from Hogwarts, and with it, in all likelihood, the entire wizarding world, now that it thought Voldemort was gone. And so would go his only chance of escape.
He soon found a suitable robe, and, wrapped up in it, his wand. He held it lightly in his hand, lovingly, fantasizing about hexing everyone into oblivion. Or maybe just himself. That would work, too.
The soft grey light in his room was becoming stronger, signaling the fast- approaching dawn. A few more hours, and it would be back outside. Back to the backbreaking work, the Dursley's commands and screams, splinting his arm, explaining the rusted pruning shears.
Harry's ever-present headache, somewhat dulled by his constant state of pain, returned with blinding force. Colors danced before his eyes as he clutched at his skull, falling back into his bed with a thunk. He was in too much pain to even care if the Dursley's heard it. He started hissing as he felt like he was starting to swirl, the pain shooting from behind his scar to his eyes and ears. He wished his head would just explode, if only to alleviate this unbearable pain, pressure.
Then slowly, ever so slowly, the pain began to recede. All that was left was the familiar throbbing ache, and the burning pain of his scar.
Even this was out of his control, even these headaches, these attacks from Voldemort. A creature who he had supposedly weakened to near death. Near death shouldn't have this much power. Yet another thing in his life Harry had somehow managed to completely screw up. Just like getting his parents killed, Cedric killed, Sirius killed. Sirius.
The thought was too much for Harry to bear, he couldn't stand it any longer. He flailed his hand around, frantically searching for his wand. Fuck being kicked out of Hogwarts, out of the wizarding world. He needed relief NOW, dammit! After a few seconds of eternity, his hand found it, and he grasped it tightly.
"Accio gardening shears," he murmured, not able to make his voice any stronger. He waited for a moment, then tried again, his voice a little stronger this time. Still nothing. Not even the familiar twinge of magic snaking up his arm. Absolutely nothing. Harry tried a few other spells, simple ones from first year, thinking perhaps this was too complicated, too difficult a spell for him, given his state. Still nothing. Not a damn thing. No magic in the slightest. His wand didn't work anymore. He pounded the bed in frustration, ignoring the resulting pain that shot up his arm. Why? WHY?!?!?
Dumbledore.
It came to Harry in a flash. Dumbledore had decided that the safest way to keep Harry safe, given the unreliability of some of the "guards" from the Order of the Phoenix, was to cast a massive magic-free zone around Number Four Privet Drive.
Harry took his useless wand, and shoved it back into the trunk, punching all the contents in an effort to alleviate his anger. He was past caring that it was just like Vernon, that it was what Vernon was using him for. He didn't give a damn anymore. He needed out, needed release, and there was no way to get it. The very thing that had landed him in this hellhole, the reason for his parents' deaths, his living here, Vernon hating him to the point of abuse, the whole wizarding world, was the same damn thing that kept him from finding any peace, any release, any comfort now.
He heard something shatter as something below his fist gave way. He rummaged through the trunk to find out what, more from boredom and frustration than any real desire to know what he had broken. He soon found it. Just an old glass vial from potions, empty, now shattered at the bottom of his trunk. He was trying to cover it back up with his robes when he brushed his hand against one of the pieces. He drew his hand back quickly in pain, instinctively sucking at the blood on his finger.
Blood.
Harry snapped his hand out of his mouth, examining the cut. Not as neat and precise, nor as deep as the cuts he could get from the shears, but it would do for now. Hell, at this point, if he had any fingernails to speak of, he'd be using them.
He shoved his hand back into the trunk, carefully removing anything that had fallen on top of the broken vial. Leaning over the edge of it, face close to the bottom in an effort to see, his glasses still missing, Harry looked greedily for the pieces of glass. The grey light was brighter now, dawn much closer. He could see better, but it also meant he was that much closer to having to go back to work. At this point he didn't care, though. He just needed to cut.
After careful examination, he found three pieces that were large enough, and sharp enough to be of any use. They were rather small, and Harry didn't know how long they would last before they dulled, or broke. The glass wasn't very strong. But it was better than nothing.
Sitting back on his bed, Harry took one of the pieces in hand, resting it lightly for a moment on his left forearm, just staring at it, before increasing the pressure and dragging it slowly across the skin, drawing blood in the shard's wake. Each cut made him feel a little bit better, made the unbearable pressure building up inside him go away just a little bit more. He could feel his control starting to fade, as the cuts became quicker, less precise, more frantic. More, more, he needed more, needed to bleed, needed the pain, needed the mind numbing release. Just him and the glass and the blood. His arm, covered in blood, rich red, slightly black in the pre-light of dawn. He started making cuts on his leg, blindly giving himself over to the relief washing over him, when he felt the glass snap under his hand, snapping him back to some semblance of reality.
His eyes widened in fear, taking in the sight of his limbs, blood smeared everywhere. The glass lay in three pieces on his bed, a fourth in his hand, so tiny. What if it had chipped, had gotten stuck in one of the cuts? He gathered up the pieces quickly, trying to mesh them together, like a puzzle. He relaxed a little, as it appeared that they were all there, it hadn't chipped, but he couldn't be certain.
He looked out his window once more. The sun was just starting to peak up over the horizon. He'd be expected to be waking up, getting to work soon. The others might wake up soon, too. He couldn't risk going to the bathroom to wash up. He looked at his skin again, panicking. If the Durselys found out...it was bad enough already, he didn't need this, too.
He tried mopping the skin with his school robe, the one he was going to splint his left arm with later, anyway, but the coarse fabric just seemed to aggravate the bleeding, pulling at the edges of the cuts, making them bleed more. He started to feel weak, lightheaded as he lost even more blood. He looked frantically around the room, searching for something, anything, but there was nothing of any use, not even a bottle of water to wash them with, or use to rehydrate himself.
He couldn't lose this much blood, let himself get this dehydrated! He had to try to stop it, conserve it...
His stomach began to turn as a thought occurred to him. A way to conserve the blood, to stay hydrated, at least a little. But he couldn't think of anything else.
He slowly lowered his mouth to the cuts, praying he wouldn't throw up, and that the saliva would form enough of a film to staunch the bleeding, allow the blood to clot before he passed out.
Ghost of Myself
Chapter 3
Harry woke up a few hours later, somewhere right before dawn, judging by the slightly lightening sky outside his window. He winced in pain, barely suppressing a moan as he lifted his head slightly from the pillow. His cheek once again felt wet. Damn. The clotting blood must have attached itself to the bedding. Petunia would have his head on a platter when next she washed the sheets. But then, she only washed them once, maybe twice a month, so maybe he would be at school before she found out... If only he were that lucky. Given the way his life was going right now, he wouldn't be surprised if she started washing them twice a day, if only to give Vernon more reason to beat him up. Not that Vernon required much reason. Breathing seemed to cut it most times.
Cut. What Harry wouldn't give for the garden shears right now. The thin, burning pain, the blood, controlled, precise, painful yet beautiful. He looked down at his arm, at the faint, silvery scars, barely visible, hidden under the crusted blood from Vernon's latest attack. Battle wounds, survival wounds, marks to bear with pride, scars no one would ever know about. Not that anyone would want to see. Who wants to see a crazy hero?
And he knew, on some level, that what he was doing was crazy, that it wouldn't make any sense to anyone else. But it was the only thing that got him through the day anymore. That one moment of complete control, of release. That one thing he could do to prove his life was still his own to control, to play with, that he was still alive. They were scars he could be proud of, crazy scars that proved his sanity, proved his grip on reality. Scars that were his own, not like that stupid lightning bolt branded across his forehead. That one wasn't his, never was his. It belonged to the wizarding world, to The Daily Prophet, to wizards' dreams of a hero, to young wizards' fantasies and adventures, to the Deatheaters. To a little boy whose parents died in a car crash, a little boy who died when he was four, the first time that massive fist pounded down upon that scar.
But he couldn't make anymore scars right now, not without the shears. He couldn't stay here like this, either. Slowly, painful, every nerve screaming in agony, Harry sat up, then managed to balance on his feet well enough to hobble into the bathroom across the hall from his room. He tried to be quiet, but he was so consumed by his pain, he didn't much care. Upon reaching the bathroom, he sat down heavily on the toilet lid, resting. Years of practice had trained him to not look into the mirror, not yet, not until he had had a chance to clean the most superficial of wounds. He knew he would be beyond recognition, that the sight might be enough to make him throw up. No, not throw up, that would mean having something in his stomach 'to' throw up. But the dry heaves and gagging were just as bad, if not worse.
So Harry took one of the dark towels, running it lightly under warm water, just enough to make it damp, and slowly, gently began to clean the blood from his skin, patting delicately at the skin, occasionally applying a little more pressure, or rubbing when the blood was to stubborn. It hurt like hell, but he couldn't go downstairs tomorrow looking like this. He had tried to, once, when he was five. He had blocked most of the memory of what Vernon had done in retaliation, but what little he did remember made his stomach turn, and his body quake. Best not to think of it right now, not when there's still so much to do to become presentable, and too much work on too little sleep waiting for him with the morning as it was.
After washing down his skin, Harry examined his wounds, then grabbed a bar of soap, creating a small lather on the bloodied towel. He ran the towel over his skin, cleaning the wounds as best he could, then passed over the skin again with an unsoapy corner, to wash away the bits of suds. Most of the wounds didn't look too bad, but there were a few that would need greater attention.
With a shaky hand, Harry nudged open the mirror, careful not to look at it, revealing the medicine cabinet behind it. He took out the bottle of antiseptic, carefully removing the top, and applying just the slightest drop to the worst of the wounds. He knew Petunia watched things like this like a hawk, and if he used too much, she'd be furious at him. And Vernon would get to go at him a second time in one day.
The final wounds tended to, Harry put the bottle away, and closed the cabinet again. He closed his eyes, leaning back against the tank of the toilet, and let out a sigh. A wave of acute pain wracked his system. He looked at his body, trying to find the source, when he noticed his left arm hanging limply in his lap. Being right handed, Harry hadn't needed to use the left hand or arm in his ministrations, so it was only just now that he realized it was broke. He squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to combat the pain, cursing his body for letting the shock wear off his senses, bringing everything back into sharp focus.
For all it hurt, though, the break didn't look that bad, once Harry could bring himself to examine it more closely. He'd certainly had worse; this one hadn't broken the skin. He should be able to make a makeshift splint for it, come morning, once he was outside, and had access to twigs to stabilize the bone. He'd have to bring fabric with him, though. The Dursleys would skin him alive if he ruined any of the hand-me-downs he'd received from Dudley, or any of the linens. That left his school robes. Oh well. If he really needed to, he could replace it at Diagon Alley, with the money he had at Gringot's. Assuming, that is, he ever went back to the wizarding world. At this rate, he might be dead before school started. Or maybe they didn't want him back. Hell, his best friends hadn't deemed him good enough for a single word of communication this summer. Why would anyone want him in school?
Shaking himself from such thoughts, knowing they wouldn't do him a lick of good, Harry stood up, and turned on the faucet, cupping his right hand to catch water and bring it to his lips, careful to keep his left arm as still as possible. After drinking as much as he could, Harry made his way back into his room. He went to his trunk and rummaged around for one of his older robes. It was quite odd, Harry mused, that after all these years, the Dursley's had finally decided to let him keep his school things with him during the summer. Though maybe, at this point, they'd finally realized that one of the greatest forms of torture for him was to have his Hogwarts things at his fingertips, but not be able to use them. Because if he did any magic at all, he'd be expelled from Hogwarts, and with it, in all likelihood, the entire wizarding world, now that it thought Voldemort was gone. And so would go his only chance of escape.
He soon found a suitable robe, and, wrapped up in it, his wand. He held it lightly in his hand, lovingly, fantasizing about hexing everyone into oblivion. Or maybe just himself. That would work, too.
The soft grey light in his room was becoming stronger, signaling the fast- approaching dawn. A few more hours, and it would be back outside. Back to the backbreaking work, the Dursley's commands and screams, splinting his arm, explaining the rusted pruning shears.
Harry's ever-present headache, somewhat dulled by his constant state of pain, returned with blinding force. Colors danced before his eyes as he clutched at his skull, falling back into his bed with a thunk. He was in too much pain to even care if the Dursley's heard it. He started hissing as he felt like he was starting to swirl, the pain shooting from behind his scar to his eyes and ears. He wished his head would just explode, if only to alleviate this unbearable pain, pressure.
Then slowly, ever so slowly, the pain began to recede. All that was left was the familiar throbbing ache, and the burning pain of his scar.
Even this was out of his control, even these headaches, these attacks from Voldemort. A creature who he had supposedly weakened to near death. Near death shouldn't have this much power. Yet another thing in his life Harry had somehow managed to completely screw up. Just like getting his parents killed, Cedric killed, Sirius killed. Sirius.
The thought was too much for Harry to bear, he couldn't stand it any longer. He flailed his hand around, frantically searching for his wand. Fuck being kicked out of Hogwarts, out of the wizarding world. He needed relief NOW, dammit! After a few seconds of eternity, his hand found it, and he grasped it tightly.
"Accio gardening shears," he murmured, not able to make his voice any stronger. He waited for a moment, then tried again, his voice a little stronger this time. Still nothing. Not even the familiar twinge of magic snaking up his arm. Absolutely nothing. Harry tried a few other spells, simple ones from first year, thinking perhaps this was too complicated, too difficult a spell for him, given his state. Still nothing. Not a damn thing. No magic in the slightest. His wand didn't work anymore. He pounded the bed in frustration, ignoring the resulting pain that shot up his arm. Why? WHY?!?!?
Dumbledore.
It came to Harry in a flash. Dumbledore had decided that the safest way to keep Harry safe, given the unreliability of some of the "guards" from the Order of the Phoenix, was to cast a massive magic-free zone around Number Four Privet Drive.
Harry took his useless wand, and shoved it back into the trunk, punching all the contents in an effort to alleviate his anger. He was past caring that it was just like Vernon, that it was what Vernon was using him for. He didn't give a damn anymore. He needed out, needed release, and there was no way to get it. The very thing that had landed him in this hellhole, the reason for his parents' deaths, his living here, Vernon hating him to the point of abuse, the whole wizarding world, was the same damn thing that kept him from finding any peace, any release, any comfort now.
He heard something shatter as something below his fist gave way. He rummaged through the trunk to find out what, more from boredom and frustration than any real desire to know what he had broken. He soon found it. Just an old glass vial from potions, empty, now shattered at the bottom of his trunk. He was trying to cover it back up with his robes when he brushed his hand against one of the pieces. He drew his hand back quickly in pain, instinctively sucking at the blood on his finger.
Blood.
Harry snapped his hand out of his mouth, examining the cut. Not as neat and precise, nor as deep as the cuts he could get from the shears, but it would do for now. Hell, at this point, if he had any fingernails to speak of, he'd be using them.
He shoved his hand back into the trunk, carefully removing anything that had fallen on top of the broken vial. Leaning over the edge of it, face close to the bottom in an effort to see, his glasses still missing, Harry looked greedily for the pieces of glass. The grey light was brighter now, dawn much closer. He could see better, but it also meant he was that much closer to having to go back to work. At this point he didn't care, though. He just needed to cut.
After careful examination, he found three pieces that were large enough, and sharp enough to be of any use. They were rather small, and Harry didn't know how long they would last before they dulled, or broke. The glass wasn't very strong. But it was better than nothing.
Sitting back on his bed, Harry took one of the pieces in hand, resting it lightly for a moment on his left forearm, just staring at it, before increasing the pressure and dragging it slowly across the skin, drawing blood in the shard's wake. Each cut made him feel a little bit better, made the unbearable pressure building up inside him go away just a little bit more. He could feel his control starting to fade, as the cuts became quicker, less precise, more frantic. More, more, he needed more, needed to bleed, needed the pain, needed the mind numbing release. Just him and the glass and the blood. His arm, covered in blood, rich red, slightly black in the pre-light of dawn. He started making cuts on his leg, blindly giving himself over to the relief washing over him, when he felt the glass snap under his hand, snapping him back to some semblance of reality.
His eyes widened in fear, taking in the sight of his limbs, blood smeared everywhere. The glass lay in three pieces on his bed, a fourth in his hand, so tiny. What if it had chipped, had gotten stuck in one of the cuts? He gathered up the pieces quickly, trying to mesh them together, like a puzzle. He relaxed a little, as it appeared that they were all there, it hadn't chipped, but he couldn't be certain.
He looked out his window once more. The sun was just starting to peak up over the horizon. He'd be expected to be waking up, getting to work soon. The others might wake up soon, too. He couldn't risk going to the bathroom to wash up. He looked at his skin again, panicking. If the Durselys found out...it was bad enough already, he didn't need this, too.
He tried mopping the skin with his school robe, the one he was going to splint his left arm with later, anyway, but the coarse fabric just seemed to aggravate the bleeding, pulling at the edges of the cuts, making them bleed more. He started to feel weak, lightheaded as he lost even more blood. He looked frantically around the room, searching for something, anything, but there was nothing of any use, not even a bottle of water to wash them with, or use to rehydrate himself.
He couldn't lose this much blood, let himself get this dehydrated! He had to try to stop it, conserve it...
His stomach began to turn as a thought occurred to him. A way to conserve the blood, to stay hydrated, at least a little. But he couldn't think of anything else.
He slowly lowered his mouth to the cuts, praying he wouldn't throw up, and that the saliva would form enough of a film to staunch the bleeding, allow the blood to clot before he passed out.