A/N: First time posting anything HP-related. I really don't want to hear anything about any characters being OOC, or the plot being overdone and clichéd. The reason I've been so hesitant to upload anything is because some of the reviewers in this fandom in particular are a little.. er.. passionate. For lack of a less offensive word.
Pressure.
Pressure on the boy. Expectations, assumptions, admiration based on lies. The Boy Who Lived. The Boy Who Cried, the Boy Who Learned, the Boy Who Bled.
Pressure on the arm. A razor is ripping, raping, tearing through the thin layer of flesh. Blood running, dripping, pooling now – how, why, when did it start feeling so good?
Pressure on the shoulder. A voice; deep, nasal, familiar.
"What are you doing, Potter?"
But the timbre isn't so familiar. Different, because it's laced with… concern? Hidden, weak, buried beneath scorn, but existent nonetheless.
Turn around, and now you're shocked. Shamed, you've been discovered. Stupid, idiot, freak, failure!
The pressure is released. Relocated to the left forearm, blood now oozing through the long, bony fingers of the other. Release again. A murmured charm, a flick of the wand. And the flesh magically knits itself back together, crimson disappearing fast, too fast.
Want to scream. Why did you do that! Because you like to bleed. Feel whole with the scars. So much weightier than the one on your forehead, and infinitely more personal. Yours, and yours alone. Your life and your death, your savior and your grim reaper, you both love and hate these reminders of the pain never communicated – you've always been a mess of contradictions.
But you can't voice the words, can you? No. Because Harry Potter doesn't like to bleed. Harry Potter doesn't have emotional problems. Harry Potter doesn't cry, doesn't break down, doesn't go crazy, doesn't sneak into Moaning Myrtle's bathroom every night to carry out the familiar ritual of bloodletting.
Obsidian eyes are gazing into yours expectantly. Angrily. Insistently. Narrowed and blazing, they possess you, you're lost in their depth. Drowning in their intensity.
Oh. He's waiting for a response. Close your eyes, deep breath. You're a Gryffindor! Suck it up. Gryffindors are not weak, do not submit, do not confess, are not quiet, are not kind. And especially not to this man.
Erecting the walls, you dig deep inside yourself and somehow find the strength to put on the old and tired Gryffindor façade.
"What the hell does it look like?" Strong. Angry. Hateful.
A smirk. "It looks like you're being your normal, attention-seeking, reckless self." Equally angry, but with a hint of… amusement? All traces of concern gone. Maybe he wears the same masks as you. Or perhaps he never cared to begin with.
The latter is so much easier for your wounded pride to accept. (But it was more than you deserved in the first place.)
"Why the hell do you care, anyway?" you yell, with an accompanying scowl. Because that is what you are expected to do, expected to say.
Twitch of the lips. Deliberate? "I don't. I am merely curious as to why Hogwarts' Golden Boy feels the need to resort to such childish tactics as this."
"Childish?" You forgot yourself. Shit. You've been manipulated into a conversation. Sneaky fucking bastard.
"Yes, I fail to see the purpose. You are already fawned over, are you not? Surely there is no need to carry on like this, to drown in this.. this self-pity," said with disgust, "feel sorry for yourself because it is up to you and you alone to save the wizarding world and all of mankind?" The tone is mocking now, and you yearn to hide your burning face from view. Loath as you are to admit it, there is a certain bitter truth to the words.
"You are not such a martyr, you know, and you play only a small role in the war against the Dark Lord. You are not the one doing the work, risking your life as a spy, or in hiding because you showed the ultimate bravery by turning away from, betraying, such a powerful force. You are to deliver the final blow, yes, but it is those before and around you who have contributed towards his downfall. And, frankly, Mr. Potter, your pain pales in comparison to others'."
"You know nothing of my life!" you scream, spite overriding the embarrassment. "You don't know what I've been through, you have no right to make assumptions like-"
"I have seen inside your mind, Mr. Potter, do you not remember? Or is there such limited capacity in that brain of yours that you have forgotten already?" A snort, a smirk. "While you have not had an ideal life, neither have you been beaten into unconsciousness, tortured to the brink of insanity, been subject to molestation or rape, like so many others less fortunate than you."
"Why are you being like this?" you whimper, then curse yourself for the show of weakness.
A sigh, a pause; he appears to be thinking. You barely resist the urge to retort about the rare occurrence of this. "Because I have little patience for teenagers who simply wallow in self-pity, especially those who have no reason to. Is it not in the Gryffindor spirit to show bravery and fight? You claim to despise my house, cause undue harm to the students in it, but your behavior and actions tonight show me that you are far more Slytherin than you will ever admit."
"No one cares, anyway," you mutter, mask falling, because you've already lost. No point pretending anymore. You're too tired, anyway.
"That is where you are wrong, Mr. Potter."
Pressure. On your lips! Shock, disgust, anger, arousal. Hard and fierce, there is nothing gentle about the kiss. The instigator is intent on gaining entrance into your mouth, and soon enough, all remnants of self-control shatter as you open your lips to accommodate. The force is brutal and bruising, the pain is so good. Sharp nips accompany the searching tongue, and suddenly you taste the metallic tang of blood in your mouth.
It's over all too soon. He pulls away, straightens his robes, and you wonder how he can remain in such control, while you are left panting and weak in the knees.
"If you ever feel the need to inflict such harm upon yourself again, come down to the dungeons, and I promise you, I will give you ten times the agony. Then, Potter, then you will know true pain."
A final, departing sneer before he stalks away, robes billowing behind him as usual.
Usual. But there is nothing normal about this night.
You look in the mirror, at your disheveled appearance, the kiss-swollen lips that are shades darker than usual. Dark from the passion, almost a crimson. Like blood, your morbid mind supplies.
Blood.
Your razor. It rests on the sink, forgotten. Glance towards the entrance of the bathroom – is he really gone? Yes. There is no one there, the sound of retreating footsteps already lost. Was it all a dream? A nightmare? A fantasy?
With a sigh, you reach for the weapon and return it to your pocket, then walk wearily through the door.
It's been a long night.
-end
The self-proclaimed Grammar Whore just threw all the rules out the window, didn't she? Poetic license at its best, people. Or not. Whatever.