The Only Thing That's Real
By: Dreamfall
Summary: Harry has more on his mind than Voldemort and nobody has even noticed. But then, he's always been good at disguising his pain. When his schoolyard enemy is the one to find him out he's just relieved it's not somebody who actually cares about him. And Draco? Well, he figures he can have a bit of fun with a secret the Boy Who Lived doesn't want told.
Warnings: Child abuse (in the form of flashbacks, presently nothing graphic). Emotional, mental, physical, and sexual. Not nice. Don't read it if it's something you'd rather avoid.
Author's Notes: Chapters are in alternating first person perspective, Harry's in present tense because it seemed to fit his state of mind. Feedback is welcome, constructive criticism particularly so. If it's spelling/grammar/etc e-mail is better than actual comments, but whatever. Any feedback is good. Also, just so you know, this is gen. I am aware that it presently has overtones of H/D, but nothing will come of it. Sorry to disappoint, but Harry is not destined to have a relationship in this story.
Review Response: I have a livejournal containing responses to reviews I receive, as well as update notices, and maybe other story stuff if I get around to it. The address refuses to show up here, but it is the homepage link on my front page, or you can go to livejournal and loko up dreamfall(underscore)ff If I can figure out a way to make fanfiction show the webpage I'll add it in later. And if I can figure out how to make an underscore character show up, I'll replace the (underscore) with it:p.
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Abruptly I realize that it could have been worse. It could, after all, have been someone who cares about me. I suspect that that would have been enough to make me pick death after all, and to hell with the Dark Lord and the last hope of the Wizarding World. Malfoy mocked me, which hurt. But he didn't sympathize. He didn't apologize. He didn't pity. I can't take pity. Malfoy was vicious -- and will, no doubt, continue to be vicious -- but vicious is better than the fake understanding those who love me would have drowned me in -- and even that would be better than any real understanding.
Maybe I want to see what you look like nude on emerald silk sheets.
Hands. A mouth. Pain. Shamed pleasure. Humiliation. Pain.
"No!" I try to scream but screaming brings pain and my throat silences the sound. I can't scream. Hands. A mouth.
A thin line of blood focuses me enough to scream. The scream reminds me that I am here. I can scream. It's okay. A bitter laugh, or perhaps just a howl of pain, breaks through my screams. No, not okay. Never okay. But the cycle broken again. For now. Silk sheets… No!.
I stare at the blood, focus on the pain, and begin reciting potions ingredients. I force my mind to focus on names and latin names and properties and sub-properties and reactions and side-effects.
Gradually, my mind stops whirling.
So he wants to witness my agony, does he? I pause, startled by the angry thought.
Anger? I wonder blankly when the last time I felt anger was. It feels… good. Clean. The surprise of the discovery shocks me out of anger. Oh well. Nice while it lasted.
Fear returns. Much more what I am used to. Hands. That touch-- so gentle, almost tender, as they covered the bruises. I shudder. Damn him! The anger flares back up and I wonder if I can stop. Just to spite him. Maybe I can stop cutting. Maybe he'll never get the damn chance to watch me again. Serve the bastard right. I cover up my new scratches and climb down, out of the tree.
Reluctantly, I leave my oasis and start back towards the school, each step an effort of will. By the time I reach it, I'm smiling cheerfully and there is a bounce in my step. Can't disappoint everyone. Can't let them see me. Malfoy steps out of a corridor and smirks at me for an instant and I almost feel myself crumble. My eyes begin to lose focus and I feel ghost hands holding me, striking me, a mocking mouth touching me. I shudder.
"Again so soon, Potter?" his voice is silkily amused and a thread of anger bursts through me. I grab at it desperately and my eyes snap back into focus.
"Sorry to disappoint, Malfoy," I snap, "but I'm never giving you another show!"
He sneers. "Sure, Potter. As long as it's because there's no show to be seen-- otherwise you might wind up with a larger audience than you want." Not waiting for a reply, he saunters off, leaving me scrabbling between anger and horror. Slowly the anger wins out and I stalk up to the Gryffindor tower more determined than ever.
Greeting my friends with a grin cheerful enough that they refrained, for once, from asking if I was okay, I join in a discussion about quidditch with Dean, Seamus, and Ron. Hermione strolls in and sets a hand on Ron's shoulder. It is quickly covered with his own and they share a smile of unusual tenderness.
"Have you done your potions essay yet?" she asks him.
Ron blanches. "Hermione! It's not due until a week from tomorrow!"
I feel a hint of a grin, and then freeze as her eyes turn on me. "You need to! Both of you! I'm willing to look them over and help you out, but you have to get an early start!"
"But it shouldn't even be that hard!" Ron protests.
"The Bat's Eye potion is extremely complex! Do you even know what's in it?" she demands. Ron withers under her glare, which turns challengingly towards me.
Hardly thinking, I say, "Seven scales of a red gadrik snake ground and made into a paste with honey and a quarter of an ounce of powdered bats' intestine. Two eyelashes, one from each eye, of the person to take the potion. One paramal pear, the seeds added first, then the juice, and finally the flesh. The skin is not included. Six--" My voice falters as I notice Hermione's eyes are wide with awe and everyone else is staring at me as if I've grown a second head.
"And I thought the question was rhetorical," she murmurs. "We haven't even seen the potion yet, Harry- you've been studying!"
Reluctantly, I admit it. I hope they don't ask when I've been studying it. I hope she doesn't suggest we study together.
"But I haven't seen you--"
"I've just kind of gotten into the habit of going over potions recipes in my head when I'm not doing anything," I explain hurriedly. "Sometimes history of magic and stuff, but usually potions. NEWTs are coming up, and all."
Looking as proud as if she'd personally drilled each item into my head, she smiles at me, delighted. Then turns on Ron. "You see, Ronald Weasley? If Harry can be serious and study, so can you!"
"How's that?" he demands, sparing me a betrayed look before turning back to his angry girlfriend. "Anything Harry can do, I can do, too? You don't see me defeating He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and all his Death Eaters--"
"I must have missed me doing that," I murmur.
Ron gives no sign of having heard me, but barrels on. "So why should Harry going all Ravensclaw on us mean that I could? Or should!"
"Of course you can, Ron," Hermione snaps. "It's just a matter of doing it!"
The redhead's eyes flash. Hermione's soften from angry to sad. "Or do you not want to study with me?"
I manage to keep a straight face at the tremulous tone, at the hint of quivering lip, everything else fading for a moment into the background, making me feel almost normal.
Horrified, Ron is on his feet folding her into his arms in an instant, and the rest of us struggle to hold in our mirth until the portrait closes behind them. Just before it does, Hermione glances back with a wink and a grin. The laughter feels good. Honest. I'm glad they have each other. They're such a perfect set. And the more they have each other the less they'll need me.
Feeling better than I have in months, I excuse myself to get an early night. I lie down and lull myself to sleep listing off potions recipes. I drift off almost at once.
It's nearly five hours later that I wake, shuddering and shivering, mouth open to scream but throat closed around any sound. I kick the confining blankets off and start to grab for my knife from habit. But I've struck a deal. Can only cut at the tree. And I can't go out to the tree now… Can I? No. It would be too risky-- I can't afford to get caught right now.
Frantically, I lunge into the bathroom, turn the tap in the sink on as cold as it can go and plunge my wrists under it. The shocking chill is almost painful and as my arms slowly numb and my body begins to shiver harshly, I manage to force out in a harsh whisper. "Ginseng. Fresh. Sliced into pieces no larger than a baby shoot of grass. Quarter cup. Cinnamon. Fresh or dried. If fresh, grated-"
By the time I finish my first recipe, I can't feel my arms from fingertip to elbow, my whole body is shuddering with cold, and my words are coming out calmly. I do another recipe under my breath, water still running, then turn off the tap and stumble back to bed. I'm freezing, but blankets are a cage. I feel trapped under their weight as they hold me, touch me--
"Mandrake. Less than a week from the ground or spelled fresh the same day it was harvested. Gathered in the spring.
No blankets. No sheets. I don't go back to sleep, but I don't pull out the knife. I don't even remove the Covrall to stare at my scars. Maybe I really can deprive Malfoy of his sick amusement. The thought is soothing.
My arms feel like ice and my body chills to join them over the next several hours. The numbing cold aches and the ache helps me keep my focus on potions. A safe topic.
Light filters into the room. Morning. Finally. I take a shower, full cold. Amazing how the cold soothes. I never noticed that before. A cheerful greeting to Ron and then I'm off to breakfast to pretend to eat until the others come, and then actually force a few bites down. Even the smell of the food makes me ill, but I don't show it. I don't acknowledge Malfoy, already seated at the Slytherin table. His face twists into a smirk, but he doesn't speak.
Breakfast passes uneventfully. Everything passes uneventfully, until dinner. Arms suddenly wrap around me from behind. Blind terror. I jerk frantically away, turning-- but as I turn, my eyes are captured by a pair of amused blue-gray eyes a room away. Malfoy? But-- Oh. It occurs to me that I'm at school. I manage to don an expression of faintly embarrassed apology before they notice. The whole thing takes only a split second.
"Sorry, Seamus. Feeling a bit jumpy."
He laughs, no mockery in it, but there is a trace of concern. "No problem, Harry. Didn't mean to startle you- at least not that much." He hesitates an instant before adding, "You okay, Harry?"
I laugh at him. "Just a little jumpy," I repeat. "No biggie."
Apparently I'm convincing because he just grins and nods and collapses into a seat nearby, loading his plate with food. There's a touch of worry in Hermione's eyes, so I make sure I eat a few bites while she's looking at me and make an effort to actually join in the conversation. Most of my attention is on the mask, though, holding it in place while I try desperately not to panic as memories surge over me like some unstoppable tide.
I murmur an excuse and push back from the table to flee. Blue eyes catch mine again, smiling mockingly. Be damned if I'll give him what he wants. Slipping into a side corridor, I collapse back against the cool wall, shuddering. My hands clench so tightly I can feel crescents cutting into my palms. Feel hands clutching my shoulders. Feel-
"Acorn." The word takes a moment to register. I realize that I'm the one who spoke it, the word almost indistinguishable, hissed between clenched teeth. I clutch the sound of it, searching for its meaning. "Carefully opened. Nut meat ground to a paste…" I speak haltingly, quietly, voice carrying only as far as my own ears, but with increasing assurance as the familiar lines focus my mind. "Enough powdered deathwart to fill the cap. A mix of half eels' blood, half eagle-frog venom filling the shell. Shell and cap rinsed with spring water, then burned. Ashes added to the mix." My voice drops away, but I continue the recipe in my mind, hands slowly unclenching.
"Cheating, Potter?"
My eyes focus and I wonder how long Malfoy's been leaning languidly on the opposite wall, watching me. "You see blood?" I don't have enough energy to get angry, but I pretend as best I can. I think longingly of the scars and run the fingertips of both hands across the opposite arms, feeling the catch of half-healed scabs, the ridges of scars.
Blue eyes narrow and thin lips twist into a sneer. "Do you really have time to indulge before class?" he asks, obviously seeing through my thin veneer of anger.
I clench my eyes and am sickened by a soft laugh and the pad of retreating feet. I slide down the wall until I'm sitting, knees drawn up, head buried in them. Eventually I get myself under control and make it to class. Then away, to the common room, collapsing into an empty chair, watching Ron and Hermione. Grinning. I can do this, I tell myself. I can. I desperately want to look at my arms, to follow the lines of scars-- but I know that if I do, I'll need to add to them. And I won't give him that. I won't.
I survive the night but sleep only a couple hours. The cold water works again, but it takes longer and the calm it gives me feels more fragile. And three times over the course of the day I resist the need to flee to my tree and let my masks, magical and mundane, drop. Each time, the thought of Malfoy stops me. The thought of being watched. Each time, the desperation cuts a bit deeper, and it's harder to stay, to hold my masks. By evening I feel ghost hands on me all the time, pawing, pushing, striking, squeezing. Every hand that brushes against me is an attack, one I'm too terrified to fight.
This night, I don't sleep. The dreams come anyway, and I throw myself into the shower on full cold. In twenty minutes my teeth are chattering but I'm under control. An hour later, it's back, stronger, and my knife is in my hand before I even think of it, blade hovering on my arm, touching the skin, but not breaking it. With an effort of will, I set it down, again entering the bathroom and setting a silencing charm. This time I sit under the icy pounding water for nearly an hour, huddled on the floor of the shower, shivering with cold and things far worse than cold.
The next day is worse.
And the day after that, in the long lunch period, I flee to the tree, hardly holding in my screams until I reach it, nearly panicking when I can't catch my breath enough to cast the silencing charm. With a supreme effort of will, I breathe the charm as I climb, and as soon as I feel it settle around me, my voice breaks free and I shriek and scream until I get the Covrall off and the blade finally breaks through my skin.
Screaming helps because it reminds me that I'm in a place where I can scream. Nobody stops me here. No hands- I cut deep and stop thinking.
He doesn't come, to my relief. Doesn't intrude on my grief and pain. Later, in the hall, I see his amused smirk and know he knows. But he didn't come, so what does it matter?
I'm more in control for the rest of the day. More sane than I've been in days. I sleep a good five hours and feel the best I've felt since-- well, since the last time I cut. It doesn't last. The pressure starts building again and only Malfoy's mocking sneer keeps me from cutting again the next day. But the night's bad, so bad, and I'm back at the tree before breakfast. Again he doesn't come. And he doesn't come the next day, an hour after dinner, when I flee the camaraderie of the Gryffindor common room. Or the following morning, the instant curfew ends, when I go out, soaked in icy water, the wind chilling me to the bone. Grateful for that chill, that wind.
Perhaps he forgot, I think on my way back. Maybe I imagined the whole thing. Maybe it's enough for him to know and not watch. I slip back into my old habits, hardly a day passing when I don't seek the comfort of my tree- my blood. Sometimes going more than once in a day.
When I've all but forgotten him, all but convinced myself that he never came, he returns, and crouches, watching. But what pride I had I have swallowed, and his presence no longer makes me cringe. I no longer try to spite him by stopping.