Descent into Darkness

Written by Tainted Caress

Disclaimer: Tragically, I own not but my car and all the crap in it. Harry and Draco are

sadly not mine.

Author Notes: I just wanted to thank everyone who reviewed! Thank you all. This is

kind of a small chapter; I felt a bit lazy and decided to end it here. I'll try and get the next chapter out and really get into the story. So, without farther ado, I present the next chapter…

H/DH/DH/DH/DH/DH/DH/DH/DH/DH/DH/DH/DH/DH/DH/DH/DH/DH/DH/DH/DH/d

Chapter II…Home sweet home…

Something in the early hours of morning woke him. The boy didn't know for sure what it was. Without thinking, the boy began to stretch. But that proved to be a big mistake. Instantly his wounds flared to life again. The pain was maddening, but it wasn't anything he couldn't handle. Sadly, he'd had worse amounts of pain in the past.

Blinking away the sudden pain, the boy began to study his wounds and try to decide how bad they were. The cuts and abrasions on his wrists had started to bleed a bit again. But they didn't look life threatening. The bruising had swelled and darkened. But that was ok too. Again neither would kill him.

Next to look at was the many bruises on his torso. There were bruises of all shapes and sizes, and even colors too. The fresher ones embellished his flesh in shades of indigo, while the older ones in sickly shades of green and yellow. Looking over the bruises, he decided that nothing could be done for them now. So, he went on to the many other wounds.

Mixed in with the bruise on his chest and stomach, was some bite marks here and there. Most of them where just the impression of teeth. Some of them had left bruises and other trails of blood. But the boy quickly overlooked those specific wounds. He didn't want anything to do with them, or remember how he got them. He was happy in his world of denial that kept his sanity at bay thank you very much.

So, the boy bypassed the bite marks and moved right to the cuts and scrapes. There were also just random cuts here and there. Those wounds were from a knife. The boy betted that if he looked all the knives over, one or more of them would have blood stains on them.

Trying to pull away from such thought, the boy then focused on the worst of his wounds, his back. Although he couldn't see the damage, he could feel it. He knew that the wounds had been jostled open again, if the blood running down his back was any indication. They stung and burned. And he knew that they would continue to do so for a very long time. Especially since he couldn't get anyone to properly cleanse and wrap them. He could only hope that maybe they wouldn't get infected too badly.

A muffled shout dragged the boy out of his morbid and depressing thoughts. Although the boy could make out what was shouted, he knew all to well what the voice had said. It was his uncle yelling at him to wake up and make breakfast. It was always the same wakeup call day after day. Today wouldn't be any different just because he was injured. He'd just have to make due and hope that he didn't re-injured himself. Or bleed on the food, both would be pretty bad.

With a tired sigh, the boy dragged himself out of bed. He just had a feeling that today was going to be one of those days. The kind of day you dread but can't help but have.

"Maybe it won't be that bad," the boy said softly to himself. "Then again, maybe it will."

Awkwardly the boy made his way to the bathroom. Maybe he'd have to time to clean up a little. Hopefully. His limp was worse than it was last night. All the muscles that become stiff through the night and now were protesting his use of them. The boy knew that he wouldn't last long today, weeks of beatings and starvation where finally taking there toll. He could only wonder how long he would last.

The boy felt like doing a victory dance when he finally made it to the restroom in one piece, minus some blood specs here and there. As he closed the door, for the millionth time he wish the door had a lock on it. But unfortunately he wasn't that lucky.

If you ask me, Lady Luck just hates my guts. The boy thought with a humorless chuckle.

Limping straight to the toilet, the boy took care not to look in the mirror. He knew he probably didn't look all that pretty. He just didn't want to face the facts yet. It was too early in the morning for despair.

Taking care of his business, the boy then dragged himself to the sink, again avoiding the mirror. He turned the water on full blast and watched nonchalantly as it filled the sink. Getting it at a nice level, the boy turned the water off. Taking a deep breath and counting slowly to ten, the boy then gently dunked his head in the still steaming water.

Fire ripped and tore at his face. The pain that he thought he had suppressed came back a thousand fold. Millions of needles stabbed into his skin, or that was what it felt like anyway. It was all he could do not to scream at the pain.

When he tasted blood in his mouth, the boy unclenched his jaws and watched as the blood dripped from his punctured lip. Apparently when he bit his jaws closed he bite his lip in the process. But he didn't care. The blood just meant that he didn't scream. That was the only good thing that came form all this.

The cuts and bruises on his face screaming a protest. The boy just ignored the pain though. Instead he just blanked his mind as he held his breath. Opening his eyes, all he saw was red.

Must have been bloodier than I thought. The boy thought as he tried to see through the read haze.

Closing his eyes again, the boy tried to think of anything but the blood and the pain. Dimly the boy realized that he had been holding his head under the water for a very long time. He knew that he should probably bring his head up for air soon, but some part of him hesitated.

It would be so easy for him to just keep his head under. Just to embrace the darkness. Just a few more seconds, that's all it would take. Then all of his problems would be over. He'd finally be free. Free of everything.

But deep down inside of himself, he knew that he couldn't do it, not yet anyway. Too many people were relying on him. Too many people needed to be saved. He couldn't give up, not yet anyway.

So with a tired sigh, the boy lifted his head out of the water and embraced the bitter breath of life. The sweet yet bitter oxygen burned as it went down his throat. Still he greedily swallowed the invisible salvation. Life was but a breath away. How he loathed it.

Grabbing the nearest towel, the boy began to wipe his face off, silently praying the whole time that no blood came off with the water. Gently wipe his face, he flinched when he rubbed too hard on some of the wounds.

He knew that the wounds had to be cleaned daily. Besides, this was just one of those things. In fact, for our poor Harry dear, this was just another day of life.

Yeah, welcome to the wonderful life of Harry Potter, was the boys thought as he finally raised his head and gazed into the mirror.

A bright red face started back at him. Bruises marred the face, and tragedies haunted the eyes. His face of a collection of agonies. A bruise on the cheek spoke volumes about a backhand. The black and purple bruises on his lips screamed terror of the bite. Hand prints around the neck hinted at a chokehold. So many stories on the face. Yet all of them he wished to forget. But looking into those haunted eyes, he knew that even if the evidence healed and faded, it would always stay with him. Some wounds can heal, others can't. And the boy knew that he'd remember each and every story his face held.

The face that started back at him was still not one he recognized. But he finally accepted that it was his own. And the boy knew that he should tell someone about the abuse, to reveal the stories. But still a part of him hesitated. For deep down he knew that he deserved what he got. This was his punishment to failing all of those people. For killing all those people he loved. Sometimes, he wondered if the world would have just been better if he'd never been born.

A sad thought true, but a thought that haunted him nonetheless.

So it was with a bitter sign that the boy turned away from the mirror, and away from the stories he wanted naught to do with. This was his life; he just had to live with it.

"Boy! Where's our breakfast! What's taking you so long brat!" The shout broke the boy form his morbid thoughts yet again.

With a bitter smile, the boy tossed the wash cloth in the hamper and turned the light off as he passed. Still limping as he made his way down the stairs, the boy closed his mind and heart to the pain he was feeling. Thoughts like those would destroy him. And he needed to be as strong as he could so he could survive the rest of the summer. School was only a week away. He had to be strong. For what other choice was there?