The Struggle: Chapter 7
A/N: Oh my goodness! 92 reviews! I am SO grateful! Thank you all so very much! Sorry if these chapters start taking longer, I am now back to school, so I have classes and homework and what not. I hope you guys still enjoy this and keep up the reviews. I love you all! Also, this chapter is a little more controversial. It touches on suicide and self harm. And there isn't much Snape in this chapter. Next chapter there will be! Bare with me though!
"Don't touch me. D-don't. Don't talk to me. D-do-" Harry turned on his heel and bolted. He ran down the hall, through the living room, and out the front door, not bothering to grab shoes. He just ran.
A warm breeze slapped Harry across the face as he bolted out the door and down the porch steps. He ran down the length of the walkway, sprinted diagonally across the yard, and took off down the nearly empty street.
Harry ran until he reached an intersection, which was quite busy with cars. For the smallest second, he thought only of bolting straight into the center, letting the metal machines collide against him, and then falling through a silent darkness he often recognized after severe beatings at the Dursleys. But this time, maybe the darkness wouldn't go away.
Selfish. Think of all the others you would injure. The people driving. Children in cars. There are better ways to off yourself, Harry thought. The idea of suicide suddenly seemed very bright in his head. He had contemplated it before, but at this exact moment, it seemed like the best option.
Why would you even think about that? A small voice whispered in the back of his head. Harry cringed as he approached the edge of the sidewalk, waiting for the cars to spread so he could cross safely. What do I have left? My father is Severus Snape, who obviously does not care about me. My only other living relative is Sirius Black, a mass murderer on the run. Dumbledore has not cared to speak with me except at the hospital, and none of my friends have even bothered to stay in contact since I left the Dursleys.
Harry made a mad dash across the street. He could barely see where he was going through blurry eyes, but managed to spot a gate at the entrance of a park about a quarter mile down the road. Looking behind his shoulder, he was unsurprised to see no one was coming after him. Snape probably doesn't care that you are gone. One less worry on his mind. Harry inhaled sharply and strolled down the street at a less-than-leisurely pace.
Suicide is selfish. You could endanger the lives of others. Harry snorted at the thought, looking at his feet. It would be easy just to end it all. He knew the swings in most parks usually had a few sharp, rusty metal chains hanging loosely around the bottom. Harry knew a few charms to weaken the metal so it would become disconnected, and then a few more to sharpen the corners on the chains.
Harry had nearly attempted suicide once before, after a particularly rough bashing of verbal and sexual abuse. He had stumbled down to the park around seven in the evening, covered in blood and other bodily fluids, when the sun was setting quietly in the far horizon. He had only gotten as far as gently pressing the sharpened metal against his inner wrist before chickening out. This time, though, he felt something new in the pit of his stomach. Courage. When there was really nothing to live for, you had nothing to lose.
Harry gripped the warm metal gate and pulled open, gazing into the park. It was mostly grassy fields and an old baseball diamond. On the left was a metal slide, and beside that was a swing set, if you could call it that. The swings were low to the ground, and there were only two of them. On the other side of the playground was an old wooden gazebo hidden behind a couple trees. It was painted egg shell white, but most of the paint Harry could see was chipped off. The entire park was empty.
Before he could back out, Harry walked straight towards the swing set, head held high and shoulders pushed back. He approached the first swing, the one lowest to the ground, and sat cross-legged in front of it. Withdrawing his wand from his back pocket, he pointed it at one of the looser chains with a shaking hand. He thought for several seconds about a spell that would disconnect the chain. "Relashio," he said thoughtfully, tapping the chain. It immediately broke off, along with several others. They fell and hit Harry on the head, but he didn't really mind.
Harry grabbed a loose chain from the mulch below the swing and set it in his left hand, focusing on it intently. "Engorgio," he murmured softly, tapping the loose chain with the side of his wand. It nearly doubled in size, making it much easier to focus on.
"Exacueris." Harry watched as the side of chain suddenly became sharper than a razor blade. He ran his thumb over it curiously. It created a thin, long line down length of his finger, which gently oozed blood. Last time Harry had attempted to sharpen a chain, he had used another spell, which merely made it rough and jagged. This, though, was perfectly smooth and impeccably sharp. Harry was actually somewhat proud of his work.
Tucking his wand in his back pocket, he took the chain with his right hand and positioned it against his inner wrist. What the hell are you doing? Are things really so bad that you feel you need to take your own life? End it all? Harry gritted his teeth and tried to push the thoughts away, but they came back, louder. Things could be worse! Are you really going to show the world that you are that weak, that you ended your life while those around you are trying to save it?
"No one is trying to save me," he suddenly said aloud, voice quivering with anger. Harry quickly realized how the situation looked. A near fourteen year old, trying to kill himself with a chain by a swing set. He needed to go somewhere more private, quiet, hidden. The gazebo.
Harry stood up and hunched over, keeping his eyes focused on his feet as he dragged his body to the gazebo. In his right hand he held the sharp chain, making a fist firmly. He could feel the sharp side pierce the skin, and by the time he reached the gazebo, after wrestling his way through tree branches and poison ivy bushes, his hand was dripping scarlet red blood down his jeans.
Harry managed to make it to the far right of the gazebo, most easily concealed by the trees, before collapsing against the wall and crying softly. No one is coming after me. No one is going to stop me. No one cares. My own fucking dad doesn't care. He hates me and would rather I die. Harry formed a tighter fist and yelped at the pain. He opened his bloody hand and the chain hit the ground beside him.
Harry looked through his blurred vision at his hand. Across the width of his palm was a thick, deep cut, spilling blood across his entire hand. The blood dripped down his arm and onto his jeans, but he didn't really care much. He was entirely dirty at this point, his arms red and scratched from the trees branches, feet likely blistered from running in only socks, and hair standing up in every direction.
The familiar voice started up again in his head, scolding him. You are pathetic, you know that? Harry frowned and grabbed the chain again, quickly pressing it against his left wrist, but doing no more. Are you really in such a situation that you find your only escape from reality would be to end it all? Do you not think of those around you, those who care? Who will discover your body? Will they still call you a brave hero? A brave Gryffindor, taking his own life because of unfortunate fate? Will anyone remember you as the strong, confident, fierce Boy-Who-Lived, or will you be remembered as the sad excuse of a boy who was scared of life itself? A small, weak-
"I-am-not-weak!" Harry shouted, pressing the bladed edge harder into his wrist. It made a teeny nick, but not nearly enough to bleed. He pressed harder, and harder, and dragged the blade. It merely grazed his skin, scraping the surface. He cried out in fury, slamming his wrist on the cold wood floor and pressing the corner of the blade against his skin as hard as he could. No matter how hard he tried, the blade would only cut deep enough to let loose a few drops of blood.
"You are weak, though," a male's voice suddenly came from near him. Harry didn't bother looking up, he knew it would be Snape, ready to reprimand him for his actions, call him useless and close-minded and selfish and weak, weak, weak. Harry threw the blade across the gazebo. It landed with a loud bang directly across from him.
"A change of mind, then?" Harry frowned. The voice was much too light to be Snape's. It spoke quickly and eagerly, as though actually expecting a worded response. Harry learned quickly that most of the time when Snape spoke, it was best to reply with 'Yes, sir,' or 'No, sir,'. Harry still didn't dare to look up as he felt his cheeks flush red. Someone else had found him in the midst of attempting suicide. It was not a lovely scenario.
He heard footsteps approaching him slowly. Looking down at the ground, he noticed the black trainers. They looked as though they were brand new, with paper-white laces and bright red tips. Above the shoes were very scrawny, pale legs.
"Malfoy," Harry sighed, pulling his knees up to his chest. He rested his forehead against the tops of his knees, trying to disguise the tears flowing freely and bright red cheeks. Of all people who could find him, it was Malfoy. He wanted to turn around, stand up, and punch him. At the same time, though, he felt a form of gratitude towards him.
"I arrived at Snape's for the weekend several minutes ago. He sent me to find you, and hinted that you might flee to this dingy park," said Malfoy. Without looking up, Harry knew he was probably looking around, sneering at the lack of cleanliness in the gazebo. Harry remained silent, tears gently soaking the outside of his jeans. He could still feel blood leaking from the palm of his hand, and several wounds on his arms from the trees seemed to have broken open as well.
Harry heard something hit the ground beside him, and he suddenly felt a presence. He lifted his head to see Draco next to him, legs spread out, arms folded across his chest. He was watching Harry curiously, lips pursed in disapproval.
"What the fuck do you want, Malfoy?" hissed Harry, while trying to wipe tears of his face nonchalantly with his sleeve. Malfoy rose an eyebrow.
"I don't want anything, Potter. Trust me, I'd rather be back at Snape's Manor, drinking tea and reading a book. But he sent me here. And it was my job to find you, clean you up, and take you back. Give me your damn hand!" shouted Draco suddenly, as he finally noticed Harry's red, dripping hand. Without bothering to fight, Harry shoved his hand out.
Draco was instantly holding Harry's hand atop his own. Harry flinched backwards, trying to move away from Draco, but Draco held his hand firmly in place. He withdrew his wand from his pocket and rested the tip of it in the center of the deep cut. "Episky," he whispered. Harry felt a sudden fire light his hand, but it was quickly dulled by an ice cold freezing sensation.
Draco dropped his hand and worked his way around Harry. Before he could protest, Draco was sitting on Harry's lap, facing him, legs on either side of Harry's hips.
"The fuck, Malfoy?" Harry screamed, pushing him backwards before Draco could find a comfortable position. Draco caught himself with his left hand, his right holding a wand out towards Harry. Draco positioned himself back on Harry's lap and looked at him with pitying eyes.
"Potter, will you just relax for a minute? I'm only trying to help you, honestly," Draco murmured, coming close to Harry's face as he moved his wand around, repeating "Episky," at each open wound across Harry's arms, face, and neck. The closeness was too much for Harry. He shifted backwards and threw his head back, trying to lean away from Draco. At the same time, though, it felt oddly comforting. Someone was trying to heal him in a human-like way, not just with Potions every three hours or magical healing salve.
Draco continued poking Harry with the tip of his wand for several minutes until he was nearly entirely healed, except for a few minor scratches along his hairline, and the small cut which had now scabbed over on his left wrist. Draco ignored that.
After a couple more pokes and spells, Draco slumped his shoulders and put his wand in his pocket, but did not remove himself from Harry's lap. He eyed the boy up and down curiously, and finally let out a deep sigh, his voice quivering a little. Harry frowned.
"I-I thought you'd be dead by the time I got here, you idiot. Severus said you might try something like this. He told me to run and find you. I did, I ran, I ran," whispered Draco, staring Harry deep in the eyes. Harry didn't change his face, simply stared at Draco somewhat wide eyed, still frowning.
"Thank you," Harry finally replied quietly after a long, uncomfortable pause. Draco had still not shifted from his lap. Harry gave him a little shove and he tumbled off, sitting on the floor beside him.
"Why?"
"Because you...well, you know...you just saved my life, I guess...," Harry said, blushing furiously. His arch enemy had just saved his life, which meant Malfoy would probably expect him to be forever in debt to him. Not to mention the embarrassment he would receive from Malfoy and the entire Slytherin house for years to come.
"No," said Malfoy, "Well, yes, I did save your life, you bloody idiot. But...why did you even try to end it? You have everything." Harry snorted and rolled his head back, resting against the ledge where the wood of the gazebo became an open window.
"I have nothing," said Harry, laughing, but not in humor.
"Liar. Snape told me about, well, what happened. Briefly, before he sent me off to find you."
"So you understand why I did it, tried to end it, then?"
"Because you are a stupid, ignorant git. That's why."
Harry lunged upwards, standing over Draco, and whipped his wand out from his back pocket. He pointed it at Draco, who was still sitting on the ground, fumbling with his watch calmly.
"You don't get it, do you, Malfoy? You've got a mom and a dad who LOVE you!" Harry all but shouted. Draco suddenly pulled his eyes away from his watch and stood up, standing eye to eye with Harry, just inches from him.
"That's funny, Potter, that you suddenly know everything about me," he growled, taking another step towards Harry, who flinched back. "That you automatically assume that I don't understand abuse, or that...that my parents feel for me any more than a pet," Draco spat the last word, glaring at Harry, panting slightly. The conversation had hit a weak point for both of the boys.
"Oh, fuck it, Draco! Don't try to pull that 'I-get-abused-at-home-just-like-you' so you can try to be equal with me again! You don't understand! And until you do, you won't know why I tried to kill myself! You don't, fucking, get, it!" Before Harry could continue, Draco was pulling his short sleeved red shirt over his head. Harry stepped back and frowned.
"The fuck do you think you are doing?" he said, making a look of disgust at boy stripping in front of him. Draco threw his shirt across the gazebo, somewhere near the bloody chain link, and put his hands on his hips, thrusting his pale chest outwards suddenly.
"I don't understand, do I?" hissed Draco. Harry drew his eyes to Draco's thin, scrawny torso, and lost his breath, and nearly lost any food he had in his stomach.
Draco's entire torso was covered in various sized bruises and cuts, some deep, some not. He looked quite similar to how Harry had often looked after beatings at the Dursleys, though not quite as bad. It was obvious that the bruises were made by the bare hand, they looked about the size of fists, some of the larger ones possibly made by kicks.
"I understand better than anyone, Potter. What I don't understand is why you tried to kill yourself. You do have everything. You got away from the abuse. You managed to escape it. Me? I put up with it every damn day," breathed Draco, pointing to a few bruises and outlining a few cuts. Draco continued talking, his voice increasingly shaky.
"Why do you think I visit Severus so often? I probably wouldn't be alive if it wasn't for him, you know," whispered Draco, closing his eyes, "He saved me so many times. And I've begged to live with him, just to get away from my father. Anything to get away from that sick, disgusting, vile man. But I can't. It's not safe." Draco opened his eyes and stared at Harry, who's mouth was slightly ajar.
"You escaped, Potter. You got away from it. You are a winner, a survivor. And I'm still the victim. And as much as I pity you, for the terrible things that have happened and the way you've dealt with it, I envy you nearly as much." Draco's voice cracked at the end of the sentence.
Harry stepped back slightly, observing Draco. His cheeks had turned bright red, his face was becoming slightly splotchy, and his breathing was laboured. His eyes were...dead. There wasn't the usual amount of hatred and smugness in them. They just looked dead. Draco had deep purple bags under his eyes, from what looked like a complete lack of sleep. And in that moment, Harry began to pity Draco, for the first time in his life. The boy he thought had everything, who actually had nothing.
"I-I...," Harry started to speak, trying to formulate words, but Draco just put up a hand. He walked across the gazebo, grabbed his shirt, and pulled it on slowly. After adjusting the hem so it was perfectly parallel to his khaki shorts, he looked up at Harry.
"Can we just go back to Snape's, and not speak of this?" he asked, nearly begging. Harry bit his lip and walked towards Draco until he was standing as close to him as he possibly could. Draco shifted away slightly, but Harry followed his movement.
"Yes, and no. I'm so sorry, Draco, I'm so sorry," whispered Harry sadly, averting his eyes from Draco. He suddenly felt very foolish, embarrassed, and guilty. At least when Harry was abused, he felt no emotion from it. It was his aunt and uncle, who always hated him, not his own parents, who were supposed to love and protect you, no matter what.
Awkwardly, Harry reached around Draco with one arm and patted his back in a type of half-hug, trying to comfort the boy who was nearly in tears in front of him. Draco did the same, except he pulled Harry slightly closer and rested his forehead on his shoulder, sighing as his bleach blonde hair spilled across Harry's chest. Harry frowned at the curious display of affection Malfoy was showing.
"Don't go queer on me, Malfoy," warned Harry carefully, smirking slightly as he felt Draco laugh against his shoulder, then smack his upper back playfully.
"Please, Potter, don't flatter yourself," replied Malfoy lightly, in spite of Harry actually insulting Malfoy's precious sexuality, which he had been defending for years. It was quite easy to mistake the boy as homosexual. He spent nearly an hour styling his hair, had more female friends than male, and often times had been caught stealing glances at other boys in class. Harry moved his arm as to release Malfoy, but felt an uncomfortable tightening grip on his back.
"No."
"We need to go back to Snape."
"No. Please. I haven't been...properly hugged...in years. Don't." Harry felt Malfoy's other arm tangle around his mid chest. Harry sighed and shifted his other arm around Malfoy, somewhere between his mid chest and lower stomach. The hug was already odd enough, and he didn't want to increase the awkwardness by trying to wrap an arm around Draco's neck, or lower waist.
"Thank you," sighed Malfoy, resting his head back on Harry's shoulder, who flinched slightly. There was something about having Draco this close to him that made him feel...content. Happy, almost. It was uncomfortable and strange and awkward and he didn't like it, but it felt good. It felt right.
"Err, we really do need to get back to Snape's, don't we? He might get worried or something," suggested Harry, suddenly becoming very warm and uncomfortable. Something inside him was tingling in an odd way, and he wasn't sure how to react to it. Malfoy let his arms fall off Harry, who did the same, and then stepped back, scratching his neck awkwardly.
"I suppose we should," he agreed, re-adjusting his shirt and taking the lead as he walked out of the gazebo. Harry followed a few steps behind, observing the boy in front of him. He had grown over the summer, and was much taller and leaner. A little too thin, actually, but Harry didn't need to guess as to why. The boy's hair was longer, yet still gelled back and tidy, out of his face, much unlike Harry's.
Harry suddenly felt a hand brush his own. He snapped out of his thoughts to see that Draco had slowed and was now walking at the same pace as Harry. He felt the hand brush his own once more and looked down. The back of Draco's hand was oddly close to Harry's.
"Uh, do you...mind?" Draco stuttered suddenly, stopping in his path. Harry frowned, not understanding, and tilted his head slightly. Sighing, Draco bumped his hand against Harry's again. "I don't know, sorry, we don't have to...I just...I don't want you to try and run off or anything," Draco said, his voice suddenly just as snooty as it was last year. Harry shrugged and laced his fingers around Draco's and began walking again.
"No funny business, Potter. I'm just holding your damn hand so you don't run. We get back to Severus's, and we are enemies, correct?"
"Sure, Malfoy, whatever you say," Harry said with a smirk and squeezed Draco's hand lightly.
A/N: Ok guys, I know this chapter was just about Harry and Draco, but next Chapter will dig a little deeper into the relationship between Harry and Snape, and Snape and Lily. A few different plot lines for you! Hope you enjoyed, please review. Oh, and also, I do not know if this will have smut or not. Most likely not, unless some reviewers convince me otherwise ;)