Chapter Warnings: cussing, self-mutilation

Decay

Harry glares at the surface of the table as he rubs it down with a small handkerchief in one hand and a bottle of polish in the other. A solemn face stares back, gaunt and sickly, looking as if a plague grips him. It makes the boy wince to see himself in any sort of reflection which he passes. He wishes anything to be growing out of soft baby skin that the irritating Parkinson possesses, or even to be blessed with sculptured bones like that prat Malfoy.

Unfortunately for him and disheartening for his father, Harry always appears as if a disease is ravaging his form. The truth is close enough...

Food it seems, does not sit well in his stomach. The small amounts that make it safely down his gag-reflex stays there as a solid lump in the acid pit, waiting for later to travel back up his trachea in the stalls of the loo. Not only is food difficult to keep down, it's difficult to actually put into his mouth and swallow as well. Extremely so.

To make sure his body doesn't waste away, Has must visit the Hospital Wing twice a day to take the necessary nutrient-potions.

Maybe if it's just the food that unsettles him, he can pretend to be normal like the rest of the students, but it isn't so.

Some speculate that if one part of the body is tainted, then the rest will surely follow. For years now, the symptoms have been building up into a dreadful crescendo. An orchestra of physical, mental, and emotional turmoil that plays his body like a wire on the edge of snapping.

Harry's starving state makes him susceptible to terrible head-colds in the summer and devastating flues in the winter. He is easy to bruise and hard to heal without outside help. Sleep is a luxury that is induced on most nights when the crawling under his skin and feverish sweats are too much to bare. Oftentimes, he'll even find himself sleepwalking in an attempt to escape the dreams of his mother's haunting screams. Finally, body locked in some sort of existence between life and death, Harry must endure the disturbing illusions which occur around him, signaling the mental breakdown of an ailing child tottering towards teen years.

'It's all really such a vicious cycle.'

Many, including his own father, believe that it's a curse in which You-Know-Who imparted on him that fateful night years ago. A curse that keeps Harry bent in starvation, weak in magic, and tired with every breath that enters and leaves his rattling form.

Healers had once told his father that he may not last through the passage of childhood to adulthood. That his body is far too weak and that it's a miracle Harry is still alive with only stubborn resentment to fuel him. It's a matter of time and a bloody nightmare for Harry. Even worse are the stares of sorrow his father and godfather aim at him.

It makes Harry grit his teeth in anger.

He hates the looks people have given him all his life, which only seems to double since he's at Hogwarts this year. Once more, the obnoxious Malfoy heir is taking it upon some twisted duty to try and cheer him up every now and then, while keeping him at a healthy distance.

'How annoying.'

But there is one person he can count on to never waver at his thin teetering body...

Harry peeks through the fringe of his unruly hair. The man lounging behind the mahogany desk at the head of the classroom feels the sudden attention of his gaze and looks up to pin him with dark onyx eyes. He jerks his head down to escape Professor Snape's sneer. An ironic smirk twitches at the side of his lips. The Potions Professor always has and will despise him it seems. It doesn't matter if that hate stems from the resentment towards his father, Harry can feel the rising power of resolve build in him. The man gives him strength.

'Don't give up! Don't let the world devour you! Don't wither away like everyone expects you to!'

Pulling his mind away from dark thoughts and placing them solely in the cleaning of another table in the classroom, Harry makes sure to work as slowly as possible so that he may-

"Your time has ended, Potter. Go join the rest of the students in the Great Hall."

He bites his bottom lip to stifle the groan. Dinner... already... he had hoped the Dungeon Bat would have been so involved in that blasted book, that the clock would tick away and Harry wouldn't have to face the world.

Professor Snape though, is intensely precise and impeccable at both time and judgment. For as Harry collects his things bitterly and opens the door to leave, that dry tone stabs him on the way out. "Do try to eat something, Potter. I'm not interested in watching you lose focus and forget to counter-stir your cauldron again..."

Heat threatens to induce Harry into a fever just thinking about the explosion in Potions earlier that day. It's the reason he's been on cleaning detail before dinner. He swallows the thickness in his throat, "Y-yes Professor."

Shutting the door, Harry stumbles down the hall berating his sore pride.

'Perceptive- monotonous- devious- bat!'

With more interesting words that jump into the forefront of his mind, he reaches the Great Hall and slinks inside. Barely anyone seems to acknowledge his existence. It makes him resent them, all of them.

Harry grips the schoolbag tightly to his bony frame and sneaks on a seat at the end of the Slytherin table. A few students shift away instinctively, their senses uneasy with his presence. Maybe they think he might infect them? Maybe they think he's worthless? Maybe they're right... he doesn't have any redeeming Slytherin qualities at all. No looks, no charm, no Pureblood status, and barely any magic at all. There is the Potter wealth, but his Bloodtraitor lines discredit him in their eyes. Also the fact that he somehow destroyed the late Dark Lord who happened to hail from Slytherin. The dark wizard had been a murderer and horror, but it became clear quickly to Harry that Slytherin's views had been similar to the madman's. So really, no... nothing. To his Housemates he is only an insect that should be smashed under their gleaming leather shoes. They don't even find it worthwhile to harass him since his life expectancy is rumored to be limited.

If only he has beauty, charisma, strong magic... but instead he's a joke. He should have known that joining Slytherin isn't as glorious as that blasted hat made him believe.

'I shouldn't have trusted it... I shouldn't trust anyone!'

Back at the beginning of the school year, when he was up to be sorted into a House, Harry had been feeling delirious and angry towards his father at the time. He chose the green and silver not only for the glory, but to make his father pay for sending him to this far off academic environment instead of being home-schooled. What's the point of attending if people don't even think he'll survive past Fourth Year anyway? He can still remember the sweet shock on his father and godfather's face. Merlin, everyone had been shocked. Then people got over it, and in time forgot completely.

Frowning, Harry lets out a sigh and smothers a cough as noxious fumes steam from the food before him. Now comes the part that he dreads the most every damn day. Eating. No matter how simple or exquisite food may be for others, it's exactly the opposite to him.

Trying to play it safe, the raven-haired boy tentatively picks up an apple and peers at it.

'Nothing yet.'

He nods to himself and brings it to colorless lips, trying to simultaneously hold his breath and take a bite at the same time. Teeth break the apple's skin with a crispness and Harry forces himself to swallow the bite without letting his tongue touch. Success.

On his next bite though, he makes his first mistake choking on it. He spits it onto his plate and his second mistake is looking at it. The blood drains from Harry's face... black rotten mush rests on the pale dish, he glances at his hand and decides that it's his third and final mistake. The apple is oozing around the edges where he has bitten into it. Yellowish puss begins to darken and white squirming maggots inch across the fruit. The apple falls from his hand and rolls across the table.

Instantly now, he can feel the tiny bulbous bodies wiggling against his gums. They crawl over his teeth in the sludge-like sweetness. He sputters into a napkin, trying to keep from throwing up in front of his classmates. Sweat breaks fresh from his pores and his breathing shallows. Shakily, Harry reaches for a glass of juice. He downs the drink and grimaces as what is supposed to be cranberry flavor, only tastes like a concoction of liquid decay.

'Why is it just me? Why doesn't anyone else experience this too?!'

But he knows why. It isn't the food, it's him... and the thrice damned curse.

Torn with disgust, he watches as the children stuff themselves with the seemingly harmless food. A wave of sickness washes over Harry, he stands from the bench. Not a single person bothers to ask him what's wrong. No one seems to care of his horrible state. He hates them.

Once again, back in the corridors, the youth decides that a trip to the Hospital Wing is in order. Pattering along the sleek marble floors, his form rises up interchanging stairs, and slips by chattering paintings. He pushes open the Infirmary doors with a creek and stands swaying on his feet in front of Madame Pomfrey sitting at her desk.

The matron suddenly blinks, her eyebrows climbing to her hairline. "So soon Mr. Potter?"

He winces for the second time under the gaze of a knowing adult. "I... couldn't get anything down. So I came straight here."

"Indeed." Madame Pomfrey tries to appear scolding as she climbs to her wry feet. Crossing the room, the witch pokes about the cabinet on the back wall.

Harry watches through his thick lenses as she shuffles several potions on the ledge marked with his name. Large brightly colored bottles rest there waiting for the Potter male to devour over the course of a continual twenty-four hour wheel. On the same shelf, towards the right corner stands a few smaller vials containing darker mixtures. A cold shiver dances across the boy's spine every time he sees them, but he can't help be drawn to look with fear and morbid interest every time. Those are only for emergencies to his worsening condition. Only to be used when he falls into a full body fit; either his muscles shutting down, or magic turning on him.

So far, only one has been forced down his throat. It had been the first day of Flying Lesson's too. His weak magic had a fit connecting with the broom and back-fired. It was also the same day when a helplessly entranced, Draco Malfoy, decided he should be checked up on every once in a while. All to make sure that the blond doesn't have to, quote: "witness the disturbing ministrations of ones' horrendous demise". Who knew the Pureblood jerk is squeamish at the sight of suffering?

'It's a bit funny actuallt...'

Needless to say, Professor Hooch made him the official supplies boy. Joy. Thank the Pantheons, he can still hold a wand even if it tends to ignore him sometimes.

"Here you are." Madame Pomfrey hands the short male three bottles and a nutrient muffin.

Face scrunching at the muffin, he gives the woman a pleading look. "Can't I have the liquid kind?"

Her serious face hardens, "You didn't eat, you need something solid Mr. Potter. If you really cannot get it down I'll magic it inside your stomach, but I want you to try eating it first. Your saliva glands must keep functioning properly or there will be another problem on our hands."

'She says it like she's the one dealing with this too.'

Grunting, Harry nods and is steered to a seat in the infirmary, whilst being told not to leave until everything is settled.

Quickly, he munches down the muffin. Cringing at the moist feeling of molding bread, he sips steadily at the otherwise tasteless potions. Taking potions seems to be the most vexing and best part of his day. If he can deduce what water tastes like from what his godfather explains, than potions to him equal to water and water in general is acidic. Is there even a reason why? Probably just his mental process all screwed up from the curse people whisper about. Sometimes he likes to think his brain is similar to Muggle technology and that some arsehole got inside and rewired everything. It would also explain the other problem...

Placing the empty beakers on a side table, Harry stands and nods to the woman. She sends him on his way as she ushers another student inside. Passing by the teary-eyed Ravenclaw with bushy hair, he can only roll his eyes at the small burn she's sporting on her arm. Leaving with a little more strength showing in his steps, the youth ponders on why potions taste better than everything else. If he can actually create them well enough for himself and Potions Class maybe his Head of House won't be so bitter towards him. Another insubstantial dream.

Down the hall.

Within a bathroom.

Inside a stall.

Harry pulls out the long needle he stole off Madame Pomfrey's surgical tray. The woman had been too focused on the Ravenclaw to notice his sneaky fingers. Eyeing the silver tool, he hesitates only once before placing it on the smooth skin where his wrist is visible. Green orbs watch as he pushes the needle. The skin indents and then breaks, but there is no pain. None at all, it simply doesn't hurt. Angry, he digs deeper. Blood begins to drip as he works the needle side to side viciously. He wants to feel something, anything! As the tool makes the flesh open and squelch, something does begin to happen. There's a sensation engulfing over the numbness of his toes and trekking higher. His heart throbs to a quickening pace and the front of his pants tighten in building pressure. Deeper and deeper the needle goes until finally, a loud scrape catches his breath.

The needle scratches across his bone, vibrating up his arm and throughout his body. A gasp escapes his lips and his hot forehead meets the cool stall door. He can feel it... the pleasure. Overwhelming and addicting.

It seems as if hours flash by as the euphoria settles and vanishes, leaving behind a pleasant thrum through his system.

Matted hair clings to his glistening neck. He catches his breath, noting the sticky sensation between his legs. It surprises him. What he's done. His own reactions.

The needle slips from bloody fingers to clang on the tile floor. Harry slumps onto the closed stool and ignores his glasses as they topple away. Both hands cover his face, the blood ignored as it smears against his cheek. A whimper cuts through the low rushing of water in the loo pipes.

"What the fuck is wrong with me?"

Chapter End.