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Summary
Life has been turning for a long time. Harry isn’t sure when it started. If it was when Cedric Digory died at the triwizard Tournament. Or if it was when his soul was being sucked out by dementors. Maybe it was before that. Back when he fought a snake.
No. That’s not it either. Maybe it was the first time he was beat bloody by Dudley and his cronies?
Or maybe, maybe his life was determined to head down this fucked up path from the beginning. And even Voldemort was merciful enough to spare him from it. He doesn’t know when it happened. Just that it has.
And now everything is sharp. Spikes along every narrow road. Digging into his skin. Blood trickling down his arms, and legs. So much blood. Soaked into his skin, baked under his fingernails, no matter how much he scrubs.
The further he walks, the less sure he is about just whose blood it is.