Chapter Text
Harry's least favorite part of Quidditch was sweating. He hated sweating. It was possibly the worst physical sensation to ever bless this earth, especially on muggy days where the humidity didn't allow it to dry and actually do its purpose.
But Harry could put up with some sweating for Quidditch. He would soon forget about it when he would get into the air.
That feeling of being free would hit, and being sweaty didn't matter- he was in the air, flying about, darting after a snitch in between admiring the other players from afar.
Harry would love to be flying right now.
Unfortunately, he's out in possibly his least favorite weather (humid and disgustingly hot), weeding the garden, without a drop of water, and an empty stomach growling at him angrily.
So Harry was just a bit miffed. Just a smidge. Nothing big.
Harry yanked another weed out, slamming it down next to him, before going at the next. Usually, when the weather was at least tolerable, Harry liked tending the garden a bit. Liked the repetitive motion of pulling out weeds or potting plants. He wasn't allowed to water the plants unless he was good, since Pentunia didn't trust him not to drink from the hose when he wasn't allowed water.
But, as stated previously, the weather was decidedly his least favorite. So he couldn't even enjoy that.
Harry, at last, finished weeding the garden, gathering up the weeds and throwing them into the small compost.
As Harry was entering the house once more, wiping his bare feet on the mat outside before stepping inside (Petunia didn't care much if he was out there bare foot or not- as long as he didn't track anything inside, she would simply roll her eyes anytime she noticed), he heard more than saw Dudley drop a plate onto the ground in the kitchen.
When Harry's head snapped up, he could see it probably had some of the left-over special dinner from the night before on it when Dudley had dropped it. Without needing an exchange of words, Dudley just walked off, leaving Harry to clean it up, and Harry had to keep from stomping over to the mess. Whatever, it was a simple task.
Just as Harry had approached the broken dish and pile of food on the floor with a broom and dust pan in hand, he heard thundering footsteps from Vernon and Petunia's room, and he knew what was going to happen before it did.
Harry was thrown to the floor by the back of his hair, and the broom and dust pan clattered to the side.
"Stealing food, and dropping a dish no less!"
Ah. A set-up by Dudley. Harry felt a flame of anger ignite inside him. He could be so, so good, and it still didn't matter.
It never would.
Vernon now had a painful grip on Harry's hair, interrupting Harry's thoughts, and he was dragging the struggling boy up to his room. Harry hit the table on his arm, hard, as well as the stair impacting his head and back harshly on the way. Harry was thrown onto the floor of his room, face-planting.
"Take off your shirt, boy!" Vernon demanded.
Harry heard the sound of Vernon's belt coming off, and for once, Harry felt emboldened by his anger not to act at once.
Vernon had always made him feel scared. An irrational sort of fear, and Harry was often confused on how Vernon could make Harry shut up and tremble with fear, yet Voldemort only made Harry louder, bolder, braver. Sometimes Harry could only say 'his uncle' or just 'Uncle' because 'Vernon' felt like a Death Eater saying Voldemort. They both started with a V, Harry supposed.
Maybe Harry had mixed them up somehow.
"NOW BOY!" Vernon yelled, loud enough that Petunia would likely scold her husband for it later.
"What if the neighbors hear, Vernon? What will you do then? Punish the boy quieter next time," Petunia muttered, not noticing Harry peeking out of the gaps in the cupboard door.
Uncle kissed Petunia on the cheek, muttering back promises of keeping the freak quiet, keeping on his gentle smile all the way until Petunia had her back turned, and instead sneering and rolling his eyes whispering "Nagging bitch sometimes, I swear..." under his breath.
Harry still didn't strip of his shirt. He couldn't tell if it was out of a bold need to disobey the man after years of obedience, after accepting punishments without a word, or if it was similar to the fear of a tiny fawn caught in headlights, about to be smeared across the road in a disturbingly beautiful display.
If Harry were a painter, that would be one of his portraits, blood red across a dark back-road, drove over by more and more cars until it faded into the road, only a-
Vernon didn't seem to care much that Harry hadn't taken off his thin T-shirt, just starting to rain his belt down anyways. But not like usual, as he seemed to be using the buckle to hit Harry, a further punishment for Harry's silent disobedience.
Well. Harry wasn't very silent anymore. A cry of pain ripped from his throat as the buckle tore through his shirt quickly, the sharp end of it resulting in cuts rather than the typical welts. It lasted ages too- Vernon liked it to be over with, but the man was enraged today. Harry's flame of anger was momentarily put out by the overwhelming presence of the pain.
Harry kinda liked that. The pain had now stopped being a shock to his system, and more of the entirety of his system, as Harry melted into the feeling. Harry couldn't think anymore, could only feel the constant sting of cuts opening on his back. Couldn't think of Cedric, or hating himself, or his parents, or-
Vernon was gone, and his door was closed. The sun had set. When had the sun set? It was just 18 o' clock a few minutes ago, there was a little under 2 hours of sun left for the day. The wounds on his back had scabbed over, the belt buckle having left thin cuts, luckily, so they could scab quick and wouldn't bleed too much.
Ah. It had happened again.
Sometimes, during the summers, Harry would sort of... zone out? But even less aware. He didn't really think at all, either, like he would when he would zone out. More like... if he were paused, but time moved around him. It happened pretty often following a beating.
It had happened after Cedric had died, the following night. According to Ron, Harry had laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling dusk to dawn. Ron had to check about five times to make sure Harry was still alive. Harry had been embarrassed, so he'd told Ron to keep it under wraps, and Ron, luckily for him, had agreed pretty easily upon reassurance that Harry was fine, just shaken.
Cedric. Fuck, he couldn't think about Cedric. His very name hurt, like staring at the sun. At what could've been. Harry didn't like reusing similies, but it was like a Death Eater saying Voldemort. It cursed his being, hurt far worse than any beating or cut.
Harry had taken up a... hobby of sorts to cope. It was about the closest thing Harry had to a hobby in this god-forsaken cage, something that took the edge off.
Ced- You-Know-Who- had opened up at one point about his own past of hurting himself. He had ADHD, so life was always harder for him, and he, before his diagnosis, would cut to cope and get his brain to quiet down for once. He had obviously not meant for it to be an inspiration, but nonetheless, Harry had eventually taken it that way.
It had been nothing more than a thought about a week after his death. But it lingered. Maybe Harry would just try it, build some character. Maybe once Harry did it once, he'd never want to ever again. Mostly, Harry just wanted to escape his emotions, but he was too much of a coward to slice his vein, so he took to coping. He had mentioned how it made his brain quiet down, so maybe it would work like that for Harry too. And it did.
Harry knew it was bad. He did, in theory, at least. But, well- what was so bad with it? Sure, it definitely indicated Harry wasn't doing very well upstairs, but it wasn't like Harry was going to kill himself. It seemed like a win-win- Harry finds himself actually focusing better and not feeling like there's a constant emotional pressure under his skin, threating to burst through. If all that took was a little blood, then Harry would happily deliver.
So what if Harry found himself doing it more and more? Harry could definitely admit he was a little... tied to it, with only a bit of shame within himself, but it was a sustainable addiction. Like caffeine, but probably even better than that because caffeine gives headaches and jitters and heart attacks at 25, and cutting only has a little blood spill.
So really, what was the issue? Harry already knew he had problems, might as well cope the best way possible. As far as Harry was aware, no other coping method had a 100 percent success rate as cutting did so far.
Thinking about cutting this much made Harry crave it. So, after ensuring no one was coming to bother him, Harry crawled over to the loose floorboard in his room, picking it up and peering inside. His potions knife, perched atop the photo album Hagrid had gifted him. Harry decided he wouldn't keep it on top of the photo album since it seemed a little... odd.
Harry picked the knife up, peering at the blade. It had a bit of dried blood on it that Harry promptly picked off. Harry would make sure it stayed clean- otherwise, Harry might get an infection, and that certainly wouldn't be good. That would raise questions about why he had uniformly-parallel cuts along his arms.
Almost reverently, Harry pulled up his sleeve, and sliced. Once, slowly. Then twice, a bit faster. Until now, Harry wasn't counting, wasn't caring. The pain had now blended into one cycle as Harry poured his being into it, allowed it take over his mind and fog his brain.
It was nice. So, so nice. Nice was a good word for this nearly-religious act.
It was so consuming, that when Harry had first cut, had first sliced his skin and felt the relief, he had momentarily believed it to be the work of a higher, divine being. One who had finally given him peace, who had finally taken mercy on his sin.
Of course, Harry had pretty quickly gotten past that- he had explained the chemical reason for the euphoria, but Harry had experienced something that felt like more than just a hit of dopamine.
But Harry had briefly considered praying, considered finally picking up and dusting off the sliver cross necklace he had found abandoned on the nightstand a few years back when he had taken this room, if only to thank whatever deity had gifted him something so holy.
But now, it felt more normal, cutting. More like a simple hobby, a pastime, like macaroni art.
Harry had enjoyed macaroni art in his early years of achooling, as it was something to focus on. It was something that made his leg stop bouncing, and made Harry forget about the beating he had gotten because he hadn't weeded the garden fast enough. Yes, cutting was just like macaroni art now, something enjoyable. Not necessarily a sign of a god or a reason to pray to any such god.
Maybe, instead of cutting, he had turned to something like art-
As soon as Harry's traitorous brain had started thinking of him again, he sliced deeper. He wasn't cutting deep enough if he could hear his thoughts. He didn't need to think right now. He needed to cut, to bleed.
Harry sliced carelessly now, blood flowing freely, though also rather thickly due to the dehydration.
Until it started spraying out instead, coating Harry's face as he pointed it away from himself. Well. That- that wasn't good, was it? And- looking down now- that was a lot of blood. Too much, and much more than any of the other times.
Shit. Well. Maybe it'd just close in a second?
Harry was getting a bit dizzy as the floor beneath his arm was drenched in blood, as well as anything within the vicinity and aim of the spray of blood. Looking closer now, he could see he had sliced open his vein. That could kill him.
Harry didn't want to die, really. Well. Mostly...
Okay, only a little bit. He had an important role- he was the- the Chosen One, the Boy who Lived. And his friends would be devastated, especially if it looked like a suicide.
He grabbed a shirt from next to him, pressing it against the wound only to watch it get drenched in about a minute in blood. It- it wasn't stopping. Fuck, how could Harry save this?
Well... he didn't have to.
Not really. It'd be selfish but... dying was a comforting thought as much as it was daunting. No more beatings, no more endless chores, no more deaths in his name, no more anything. It could be really nice. The void expanse of nothingness. His friends would get over him eventually.
Maybe he could be with his parents, and maybe he could be with Cedric.
That was his last thought before he passed out cold, head spinning from blood loss.