Cravings

No one would understand. No one. Perfect Harry Potter, not being perfect? No one would get it. They´d make him stop. They´d take away his only pleasure. His only escape.

Harry lifted the knife slowly, and brought it down inches above, not yet ready to press it in.

Not suicidal . . . just pain, just release . . . not death . . .

Hesitating slightly, Harry smiled. He hadn´t always been like this. No, even just last year he was still the Perfect Harry Potter. He had his Uncle to thank for giving him this idea.

Slowly . . . savoring . . . lasting . . . pain.

He never thought he´d be thanking his Uncle for anything. But that day, a week into the summer holidays, the normal world shattered. A simple blow from his Uncle was too much, added to the rest. His world came crashing down, and Harry didn´t care. The moment his Uncle´s wedding ring struck his cheek, and the blood surfaced, Harry had the answers.

Sliding . . . slowly . . . red blood . . . blood . . . blood.

Harry slid the knife along his arm, slowly, savoring every bit of the pain. Biting his lip gently, he ran the knife back along the path he had just sliced into the white flesh. The wound grinned at him, a friend sharing his secret, and he grinned back. Moments later the blood spilled. Dropping the knife, Harry brought his arm to his face.

Red . . . cool, wet, metallic, glimmering . . . blood.

Harry watched as the blood ran down his arm, fascinated by the glimmering of it, the shine it held. He closed his eyes, and slowly licked the blood, taking pleasure in the taste. Here, now, he had control. Here, now, he ruled.

Famous Harry Potter . . . in charge . . . control . . . pain.

He dealt the cards, he had the power. He was free from the life of Harry Potter, even if it was just for a moment. He was free.

Escape . . . release . . . free . . .

Harry continued to taste, and would continue to, until the blood stopped. Just like the last time. And all the other times.

Power . . . escape . . . blood . . . no one.

Harry heard the shouts, but he didn´t care. Allowing one eye to drift open, he watched the blood flowing down his arm. How cold it felt. And how beautiful it looked: in the shaft of light from the doorway the descending sheen of scarlet looked like silk against his skin. It shimmered. He was alone right now, and didn´t care. The rest could wait. He bent down to pick up the knife, for one last stab at release.

Never enough . . . no one . . . never understand . . . not death, just escape . . . no understanding . . . no pity . . .

Harry brought the knife to his arm again, readying himself. Then it all changed- the knife that had hovered in front of him, promising, had gone. Vanished. Ripped away: Harry heard it clattering on the wooden floor. And now the reassuring darkness had given way to a harsh and unforgiving light.

Looking up, as though through a fuzzy haze, Harry squinted at the figure, swimming before his eyes. What was happening? Where was his only friend, his metal friend? Why wouldn´t everything stop moving?

"Harry!"

Harry peered even harder at the swaying figure, his eyes focusing, then unfocusing.

"Have you lost your mind? What are you doing?"

Harry stumbled, and everything started to fade.

"Hermione? Is that . . ."

"Harry? Harry, what´s wrong? Oh god . . . Harry! Harry, answer me! Ron, go get help! Harry! Harry, speak to me, Harry!"

Harry smiled as the world blackened and he fell to the ground, landing with a thump, no longer hearing Hermione's hysterical screams.

Escape . . . release.