Skeletons In My Cupboard

I am Harry Potter. I used to live in the cupboard under the stairs at Number Four Privet Drive.

But I never lived alone.

Inside the cupboard, it was dark. There were corners, and dark places, and shadows. I never liked shadows. They scared me.

But then he came, and they didn't scare me anymore.

I'm not sure when he came; all I remember were corners, and dark places and shadows. It was cold that night, so cold that my thin and old and slightly strange smelling blanket (Uncle Vernon said that I should have been thankful for Dudley's baby blanket) was quite useless. I could feel the cold under my skin, in my bones, burning a cold flame on my scar.

I made a wish just then, a wish that I really, really wished, more than anything else in the world. I wished it even more than I wished I had toy cars, more than I wished mom and dad were alive, I wished it even more than I wished that I was Dudley (fat and spoiled and loved) and I wished it more than I wished I didn't live in the cupboard, under the stairs, were there were corners, and dark places and shadows.

I wished, that night when I was cold, that someone would keep me warm; just someone to keep me warm.

My scar burned just then, it burned like it had never burned before and I clutched at my forehead, suffocating my moans on my pillow and fell into a strange waking-sleep.

I dreamed of him that night, a body of silver mist and green powder. I remember nothing of that dream, except that I was warm.

And for a little boy, in a cold, cold cupboard, that was enough.

Later, when I was older, I was whisked away to Hogwarts and during my first stumbling year, I began to freeze inside, a numb that started in my memory of a warm body in a closet that spread to my legs, my arms, my heart.

And this is a secret, but sometimes I feel angry with my mom and dad for dying. I never told him this, but somehow he knew, and he told me it was all right to be angry. He even told me that he was angry too, angry at the world, at his father. He said we could be angry, together.

In my second year, I found a diary and the freezing stopped, even if only for a little while. Ginny got hold of the diary too, and she did many bad, bad things that she couldn't remember afterwards.

I did bad things (dark things, nice things) with the dairy too, but I remember and maybe that's even worse than forgetting.

In my third year, just when I thought that I would become a living breathing frozen thing, I had dreams again. It had been too long. This time, along with a vivid green, the dreams brought a vision of his body but never his face, handsome and strong and warm. He told me that I needn't pretend to be strong with him. He said he didn't love me because I was a hero, but because I was Harry, and I believed him. I would wake up afterwards, tears on my face, a wet spot on my bed and an aching so intense; it felt like my heart had been ripped apart by serpent claws.

When Ron asked me what was wrong, I almost told him about my dreams but suddenly decided, with green mist whispering in my ear, that some skeletons are best left in the cupboard.

When Draco asked me what was wrong, I just kissed him and told him that I was fine. I lied.

In fourth year:

"You talk half in English, mutter half in Parseltongue," Ron said.

"Really? In my sleep?"

"Yeah." Ron said.

"I think you should tell someone about it. Dumbledore would be a very good choice," Hermione said pointedly.

"Okay, okay. I can't remember much except T..." Something hazy curled lazily around my mind, burning a trail into my throat, caressing (suffocating) me. I gasped.

"Harry? Harry?"

I blinked. "Huh, what?"

Hermione stared intently at me.

"You were saying something about your dream."

I couldn't remember a single thing that had happened in the last ten seconds. I blinked again.

"I, uh..." I sighed. "I don't know." I felt pathetic.

Hermione frowned, cocking her head to the side and said, "You're not yourself anymore."

In fifth year, there was a moment, when I was in Voldemort's clutches, a second away from death; I don't know why, but I thought of green and silver mist.

The very same mist shrouded me from remembering Sirius' mirror.

Later, Draco said that I'd changed.

"No, I haven't," I said.

Draco didn't argue, but he continued to eye me so critically that I began to wonder myself.

"Am I losing you, Harry?" he asked. He meant, do you still love me, Harry?

I didn't answer. I didn't know.

And now, in sixth year, the green mist whispers an awful lot.

Just that day, Malfoy and I were kissing; hot angry kisses, fired by fury, hate, love and I wished it would go on forever and ever and ever because when I was with him, like this, I wouldn't think of warm mist, or green dreams.

But the whispers came, like they always did and I realized that night that Draco's eyes were like metamorphmagi, one moment they would be like clear, silver water, looking deeper than they really were, promising cool depths for me to lose myself in (wash away the mist in) and another moment, they were like round silver mirrors that I found myself tempted to break.

I knew I'd cut myself on the shards, but like a child that is tempted to put out a candle with his finger, I couldn't resist.

I held Draco close to me, so close he could feel the sudden increased rate of my pumping heart, my veins flowing with green poison, my tongue along his lips.

For a moment, I wanted to stop, knew that I didn't want this, that I didn't want to hurt Draco but what comes in a moment, goes in a moment.

Like when he said he loved me.

I pulled The Invisibility Cloak off of us and pressed my lips against his, in the Gryfinddor common room, I pressed my lips against his, in front of Ron and Hermione, I pressed my lips against his.

Then, pushing him away, I wiped my mouth on the sleeves of my robes and said, "The answer to your question is no, I don't love you." I made sure it was loud enough for Ron, Hermione, Seamus, Lavender, and my own heart to hear.

I saw something in Draco break, something irreparable; like the pieces of broken promises.

I sat down and cried later, feeling that I had destroyed my only saviour but what I needed to be saved from, I didn't know.

I feel asleep crying, but in the morning, there were no tears in my eyes, only dim reflections of silver mist.

As expected, word travelled to Professor Dumbledore fast and called me to his office soon after. He asked me what had happened and as I told him, he surveyed me from above his half-moon glasses. He was a wise wizard, but not wise enough to understand the mist, or what it meant.

Even I don't know anymore.

"You see, Sir, I've been having these dreams."

"Dreams about Voldemort, Harry?" He was still searching my eyes. My hand was clutching my wand.

I had one last chance then, to escape the warm and comforting mist. All I had to do was let go of my wand but I had a feeling that even if I'd tried, I wouldn't have been able to.

I had to try anyway, a voice inside me said. I think it was my conscience, but it'd been a long time since I'd listened to it that I wouldn't have known it if it ran up to me and hexed me into oblivion.

But I did know the cupboard, the corners, and dark places, and shadows. I remembered a little boy, cold, scared, young.

I remembered that I had made a choice to be warm that night.

I made that choice again with green mist whispering in my ear (Harry, Harry), warm breath on my neck (Kill him), I made that choice again.

"No, not about Voldemort, Sir." I said. "I dream of Tom Riddle."

My wand was raised.

Avada Kedavra.