Privationis

"Indifference and neglect often do more damage than outright dislike..."

-Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Chapter 37: The Lost Prophecy, page 735 British hardcover 1st edition.

Privationis

Chapter 1: Establishment of a Habit

His knees buckled under him as he sank down to the floor of the bathroom. Today had been too much. Too much, just like every other day. As he had entered, he had heard the click of the lock, keeping others out of his sanctuary. He was eternally grateful that the door had locked - he didn't have the energy to get up off the floor to lock the door. He was safe... for now. He was locked in the privacy of the spacious bathroom, free to let it all go, if only for a little while.

He stared over at the full-length mirror on the wall opposite him. Most people didn't have a full-length mirror in their bathroom. He had to wonder about his relatives - they had always conformed to the norm. But evidently this was one abnormality they could deal with. The boy sighed. It would have to be the only one, he mused bitterly.

His eyes fell upon his mirrored self, and he turned away in a bout of disgust and self-loathing. He couldn't bear to look at himself anymore. He no longer cared about his own physical looks anyway, except he couldn't bear to look at himself. In the past he had cared in that he didn't want to look like shit, for lack of a better way of stating it. He had spent so many years dressed in his cousin's hand-me-down rags that once he could finally get his own clothes, he wanted to look somewhat decent. Now, he didn't care. He had changed far too much, and not for the better. The weight he now carried on his shoulders, and burdens he now carried were much heavier than those of the past, and they showed on him physically - through the way he carried himself, his face, his lack of interest in anything that once captivated his attention.

His eyes were once a vivid emerald-green, mirroring those that his mother had once possessed. The eyes that belonged to Lily Evans had stayed that clear, vivid colour until the day she died. Her son's eyes, however, had changed. Now they showed not compassion and love, and emotion that moved people, but only pain. His eyes were old, worn, mature beyond his years, and full of pain, full of hurt beyond what anyone could understand. From looking at his eyes alone, anyone could tell that this year had not been kind. Indeed, anyone could tell that this was not the same Harry Potter who had been away for the last year. He had matured beyond anyone's comprehension, and many of the neighbours were asking themselves 'is this the same boy?' Harry, however, did not have the heart or energy to reply.

Messy hair resembled what had once been his father's hair, what he had inherited from the man he never knew. It only served to remind him that he was judged by his father's actions, and lived in his father's shadow. The man had been dead for nearly fifteen years now, but nobody really noticed, because the son was 'a chip off the old block'. People often commented on how like his father he was, believed him to have inherited the slightly arrogant nature of James, and all the beliefs of the man, everything James ever stood for. By now, Harry no longer had the heart to dispute the belief. Now he took the opinion of 'let them believe what they want to believe'. He no longer cared what others thought of him.

The jaggered scar across his forehead only declared him a marked man. It only symbolised the pain in his life, be it physical or emotional. It was a sign, scrawled across his forehead, which screamed 'attack me' or 'try to kill me, please'. Harry had never quite figured out the exact wording, but the message was clear enough, even the muggles understood.

Harry hauled himself across the floor, reaching into the cupboard under the bathroom sink. Fingers groped inside until he found what he was looking for. As they curled around his precious blade, he felt it biting into his skin, as his fingers sliced open. He withdrew the blade from the cabinet, a bitter half smile on his face, as he ignored his bleeding fingers. It wasn't like that was going to be the only blood spilt today. He positioned the blade over his wrist, where numerous scars adorned his skin, from other occasions in the holidays when he had done this. Now, it happened daily, it had become a ritual, an obsession, an addiction. He pressed down, smiling through the biting pain, as he began his cutting ritual once again.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

An hour later, there was no sign of blood in the bathroom. The blade was hidden once more, and the teenager no longer occupied the bathroom. The only testimony that the event had ever taken place were the new set of slits along his wrists. That was the way things worked in the Dursley household. Harry could do as he liked, so long as there was no evidence. Vernon and Petunia Dursley had taken the threats of 'those people' (the Order) seriously, and as a result, Harry was ignored. They were working under the assumption that if they acknowledged him, they ran the risk of breaching the conditions set to them. They ignored the growing number of scars along Harry's wrists, and Harry didn't care. He had enough scars - both physical and emotional. What was a few more?

Nobody noticed the scars. Evidently, Harry thought, no one cares. That was fine with him. The only thing that truly astounded him was the fact that he wasn't dead yet. He had initially begun to cut as an attempt of suicide. Let the wizarding world find another hero, he had thought. After his first few (failed) attempts, he had come to the conclusion that they had placed some kind of protective charms on him, so that he could not take his own life. He researched, owl-ordering books from Flourish and Blotts, and could only find one spell that would fit. To put it simply, it stopped one from killing themselves intentionally. You could die from falling off a cliff accidentally, but not from throwing yourself off a high place purposefully. When he had first discovered this, he had raged. Who were they, to control whether he lived or died? As he had thought, during one cutting ritual, blood charms can't work if there's no blood in the body. But the point was irrelevant by now. He wasn't cutting as an attempted suicide anymore. He was cutting for release.

Every cutter, no matter what the circumstance, has a dark and hidden secret, lying beneath the scars. This secret can range from abuse to a feeling of being unlovable. But every cutter has the same problem - an inability to express their emotions verbally. As a child, Harry had not been encouraged to verbalise his feelings. The less he said, the better off he was. It was best when he was ignored, when he said nothing. If he said nothing, the Dursleys could find nothing to punish him for. This cutting had been a way to express himself, a way which no one would object to, at least in the household, and no one outside the household would need to know about. It was ignored by the Dursleys, but he wasn't looking for their attention. He was simply looking for a way of self-expression, and something to drown out the emotional pain.

Cutting is one of the most common forms of what is called self-injury. People self-injure for many varied reasons, but these reasons can be put into three broad categories. The first category includes the people who cut as a way of coping with a stressful situation. This, they find, is a way of releasing tension and changing an unpleasant emotional state. Some of these people feel that physical pain is easier to deal with than emotional pain. The second category includes the people who self-injure to have a sense of control over a situation which they can't control. The third category includes those people who self-injure as a way of validating their suffering. In cases of child abuse, for example, people often don't believe a child when they say they've been abused, because there are no physical signs.

Harry seemed to fall into all three categories, to some degree. As far as the first category went, the last few months had been nothing but stressful, and anyone who dared to say different could go to hell. The loss of blood was a release - as the blood left his skin, so did the intense emotions that boiled in his blood. Harry had also encountered physical pain far more than any normal child. He was much more comfortable with physical pain than emotional pain. And emotional pain was what had consumed him since the death of Sirius Black, his beloved godfather.

Harry fell into the second category in that he didn't have control over the hell he returned to every year, this place, the Dursley's house. He didn't have control over anything in his life... except for this. Why not exercise that control? He couldn't control the treatment he received from the Dursleys, but he could, to some extent, control what he experienced within their home.

The third category, however, you had to look beneath the surface, to see why he fell into this category. People didn't believe Harry when he stressed how horrible the Dursleys were - when he returned from any time spent in their company he was alive, and relatively healthy. Therefore, there was nothing wrong with the care the Dursleys provided for him. Nobody seemed to notice when he first entered the magical world his low self-esteem. The Dursleys had taught him that he was worthless, all his life, and it took his friends to teach him otherwise. He had never admitted the neglect he received at the Dursleys, simply because he knew others would never believe him. There were no marks on him - but now there was. He was creating a physical manifestation for his inner hurt and pain.

So Harry continued to cut, and came to rely on his cutting. It became an addiction, one that Harry could not give up. Why would I want to give up? Harry thought. Why would I want to leave it behind? He enjoyed the sense of power over his own life it gave him. He couldn't see why he would choose to give it up.

He had spent the last several weeks at the Dursleys now. He knew he was due back at Hogwarts in about four weeks time, but nowadays he didn't count down the days until he went back to school. The Dursleys ignored him, and he ignored them. It was a simple system, and what's more, it worked! He was actually... well, not enjoying his holiday, but he wasn't loathing it.

And so the holidays went on, and Harry continued with his self-destructive habit. The Order never found out - so long as he kept writing every three days, they didn't see the need to come and visit him. His letters to them, although short, he managed to keep them from any knowledge of his habits.

Dear everyone,

Well, it's been another three days, so I suppose it's time for another letter. Things are fine with the muggles. The same system is still in place - if I ignore them, they'll ignore me. It works, which is all I can really ask, I suppose.

I'm not even going to bother with asking you to get me out of here - it's been the same answer all summer. I suppose I'll see you whenever, although you'll probably know when 'whenever' is long before me.

-Harry

He supposed the letters were very shallow, but the Order didn't think it was strange. They probably thought there wasn't any more to tell, and inside, he laughed at their naivety. But at the same time, he wondered how he could cover it up so well that they never noticed anything strange about his letters. If Ron or Hermione had read any of those letters, they would have immediately been following it up somehow, saying 'something's wrong'. In truth, Harry was quite glad that they weren't - it would only lead to awkward and unanswerable questions.

Life continued this way until one day, when Aunt Petunia kicked Harry out of the house, one bright, sunny afternoon, for whatever reason, and he was forced to wander the streets and the general neighbourhood for the afternoon.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The air was warm on Harry's back, and the afternoon echoed with the shouts of children, playing imaginary games. Not that Harry knew anything about that. He wasn't allowed to use his imagination when he was a child. God knew what abnormalities he would think up. The Dursleys were quite terrified of the possibilities he could come up with.

He smiled as two little girls, no older than 5, ran around with broomsticks in hand, playing witches. If only they could see his school, they'd be fascinated. Across the road from them was a little boy with a stick in hand, and a piece of material hanging off him like a cloak.

"Abra Kedabra," he yelled, swinging the stick wildly. Harry winced, those words would have to be the muggle's idea of magic. No wonder there were so many anti-magic muggles around. The only spell they could have derived those words from was the killing curse, Avada Kedavra. And as he walked past, he was acutely aware of the eyes of the neighbours following him. They all knew he was mentally unstable, thanks to Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon's St Brutus's story. God forbid should they expose their children to such a criminal.

He reached the local park, simply looking for a place to sit and contemplate in peace. No sooner had he sat down on the park bench, he was disturbed by the sneers and jeers of Dudley's gang. Dudley was with them, but not leading the group this time.

"Well, look who it is," came the nasal voice of Piers Polkiss. "Harry Potter, eh? Long time no see. Whatcha' been doin' with yerself?"

"What's it to you," Harry spat, trying not to wince at the accent Piers had somehow acquired. He couldn't see Mrs Polkiss approving.

"It's a lot to us, Potter. You see, we've been lookin' for someone needin' a beatin', ain't that right, boys," Gordon, another of Dudley's friends, butted in.

"It would not be a good idea to set off my temper at the moment," Harry commented, his frustration beginning to build up. He fingered the wand, hidden up the long sleeve of his shirt. Truly, long sleeves were a blessing. Not only did they hide his scars, they also gave him a perfect hiding spot for his wand. Subconsciously, he tugged the sleeve down further. The action was so ingrained in him now, having done it many times every day since he had first begun to cut.

"You think we don't know," Dudley sneered at his cousin. "You think we live in ignorance-"

"Dudley, I didn't know you knew the meaning of the word ignorance," Harry cut him off. Dudley ignored his cousin, and continued.

"You think we don't know that you're suicidal. That your godfather's gone and died at some stage this year. We know, and you know what? We're bloody glad!"

"Leave Sirius out of this," Harry's voice had become ice. If it had become any more like ice, it would be leaving his mouth solid. His tone was harsh, and his face was ugly with anger. "Just leave him out of this."

"Yer' suicidal, we all know you are," Piers taunted.

"I'm not suicidal," Harry said.

"Bullshit," Dudley spat at his cousin. "What's this then?" He pulled up Harry's sleeve, exposing the scars, and the unhealed cuts on his arms. Dudley, Piers and Gordon stared. Harry jerked his arm away, pulling the sleeve down yet again.

"It's not suicide," Harry insisted. All he received was their disbelieving eyes. "I don't have to answer to you. I don't give a damn what you think of me. But that's not suicide, I can tell you that much."

"And what is it then?" Dudley sneered.

"None of your damn business," Harry yelled at him.

"How'd they get there," Piers demanded. Harry laughed humourlessly.

"I had unprotected sex with a porcupine, that's how," he shot back

"Really?" Gordon demanded. Harry rolled his eyes. Can you get any stupider? Harry thought.

"What the fuck do you think, Gordon?" Harry rolled his eyes, and without another word, and walked away.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The confirmation that Dudley had received that day, of Harry's self-destructive habits earned Harry strange looks from his family. Harry ignored it. Petunia tried to broach the subject several times, but she asked the wrong question. Every time she asked the same question.

"How did you get those cuts?" she would ask. But she didn't really care, she was just asking so that if they came to check up on him, she could have an answer of some kind. Each time, Harry amused himself, trying to come up with an excuse.

"I fell," he said the first time. "Damn cat," he muttered the second time. Soon enough he had progressed to the more 'out there', amusing excuses. "I fell asleep, and the clown got me." "I was at this party with Marilyn Manson and everyone was giving out hugs." "I keep falling off of cliffs trying to catch that damned roadrunner." And, of course, he made her drop the bags of shopping when he came up with the answer that became his favourite (after seeing her reaction). "I did this as a sacramental offering to my dark lord." Of course, Petunia had heard bits and pieces about the Dark Lord, Voldemort, throughout her years of exposure to the magical world. Naturally, this scared her, as she knew the aforementioned Dark Lord had killed her sister and brother-in-law. And of course, Harry had found the look on her face quite amusing. As such, he had stuck to that answer, and after another three times, Petunia stopped asking questions.

So the holidays went on, and Harry continued to cut. He couldn't stop now, even if he wanted to. He couldn't hold the intense feelings he had inside of him. He had to find some way to release him. Without anyone to teach him a better, less destructive way to do so, he had been forced to improvise, forced to find a way on his own. He had found it, and he couldn't give it up now. He wouldn't. Not for anyone or anything. All he could do was continue down this path, and hope he could manage to fit his life around his habits. Because he couldn't bear to give up the one thing where he could let it all go.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Credits:
The following section of this fic is paraphrased http://www.guardian.co.uk/health/story/0,3605,1033775,00.html

Cutting is one of the most common forms of what is called self-injury. People self-injure for many varied reasons, but these reasons can be put into three broad categories. The first category includes the people who cut as a way of coping with a stressful situation. This, they find, is a way of releasing tension and changing an unpleasant emotional state. Some of these people feel that physical pain is easier to deal with than emotional pain. The second category includes the people who self-injure to have a sense of control over a situation which they can't control. The third category includes those people who self-injure as a way of validating their suffering. In cases of child abuse, for example, people often don't believe a child when they say they've been abused, because there are no physical signs.

Author's Note:

I know the fic is depressing. It's implying that Harry has a severe form of depression. And in case you've never heard of SI before, I'll clarify a few things.

Being a self-injurer does not mean that the person is suicidal. There is a lot of difference between people who cut as a suicide attempt and people who cut as a SI 'habit' (for lack of a better word. Any self-injurers out there - please don't yell at me!)

I am not a self-injurer myself. I have run this by a self-injurer, so hopefully the worst of it (and by that, I mean the most offensive etc.) has been filtered out.

If you want to know any more about SI, I'm not eloquent enough to explain properly. And I would probably get a few things wrong too. But here are some websites I found helpful. Or else, you could just type "self-injury" or "self-harm" into a search engine, and you should come up with something. But I'll leave you a few sites I found helpful.

http://www.focusas.com/SelfInjury.html

http://abcnews.go.com/sections/GMA/GoodMorningAmerica/GMA010314Cutting_story.html

http://www.rcpsych.ac.uk/info/mhgu/newmhgu30.htm

http://www.angelfire.com/bc3/secondchance/

http://www.cnn.com/2000/HEALTH/09/05/self.mutilation.wmd/

http://www.psycport.com/news/2001/01/22/FWST/0000-4231-KEYWORD.Missing.html

http://www.aacap.org/publications/factsfam/73.htm

http://www.palace.net/~llama/psych/injury.html (yes, I used some of the "what to say when asked about cuts" from here)

http://www.self-injury.net/intheirownwords/readsection.php?id=1

http://www.siari.co.uk/

Hopefully you found some of that helpful.

On a completely different note, Privationis (the title) comes from the Latin word privatio, meaning freeing or release. I thought it was fairly appropriate, being that Harry's cutting is for release.

Please Review?

-Granda