Salvation

Salvation

~LMR211~

Harry Potter sat in an empty, unused classroom late one November night, and thought. These were the same thoughts that had plagued him, running round and round in his head to the point of insanity, since the beginning of the summer. Why did I have to believe what I saw? Why didn't I think of asking Snape? Why couldn't I have listened? Slowly, he applied pressure to the knife in his right hand, poised, ready to strike, over his left forearm. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, revering in the pain as blood leaked a crimson pathway down his wrist and over his palm, ending in a drip between his middle and pointer finger. He watched in odd satisfactions as the drop splattered on the gray stone floor below him. It was odd how such a bright color seemed to liven up the depressing floor, yet it still stood for the horrible pain, the pain Harry would no longer feel if it weren't for the blade he held.

Oh, if they could all see him now. Maybe he was actually insane. Maybe he should be locked up, with only the guilty voices spinning about his muddled mind to keep him company, as, one by one, he lost all that he'd ever cared for. The guiltiest voice of all, screaming late into the night: what would Sirius think of you now? And the dull, nearly numbed pain would beat ceaselessly off the walls of his skull. His prison. There are some types of pain that can't be recycled into pleasure.

Again, the silver shining blade tore apart his pale skin. Pale, milky skin, shielded from the sun, just like his heart. Oh, he'd forgotten how the light felt when it hit him. He'd forgotten how to laugh, or even if he had ever laughed in the first place. But laughter was a trivial matter, wasn't it? If you were never happy, you couldn't tell if you were sad, so to be safe from happiness was to be safe from grief as well. But was it a worthy price? Of course. He was never happy anyway.

Again, he thrust the knife down, going deeper, the fiery river now ending in a miniature waterfall instead of a drip. The pain shot up his arm, tingling like the sensation you get when you splash yourself with cold water: somewhere between electricity and a cool breeze. But something was different. The pain was numbing again. The same way it had numbed when he'd force himself to think about Sirius, of when he'd scratch his quill or nails down his arm late at night in his bed when everyone else slept. It always numbs eventually. He wasn't naïve enough to believe his salvation was ever permanent.

Before, Harry had left the scars, to remind him of where to cut to enhance the pain. But one day during potions he'd reached up to get something on a high shelf in the supply cupboard and the sleeve of his robes had fallen down. Just his luck, as Malfoy had looked over that second and decided to-very loudly-make his opinion about the scars known, and known quite well.

"What's wrong, Potter," he'd shouted. "Going to kill yourself and save the Dark Lord the trouble? Or maybe little Harry's having a hard time getting over his muggle loving godfather!"

Harry had simply sneered and walked around Malfoy, turning and saying: "some of us have other values than sex," and hurried to his seat again. The look on the blonde boy's face clearly showed his remark had hit home. He wasn't called the Slytherin Sex God for nothing.

That had been a hard situation to get out of with his friends. Before they could corner him, he'd excused himself to go to the bathroom, where he'd magically erased all but one of the marks. At lunch later that day when Ron had angrily asked 'what the bloody Hell Malfoy was talking about' and Hermione demanded that he roll up his sleeves and show her his arm, he'd brushed it off, saying that he'd tripped and scraped himself. Seeing Hermione's look of disbelief, he'd excused himself from lunch quickly, saying he had to study. He skipped the next couple periods and looked for healing and scar removing charms in the library. Needless to say, he never made that mistake again.

Sometimes, he'd leave the dormitory on a 'walk' as he called them to Ron and Hermione and he'd end up sitting in this-his-empty classroom, just thinking to himself. But, exactly who else was there to think to? He'd wonder about all sorts of different things. Sometimes, he'd try to piece together what his life would have been like if Sirius had lived, or his parents had lived, or even if here was no Voldemort to kill people at all. He'd puzzle over what things would have never happened and what things would have happened differently. It amazed him how one small, seemingly insignificant action, cold change the fate of the world forever. It wasn't the type of insignificant action like putting on red socks one morning instead of green, because a life is a complex, though not exactly globally acknowledged thing. Simply ending one, would, obviously have major, and perhaps even unforeseen repercussions. Then what would happen if he killed Voldemort? The Dark Lord, of course, didn't have a loving family and a supportive circle of friends, but he sure as Hell had a lot of supporters! What would happen without him? If he, or any soul for that matter, died only seconds sooner or later than they did, would the world be different? If so, drastically? There were so many unanswerable and grotesquely trivial questions that come to mind when one sits and muses.

However, Harry did have a favorite question. What would someone think if they walked in on him, slicing open his flesh with a knife he'd filched from the kitchens? He would spend his time mulling over their reactions, turning them over and fine-tuning them so that it perfectly suited the individual's character. Did they tell someone? Deduct points? Give out detentions? Would they laugh? Would they cry? There are so many things one could do. The way they received the situation before them also had to do with their previous mood and other scenarios that could have unfolded during their day. Major and unforeseen repercussions.

He wiped the blood off of his knife on the inside of his robes and put in a leather pouch, protected by an Unbreakable Charm. The pouch he hurriedly stuffed in his pocket. It was getting late the longer he stayed out, the more chance there was for someone to get up to use the bathroom and notice his absence. Just as he was about to lift his head from where it had been positioned, facing his pocket so that he could see where he was shoving the knife, he sensed rather than saw a presence in the doorway. Oh fuck.

"Caught in the act, Potter," drawled the lazy voice of none other than Draco Malfoy. Harry mentally slapped himself repeatedly. In all of his musings, how could he have over looked the possibility of a prefect barging in on him while on duty patrolling the corridors? He was such an idiot! Malfoy took a few steps closer.

"Let me see your arm, Potter, I'm sure your precious headmaster would love to hear about what his beloved Golden Boy has been doing to himself lately." Harry changed his angry mental self-bashing into praise at his promptness. He'd vanished all the marks long before Malfoy had shown up. Grinning, he rolled up his sleeve.

"See Malfoy? There's nothing there." Harry was close to laughing at boy's terrible timing. That was before the Slytherin took out his wand and muttered Finite Incantatem.

I. Am. An. Idiot. Instantly, all of Harry's scars were revealed. He looked up, fully expecting to see a triumphant smirk playing on the other boy's mouth, an irritating glint in his eye, but instead he saw...pity? Compassion? Before he had time to decide what emotions Malfoy was feeling, the boy had captured his lips in a bruising kiss. Forcefully, he bit down on Harry's tongue, drawing blood. The pain that jolted through his mouth was soon mixed with the familiar pleasure and something else, something akin to lust. It was his turn, and he ground his teeth into the blonde's lip, feeling gratifying warmth fill his mouth. They both broke the kiss at the same moment, and as they looked into each other's eyes, Harry was sure he'd found the most enjoyable pain in the world. But as Draco pulled him in for another kiss, he wasn't naïve. This salvation wouldn't be permanent.