The Quill

Chapter Two

Harry came stumbling out of the fire. Fred and George were already there, their pockets full of things from their own joke shop. Harry, Ron and Hermione hadn't been there, but the twins had insisted on showing them their latest inventions.

When they sat at dinner later, Mrs. Weasley kept urging Harry to eat. "Harry, dear, you didn't eat anything since breakfast! Come on, I'll cut your steak for you..."

"Oh Mum, stop pampering him," Ron said in a disgusted voice.

"Sorry, Mrs. Weasley, it tastes wonderful, but I'm just so tired," Harry said, forcing a yawn.

Mrs. Weasley looked searchingly into his eyes. "It's only half past seven! You aren't going to be ill, are you?"

"No, no, I'm fine," he said hastily.

"Well then, go upstairs and lie down. I'll check on you later, allright?"

"Oh, no, please, I... I have a light sleep, you know..."

"Okay, my dear," Mrs. Weasley said, patting his cheek. "Good night."

"Good night." He stood up and went up the crooked stairs to Ron's room.

He shut the door behind him and collapsed right onto the floor. This had been such an exhausting day, keeping his face up at all times, no opportunity to be on his own... He felt the weight in his stomach. It seemed to have swollen, it was rising up his throat and taking his breath away. He crawled to his trunk and pulled a roll of parchment out of it. He flattened it and took his new quill. He looked down at his right hand.

I must not tell lies.

The words were still visible, though only at a very close look. He bent over the parchment, set the sharp point of the quill on the parchment and wrote:

I must not act the hero.

At once, the back of his right hand broke open again and the words appeared on the parchment, written in his own blood, and on his skin. One second later, the cut had healed again.

I must not act the hero. I must not act the hero. I must not act the hero.

Blood started trickling down his wrist.

I must not act the hero.

Never would he have thought that Umbridge would have such an effect on him.

I must not act the hero.

It felt so good.

I must not act the hero.

He heard the clattering from dinner downstairs while he sat in his best friend's room, slicing open his own hand...

I must not act the hero.

He hoped nobody would come to check on him.

I must not act the hero.

He stopped. His hand was now furiously red, but quite smooth. He was dissatisfied. He wanted it to be seen, he wanted that his outside reflected his insides. He couldn't bear to look like he ever did, when his heart and soul were so terribly destroyed. He wanted to feel pain, he wanted to punish himself for what he had done, and he wanted to bring some of his feelings to the outside. But his inner wounds wouldn't heal as fast or as good as those on the back of his hand did...

He rolled up his sleeve, then he lifted the quill once more an set it on his left arm.

I must not act the hero.

He let out a gasp. It hurt much more than it did when he wrote on parchment. The cut was deeper, and it lasted at least half a minute until it had healed.

I must not act the hero.

He cut it delicately into his skin, feeling every word.

I must not act the hero. I must not act the hero.

The blood was running down his arm and dropping on his trousers. He pulled out a handkerchief and put it on his lap.

I must not act the hero. I must not act the hero.

If anybody'd see me like this, he thought, they'd think I had serious problems. No. Don't think 'serious'. It sounds like 'Sirius'... Yes, I have Sirius-problems... He felt his eyes fill with tears.

I must not act the hero.

He contorted his face with pain and suppressed a sob.

I must not act the hero.

Through his blinding tears he saw his blurred arm becoming redder and redder with blood.

I must not act the hero.

His hand was writing almost on its own.

I must not act the hero.

He missed his parents harder than ever. If they were still alive, they would surely come to him, take him into their arms and tell him he had done nothing wrong... Tears fell onto his cut-open arm and the wounds started stinging even more.

The sound of chairs scraping over the kitchen floor brought him back to his senses. Panicking, he sprang to his feet an wiped his eyes with his right hand. He looked down at his arm. Shining red and clearly visible were the words I must not act the hero carved into his skin. He picked up his handkerchief and dabbed at his wounds. He was satisfied for now. He opened the door, looked carefully around, crossed the corridor on tiptoe and entered the small bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror. He was pale and his eyes were very red from crying.

"You look terrible, dear," said the mirror matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, I know," Harry replied and bent down to nurse his arm.

When he came back to Ron's room, Ron was already there, sitting on his bed. "Hey Harry, I thought you wanted to sleep?" he asked, a look of concern on his face.

"Couldn't", Harry said, not meeting Ron's eyes. He went to his bed, sat down and started changing. All the time he hid his bruised arm from Ron, who was looking at him suspiciously. Fortunately the sleeves of his pyjama were long.

Finally they both lay down and the light went out on its own. Lying in the dark, Harry could hear the twins rumbling overhead and the sound of music from the room next door. He knew that Ginny was a great musical-lover, and he tried to make out what she was hearing. He didn't know the song, but he assumed it must be from Les Miserables, Ginny's favourite musical.

...Without me this world would go on turning

The world is full of happiness that I have never known...

These lyrics were boring right into his heart. Yes, what would it matter if he wasn't there? He had no family that would mourn over him, no godfather... It was true, he had never known the happiness of having a loving family, parents who cared for him above all others, like Ron and Hermione had. Of course, Ron had to share the love of his parents with his six siblings, but Mr. And Mrs. Weasley had so much love to give that it was enough for all of them. They even gave some of their love to him, Harry, and he was very grateful that had experienced such a close thing to parental love this way he since his own parents had died.