Painkiller - A Drarry Fanfiction

Part 013

His hair is even messier than usual, clinging onto his face with sweat. His right cheek is red and starting to swell. His lip is torn and bleeding in the corner, already swollen. His fingers are digging into my collarbones with strength I didn't think he would still have. And his eyes—his eyes are glaring into mine, tears barely hanging onto his lashes.

My chest tightens at his twisted, trembling voice. "What does that supposed to mean?" Harry says. He nods to the cluster of papers left on the floor.

"I don't— I don't know," I say, painfully unable to look away from him.

"Don't fucking lie to me!" Harry yells. "It came from your goddamn room! You know what it is and you will explain what the fuck it means!"

I find my hands on the tender skin of his wrists. His pulse thunders under my touch. "Okay, right," I say, taking a breath for both of us. I hope my head isn't making up the tension loosening ever so slightly in Harry's face. "I'll take a look and tell you what I can. You just have to let—"

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see Mrs. Dursley approaching. Her long neck stiff with rage she fails to hide, she reaches for Harry. "You're acting like a child—" she starts, but I finish.

Before she can get her hands anywhere near him, my body reacts. Letting go of Harry's wrists, my hands swiftly catch him around the waist. His grip slides off my collar as I turn him around, standing him behind me. One hand covering him by the side of his thigh, I face Mrs. Dursley. "He doesn't need you. You can leave."

Her lip twitches. "I am his guardian. You have no—"

"His guardian that I was sent to inspect," I cut. "And so far, I have not been able to trust you. Please leave before I make my next report entirely about this."

There's a moment. I see fire behind Mrs. Dursley's eyes but I don't look away. "You know nothing about our family," she shoots before disappearing into the kitchen.

I ignore everything—my heart throbbing, every terrifying image flashing through my brain, Harry's gaze—and gather the papers from the floor. One hand holding the papers and one hand holding Harry's, I rush upstairs. I don't stop until we're in Harry's room, door locked.

I turn to Harry. "You okay?"

He doesn't hear me. "Tell me what those papers—"

"No," I say, sharper than I mean. "Whatever those are don't come before this. Harry, what—"

He rolls his eyes, a tear escaping down his reddened cheek. His voice is dry. "Don't call me Harry."

Perhaps it's sprinting all the way to town first thing in the morning, but I feel lightheaded. I shake my head, something clogged in my throat. "I— I'm sorry," I say, taking a step away from him. "But, please. Where are you hurt? Why did she do this to you? Should I call for help?"

Harry looks down, his hair falling in front of his face. I wait, but instead of pointed words of stubbornness, I hear wet breaths, and soon tears drip one after the other to the floor. Before I can think, he slowly sinks to the ground and collapses against the wall. His face is still hidden behind his hair as his quiet whimpers stab through my chest.

The wood floors are soggy under me. I put an arm around Harry's shaking shoulders, my palm over his fingers. I feel his every bone and muscle quivering, tense yet so fragile. Nothing crosses my mind—nothing to say, nothing to do—and so I only squeeze his hand, grazing my thumb over the round of his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'm so sorry."

He never cries out loud.

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