Notes
Not completely mine
Warnings
Snarry, Self harming
Harry looked out upon the lake. It seemed so calm, so peaceful. Unlike his emotions, which were boiling and always threatening to break the dam he had built to stop them coming out.
He looked at his palm. The blood was already drying; the wound was already slowing in its bleeding.
Harry knew what he did to himself was wrong. He knew it, but he did it anyway.
He cleaned his knife in the grass. The numbing feeling was fading now, making way for the turmoil of his emotions.
He placed the knife on his left wrist…but them pulled it back and pocketed it. It was nearing breakfast time; he had to wash the blood off.
He hid his hand as he was walking toward the school.
He was thinking about everyone's reactions to the knowledge that the Chosen One cut himself, when he bumped into a warm body.
He looked up to see Severus Snape there.
"What are you doing out this early, Potter?" Snape asked, sounding condescending.
Harry scowled up at the man. "Nothing." He said, and pushed past his snarky potions teacher. Snape shrugged it off, glared at the boy, and continued walking. He liked to watch the sun rise over the lake.
Harry cleaned his hand in the bathroom, and then looked at the diagonal cut across his palm. It was deep enough that he would need bandages if he was going to use it. He conjured some, and then wrapped his hand in the soft fabric.
At breakfast, Ron pointed out his hand.
"Cut it on a rock when I fell earlier; down by the lake." He said. His friends nodded and believed. Harry inwardly scowled. They were mindless sheep.
Since it was Saturday, and he had no classes, Harry decided to go flying after breakfast. And he did.
Once he made it to the Quidditch pitch, he took off his robes. Underneath he was wearing jeans and a black t-shirt. Harry stares at his arms for a moment, looking at and remembering each silver scar. Most were thin and looked like nothing at a glance…but others were deeper, longer, more ragged.
And there, on his wrist, was the small, deep cut he had made nearly a month before, when he had wanted it all to end.
He scowled as he mounted his broom and took off. Of course, it hadn't ended, because he was the Savoir of the Wizarding World. Because he couldn't do himself in before he delivered an entire fucking world from the hands of a madman.
He contemplated his life, and why he cut himself as he flew, the wind making his eyes tear a little.
His life was actually very simple; he had to go to school at Hogwarts, where people fear/worshipped him, or just plain hated him, and then he got to go back to the Dursley's in the summer, when he was beaten and hurt, and nearly starved. And occasionally Voldemort would make an appearance, try to kill him, and shake things up a little bit. And eventually, he would have to kill the old bastard…and then no one would care what happened to him.
Harry also knew why he cut himself, wrong or not. It helped him. The pain numbed his mind, at least for a little bit. And the scars were reminders. They told him of all the days and nights he had wanted to die, had been sad and depressed. Some even told about the people who had died because of him. He had every one of their names etched onto his body.
