Escaping Darkness [Book 1 of Through Darkness and Light]

Chapter 4: Deadened Sensations

"It wasn't him, Ron," Harry whispered. "It's okay...it wasn't him. I just...had a bad dream."

Ron eyed him for a moment, then seemed satisfied. "Alright, mate. You'll be fine then...You should try to sleep again. Maybe it'll go away. It could be Malfoy poisoning you again."

Harry shrugged, ignoring the jab towards Draco. Ron didn't bother asking him what the dream was about, and Harry was almost glad. If the redhead didn't care, then he didn't need to know. With a sigh, Harry drew his knees up to his chest, as Ron gave him a pat on the shoulder, and returned to bed. Soon, the familiar snoring continued, and as it seemed Harry had not woken any of the other boys up, he was left alone in the darkness, surrounded by friends, yet terribly alone.

Harry stared into the darkness, not seeing anything, as he thought about the dream. It was the same one as usual. Well, it was the only one besides the other one...the other one about his uncle. He wasn't sure which one he preferred.

Harry hugged his knees tighter, searching for some small measure of comfort from himself. But the terror would not go away. And he could still hear the cruel laughter in his mind.

You aren't worth it...

They died because of you...

It's your fault.

Freak.

Pathetic wretch.

Harry let out a quiet sob. "Go away..." he whispered, trying not to lose himself in the horrors that threatened to envelop him. But they wouldn't. And there was only one way to make the pain and fear go away...

With silent footsteps, Harry slid out of bed, reaching under the side of the bed for something taped to the underside, before making his way to the bathroom. Once inside, he closed and locked the door, before turning to the sink.

He looked down at the shining object in his hand. The silver blade looked so beautiful in the light of the bathroom. So delicate, and so effective. Harry rolled back his sleeve, baring the numerous scars already marring his flesh. The scars hidden by day, with the help of the glamours that were necessary.

With a deep breath, he put the knife to his arm, and tugged slightly. It was a precise art, really. Cut too deep, and it's all over. Cut too shallow, and the pain isn't effective relief. It had to be just right. It was the small amount of control that Harry had in his life. Even with everything else spinning out of control - Ron and Hermione's judgment of him, the nightmares, the sleeplessness because of the nightmares, and the ever-present panic of the inevitable battle against Voldemort - he at least had a small ounce of control.

He watched with morbid fascination, as the blood welled from the cut. Red velvet on pale satin. A thing of beauty, really. As he watched, Harry felt the fear and doubt begin to fade, lost in this moment of comfort.

After a moment, he closed the wound with magic, and repeated the process.

Five strokes later, he sealed the last wound - adding yet another scar to his collection, for the scars never fully healed - and cleaned the blade. He cast a cleaning charm over the sink as well, erasing all the evidence. Finally calm, Harry checked the bathroom once last time, then returned to bed, hiding his precious blade in its usual niche.

After a few minutes, he was asleep. He would not be plagued by the nightmares again that night.

•••

Draco sat up in bed in a blind panic. His heart was in his throat, as he swiped at invisible attackers, unable to call out in alarm, his throat blocked by something. Suddenly, his eyes snapped open, and he panted, his eyes darting wildly around the darkened room.