Not Quite There Yet.
For all of you brave enough to come into this fic even though the summary was stupid make sure you aren't in here for humor. This is angst my friends.
I do not own HP:
"Boy, stop fooling around and finish putting the dishes away," Uncle Vernon shouted from the living room where he and Aunt Petunia were watching the evening news snapping Harry out of his thoughts. Harry himself no longer bothered to watch the news; there were more unexplained deaths occurring all over the country. It looked as if Voldemort had finally decided to start murdering again. The ministry could no longer deny his comeback when he dueled Dumbledore in front of the fountain in the Ministry main entrance.
"Yes Uncle Vernon," Harry said dully reluctantly putting the silver release safely into the drawer. He quickly dried the rest of the dishes and put them away. He went upstairs without telling his Uncle he was finished. It was pointless; he was expected to finish with his chores as soon as he started them.
He pulled out a piece of parchment from his trunk and went to his desk where a quill and an inkbottle were waiting to be used. He wrote the order a letter about being fine. He was fine. His relatives ignored him except to give him chores, he was being fed an adequate amount for once, and he wasn't having any nightmares. Truly he wasn't. He didn't sleep at night any more. He took naps during the day while his Uncle was at work. Any dreams he might have could not qualify as nightmares as they were in the day. He couldn't be accused of waking 'The Family' in the middle of the night by screaming when he relived one of his 'adventures'. He did his homework at night so he wouldn't accidentally fall victim to the sandman and risk any nightmares. Dudley's snores drowned out any sounds of a Quill scratching parchment.
Harry looked mournfully at his trunk; he had already finished all of his homework the night before, and he had twelve hours to kill before he would have to make breakfast for the Dursleys. He did not want to stew in his own thoughts for that long. It just would not be a good thing at all. He would end up thinking about that blasted room in the ministry again. The one that contained the goddamned one-way portal to the world of the dead. And that of course, would lead him to think about that knife in the kitchen drawer.
He longed to feel the blade cutting through his skin leaving fresh blood in its wake. He longed to go downstairs and sneak that knife into his room so that he would not be afraid of being caught, either by the Dursleys or the Order. He kept his blinds down at all times so he would have some semblance of privacy. And he knew that Moody would not be guarding him with his magical eye, he would as soon curse one of Mrs. Figg's cats as he would a Death Eater. It would be so easy just to hide in his room with that tempting knife and do as he pleased.
Harry sighed. No… he was not quite there yet…. He would not give into that… not yet. Maybe later, maybe when another person dies because of him. Maybe after a member of the Order is captured and tortured. But not now.
He rolled back his sleeves to reveal unblemished skin and decided to rewrite his essays after scrounging up a bit more information on the topics.
He was not quite there yet…