A/N: I've had an urge to write something like this for awhile.
Harry hasn't slept in days.
Nights of horror, screams, inhuman smiles, and crimson delight flood his dreams, leaving him shaking and alone in the vast bed he hides in.
Waking hours stretch like sunlight in its dying throes across land, and he can't think, can't see beyond his own mind. His presence is always there. His whispers are quiet, muffled breaths across his thoughts, but they're far more effective than the Cruciatus ever was.
No one has noticed. His friends are preoccupied with each other, his classmates brooding on the terrifying war ahead. He knows he's slipping.
His thin frame is pale, and his hair a mess. He can solve it all; keep it at bay for a week or two. He hasn't indulged, and he refuses to. He can't, doesn't want to. It disgusts him in the most primal of ways, but he knows he needs it. He can't go on much longer.
The whispers are louder than ever today, and his heart is pumping viciously. The hours are long, and he can barely hear McGonagall's voice over the pounding blood in his ear as she drones on about Transfiguration. Hermione nudges him in the side, and he has to grip his desk tightly to avoid letting loose, giving in…hurting.
She's disapproving of his inattention and he couldn't care less. Anger, his own, blossoms like a twisted flower and his hands are trembling now.
McGonagall is staring at him and in a flash of painful dread he fears she knows, knows what he is, that she thinks it's him that needs. He raises his hand and asks in a firm voice if he can go to the bathroom. Her nose twitches annoyed and he has to fight something welling inside, has to bottle it up. Inky hate collects around his vision, and he feels his wand, pretty wand call to him, entice him with its power, his power…power as black as his heart must be.
He's just going to bathroom, nowhere else. Not again…he wouldn't. He tells himself it's just to wash his face, to scrub the evil behind the scar away. He tries his best to believe, to ignore the shadowy voices underneath the surface.
The NEWT level Transfiguration room is on the highest floor of Hogwarts Castle, and is virtually abandoned. Harry feels at home, but the whispers are so loud. They're anxious, he's anxious.
He finds a door and enters the dark, dilapidated bathroom. It is tinged blue, dimly lit without any visible source of light. He places his hands on the only good porcelain sink, the grimy, icy cold surface making his palms numb.
He stares into the small mirror in front of him. It's shattered and filthy, but he tries anyway. He sees himself then, the crack distorting his image grotesquely. His breathing is coming in quick shallow breaths, and he shuts his eyes and clamps his hands tightly. His head is dizzy and it seems like they are shouting in his ear.
He hates Hermione, hates Ron. He hates Dumbledore and McGonagall, Flitwick, Snape oh yes Snape Hagrid Dudley Vernon Petunia His Mother Father Voldemort and Pettigrew. They've all done this to him. Bubbled laughter comes unbidden as his treacherous arms and chest become tremulous as well.
He can see the stall behind him open somewhat, the dark shadow there promising him an escape, oh yes his murderous hate those voices long to release. They're deafening now and he can't help but smile a betrayed smile despite his agonized face.
He enters the stall and is lost in the pool of shadow.
He returns to the classroom, his mind intoxicated, eager and ready. The whispers are mysteriously quiet, but he doesn't need them, not now. Not anymore.
He sits back into his desk, an insolent drop that makes Hermione scowl at him, hurtful, oh so caring brown eyes stare in piercing anger that he's ready to reciprocate. Pink, bared lips give him motive to tear, to hurt, and he's on her in a flash.
She's barely started screaming before he's torn out those soft lips, he knows know. It's what Ron knew, but he didn't. Delicious crimson is on his hands and he takes in the scent. His arms are shaking out of anticipation now, and eyes are next, and he revels in the gooey substance that flows down his already wet hands.
He wants her last, so finds an annoying Ravenclaw next. He rips his nose in a manner that would make his house mascot proud, a shard of glass causing a fine spray of that delightfully red liquid. He makes proper mince meat of his face, and he wonders if Petunia would be proud of him. The thought makes him release an odd sound from his throat, but of course, poor Boot is dead.
He enjoys using his own boot, making red footprints on Nott next. He conjures a glass goblet over the broken boy and fractures the edges in the Slytherin's mouth. He feels more alive than he's ever felt before as he plunges the broken glass into the screaming boy's heart, filling it with more of the thick, encompassing unit of life.
He brings the blood back to Nott's ripped mouth, stabbing his tongue down and forcing him to drink the pure blood. He asks him over and over if can actually notice the difference. Harry's giggles fall on dead ears. Nott's far more than deaf. He has choked on his own blood and suffocated. Harry shoves some of the broken shards into Nott's ear to make the scene complete.
It's a small class, but Harry's more than content with all he has. The whispers have told Harry that Susan Bones has a wonderful scream, one Harry knows she has unleashed at the murder of her parents at the hands of Voldemort. He makes her perform an breathtaking encore, several of them. He smiles at her apt surname, and finishes ripping her sternum out and pinning her jaw open with them. Red liquid dribbles down the holes in her cheek, coloring flawless white skin. He peels it off and suffocates McGonagall with it.
She's in shock, far too gone and Harry is disappointed. He makes sure to take her accusing eyes out as well, keeping him safe. He feels safer. That's what's important. The old skin is ugly, and he makes sure to add some cream he's got from her eye to it. And his wand, his poor, neglected wand.
He makes a hole in her abdomen and slips the wood through, polishing the scratched, black wood to a cherry sheen. A thought causes his magic to surge, his wand glowing for a moment before her upper body is cut in half. It slides to the floor with an enchanting slowness, the wet thud captivating.
Magic is so uncreative, and he wants to give her his all. He returns to the still breathing, bushy haired girl and rips her open with his bear hands. The agonizing cry is mesmerizing, and he's never opened one alive. He begins touching, cutting, tearing apart, all while staring at her contorted face. He empties her out, and drains her of everything as he watches her die.
He knows she has died a horrible death, and he feels a bubbling pride, encouragement from the whispers. They're intoxicating, it's all intoxicating and he closes his eyes in the moment. He sits on the wet floor and folds his feet, the pooling liquid everywhere. He's covered in crimson, warmth and life on his skin, no cold, no darkness anywhere. He's a true Gryffindor, to the very word. He breaths in the death. He's alive.
And suddenly, Harry opens his eyes. He's faintly revolted, he knows, but he can feel the pride, the triumph and satisfaction quelling his thirst. He can't bear to look.
Leaving the room, he crouches behind the door, falling to his haunches. The door opens slightly and he closes it once more. It's no use.
"Mr. Potter? Where have you been?"
McGonagall is strolling down the corridor, looking exasperated. Harry looks back at the door, feeling desperate relief and a tortuous longing that it has disappeared.
"I just needed a short break," Harry says with a dim smile.
Her face becomes slightly softer. She knows he hasn't been sleeping well and Harry knows he's gotten by.
Looking back at the space where the door should have been, he wonders how long he can keep the heavy door closed, locked away from the rest of his world. It's his secret, and he won't let anyone know.
The voices laugh.