What if it makes you sad?
The raven haired teen was lying still on his back, staring straight up as he traced drawings on the ceiling immediately above him. It was immediately obvious, that they were drawn by a young child, -no older than five or six. Harry sighed he couldn't believe it that he was back in the cupboard under the stairs, that he had come full circle.
A series of thumps from overhead, told Harry that his uncle had finally dragged himself out his bed, and almost immediately a thin, whiny voice joined the racket and started moaning about her husband's lack of job. Harry immediately cursed his Aunt; she was putting his Uncle in a bad mood to soon. –And he, Harry would be left to bear the brunt of the rage. Unwilling to open his eyes, and succumb to the dull ache, -that appeared when his Godfather died, it hurt enough without having to carry around this empty hollow feeling inside of him.
Savouring his last moments of peace, he drew his legs up to his chest letting out a sharp hiss as the movement jolted his bruised ribs.
It seemed to Harry that in five years he had achieved nothing. Since his uncle had lost his job; he claimed to need Harry's room to convert into an office. Despite there being another spare room full of Dudley's old junk. To top it all off, Harry now faced his Uncle's explosive temper which had increased ten times over the summer and Harry went to bed every night covered in bruises. And he was still all alone, despite being surrounded by people.
A large rapping on the cupboard door made Harry sit up abruptly, banging his head on the ceiling as he did so. Cursing under his breath he started to change into an old sweatshirt, which really needed washing Harry noted, pulling it over his tender body.
"Get up now. Dudley wants his breakfast." Harry flinched as his Uncle's voice sounded, right outside the flimsy door.
Struggling into some jogging bottoms, wincing each time he jolted his tender ribs, Harry started panicking knowing full well the consequences of keeping his Uncle waiting. As he pushed open the door to his cupboard a large fist connected with Harry's nose.
"Ha-ha, learn to move faster!" Dudley sneered as he skidded into the kitchen. Harry gingerly felt his nose, wincing as her prodded the tender skin, he pulled his hand away to see dark red blood pooling there, and then dripping onto the floor. It was definitely broken.
"Great." Harry thought grimly, trying to stem the flow of blood, ignoring the shooting pains every time he presses a sleeve to his nose.
A sharp intake of breath made Harry glance up, to see his Uncle standing glaring furiously at him.
"How. Dare. You." He spat out, "How dare you taint our home with your blood." He advanced slowly, menacingly. Confident in the fact that his nephew would not, –could not, do anything.
Harry cringed as his Uncle's face began to go red; recognising it as an immediate danger sign.
'The best course of action is back away slowly,' he decided.
'It's too early in the morning for this.' He thought desperately looking for an escape route. His Uncle guessing what Harry was trying to do, -smiles nastily. "There's no escape boy, so don't even try."
He suddenly lunged forward his knee colliding with Harry's stomach, Harry feels the wind rush out of his system, and he raises his hand trying to protect his already tender face from the blows raining down. Suddenly hands close tight around his throat. Harry struggles, -flopping uselessly like a fish, his hand over his Uncle's trying to release some of the pressure. "Please!" He gasped, knowing it's no use, this is his Uncle's favourite form of torture, -seeing how long Harry will last. And as his vision begins to fade he mutters a quick prayer for help, and then he could no longer feel a thing.
Harry opens his eyes suddenly, blinking in the darkness; he struggles to remember what happened, unsure to why he wasn't up and performing his chores. A click glance at his watch told Harry that it was midday, he turned his head and immediately his memory returned as his head gave a sharp throb, he put one hand to the back of his head, -this immediately confirms his suspicions as his hand came away covered with dark blood. He recognised that his Uncle must have carried on hitting him after he had passed out, -his rage not spent. Harry groaned at this, perfectly aware that he would pay later for passing out. He lay back ignoring the pain in the back of his head perfectly content for now, to lie back and not disturb his most recent injuries. A regularly pondered questioned popped into Harry's head. Why didn't he just tell someone about the abuse, Dumbledore? Ron or Hermione? He would not allow himself to feel sorry about his situation, or anybody else. Because if Harry was truthful to himself, he knew in his mind that he deserved the beatings. It was his penance, the price he had to pay for allowing Sirius to die. He no longer felt pain at Sirius's death; he felt nothing, except the occasional twinge of guilt that accompanied all his thoughts of Sirius.
Feeling nothing didn't bother Harry. In fact he had his own secret way of feeling pain; he smiles in the darkness, as he pulls up the sleeve of his sweatshirt. His hand running over the old and new scars littered there.
'This is necessary.' He tells himself as his hand reaches out towards were he knew his prize is concealed. And his fingers close over the small blade, which allows him to feel. Pulling it out, he holds it to an unmarked piece of skin, and presses down. Feeling the sting he closes his eyes, focused now only on the pain, as it overwhelms him. –Allowing him to feel again.