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Blister	By : Morosemordant Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 6368 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: HP is not my intellectual property and I ammaking no money from this

Chapter List
- 1-Blister
- 2-Two Birds
- 1
- 2
Blister
Jennifer
Warning: Child abuse, self injury, m/m pairing, graphic content, rape, etc.
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters nor the setting and some of the background. However I did write this, don't steal.
Prologue:
The air was hot, humid; the stench of overly sweet potpourri polluted the air as the Dursleys sat themselves down for afternoon tea. The hour is four as a young boy makes his way, albeit slowly, through an astonishingly long list of chores. This boy’s name, Harry Potter, and unlike his normal Muggle family Harry is anything but. Harry, or the boy-who-lived as many know him in the Wizarding World, is just that; Harry is a wizard, and he isn’t even an ordinary wizard. He, a knobby knee skinny teen with unruly hair and taped coke bottle glasses, is the only being, or creature, magical or not to have survived the killing curse, Avada Kedavra. This self same curse has marked him with a single lightning-bolt shaped scar on his forehead.
However Harry has many odd things about him, many things indeed. While Harry’s doting family sit in front of the telly in the kitchen (enjoying, no doubt, the same biscuits Harry had had to make that very morning, those self-same biscuits which his uncle Vernon found unsatisfactory, which is the reason for his slow pace that very day.) Harry was forced to slave away in the hot sun, nearly one hundred degrees that day, wearing one of his only long sleeved shirts, tattered and stained, and a pair of ratty ripped jeans close to ten sizes to large for the malnourished boy.
Harry had no choice save for to wear these bulky clothes, but as he could not explain this to his new neighbor (who was at that moment asking him about his state of dress as he weeded the front garden), the real reason behind this he was almost grateful when his uncle called him in for, ostensibly, a drink of tea. Harry knew though that he was in for it by the look in his uncle’s eyes. Harry knew he wasn’t allowed to talk to neighbors. Harry though was suddenly happy remembering that now he wouldn’t be allowed outside after this infraction. It wasn’t his fault the Dursleys lived in a neighborhood full of busybodies almost as bad as his dear aunt Petunia.
As Harry -the too-thin, too-short malnourished boy- was drug up the stairs, hair breaking off in his uncles hands, thrown into his room, his ankles bruising where his cousin grabbed them, and finally kicked and hit until he nearly lost consciousness, he was thinking how oddly ironic it was that he should be beaten by a couple of morbidly obese Muggles when he was supposed to defeat the dark lord.
Harry’s head was pounding. It had been only a few hours ago he had passed out and his head felt as though Neville were making potions inside it, not a pleasant feeling. Harry nursed his wounds quietly, moving cautiously towards the window where the pounding seemed to emanate. Had it been three days already?
Chapter One: Screaming on the Inside
Harry crawled to the window, draft leaking through the boards sending chills over his sweat soaked skin. Pulling loose boards back Harry took the letter proffered by the sparrow twittering away on the ledge. Another three days had passed, another meaningless letter received, another painstakingly written but similarly empty reply.
Odd thoughts kept flitting to the surface of his mind casting shadows on the sliver of sanity remaining. What would Snape think if he saw him now?
‘Probably laugh, if you could call what Snape does laughing more of a snort and scoff but all the same he would find it hilarious that a bunch of Muggles are succeeding where Voldemort failed.’ But Harry didn’t find it so funny, he knew he was dying, but when ones destiny is to kill or die trying what’s really the point in worrying.
He hurt so bad some days breathing was a chore, which took all his concentration, and he wondered if Crucio would not have been better. ‘It must be some cruel joke,’ he would think at times like this. Times like this when he lay flat on the cool rough wood, loose nails digging into his boney hips splinters biting his bloodied arms pain ripping through his body. Times like this when the chill seemed to rape his very being, Just another rape to add to the list, Occlumency, chill, his uncle, all invading him in deeply personal ways strangling both breath and thought.
As the scents lingering on the letter, written in Molly’s kitchen no doubt, wafted upward Harry’s stomach made several attempts at freedom, one final heave and bile rose and joined the blood caking on the splintered wood and Harry’s front. Sitting up sharply, with a near silent scream Harry clawed at the open wounds as acid leaked through. Crucio would definitely have been Harry’s preferred form of torture.
Sifting through the boards the first rays of morning hit the boy’s face, specks of dust glittering deceptively in the air as Harry struggled to open his eyes and obey his aunt.
Head throbbing, pounding to an impossibly loud beat only overpowered by the rasping watery breath of the dying, hacking gasping coughing unbearably loud in Harry’s own ears. For once Harry was honestly afraid of dying and yet he welcomed it with waiting arms, stretched as wide as they could for the fractures and bruising.
He could no longer tell what was broken or just bruised anymore he was unconscious so often anymore, the darkness sweeping in like a monster in a fairy tale, or perhaps a hero saving him from the pain but leaving him to a much worse creature’s violent whims.
Ripping, his wounds were reopening. A stretch, uncomfortable and a sting beneath the skin an odd peeling feel like a banana not yet ripe pulling free of its skin, and then the warmth, the sticky, wet source of heat quickly cooling and sluggishly cracking apart to start the process all over again as Harry finally stood.
His head spun, the monster fighting him again clawing the edge of his sight. Harry suddenly had the absurd image of a shadowy demon eating bleeding bananas. Harry was terrified, but more so of his Uncle than death. Maybe if he were a good boy he could shower. Harry hated baths; he had since childhood. Vernon loved when Harry took baths.
Harry shuddered as the draft hit him again, chill racing down his spine and he dressed in his loosest clothes. He had to get out of here if only for his sanity. Though Harry’s aunt didn’t like her nephew they were still family, and if he remembered correctly it was a week day, when Vernon left for work in an hour he would leave, he could always count on Aunt Petunia for the important things, and if this wasn’t important he didn’t know what was.
One thing was for sure though; he would not be going back to Dumbledore or the Burrow, the Weasley family practically idolized the old coot. No, Harry needed to go to someone he could trust but that no one would suspect. Harry needed someone who could actually help him and not simper over his scratch. Snape, Harry needed Severus Snape.
It was rather simple actually, and the more simplistic plans were usually the most effective. The only problem was how to get there.
“Harry, are you up yet? You need to start breakfast before your uncle wakes up.” His aunt called quietly through his door.
He would worry about transportation after Vernon left.
Walking softly careful of the second step from the top, having lived underneath the stairs for half of his life he knew just which steps to avoid, Harry made his way to the kitchen. He stared shocked at his aunt standing in front of the stove frying the eggs she really did care, in a detached sort of way.
As heavy steps were heard coming down the stairs, they switched places, a creak and more stomps followed and Harry placed the eggs on a plate next to the bacon and golden toast hurrying to place it at the head of the table. Harry backed away submissively, habits ingrained in infancy, head down, eyes lowered back away shoulders slumped silent unless spoken to, and when you speak you look them in the eye through your lashes in a sick parody of innocence.
It had been long since Harry had been innocent, and everyone present knew it was simply a ploy to lessen the inevitable beatings that always seemed to follow breakfast; no matter how good the eggs or bacon seemed to be. Harry did as he was taught admirably, perfecting his role not a quiver to his hands as he placed the napkin on his uncles lap while his aunt grimaced facing the other way putting away eggs in the ice box. She knew what her husband did behind closed doors; she also knew he had a good two hundred pounds on her at the least.
What was she supposed to do? She would help him, she had decided the moment she saw his face that morning, if you could call it that. His once handsome features mangled, swollen, so covered by blood and dirt the only thing visible were the bloodshot eyes the green brilliant but empty making every cruelty suffered seem even more heinous.
Harry wanted to run, to run and scream and cut his uncle’s fucking dick off. Harry wanted to cry and curl in a ball and scrub his hands raw as he adjusted the napkin on the walrus’ lap. Harry wanted to slice the nonexistent neck when after his aunt turned around Vernon pressed the bony hand down into the napkin.
Nevertheless, what Harry wanted had never mattered before and it certainly did not now, in fact, it had been the source of several beatings, and so he was quiet. He was good at keeping quiet, raised in a cupboard with only spiders and mice to comfort him. Harry was quiet, near dead silent as his aunt left the room and the morning routine began anew.
Harry was quiet when his head hit the counter, the wall, and finally face down on the floor, just another rape to add to the list.
It was getting tiring, he was tired not even of even one specific thing it was everything all together. Why couldn’t he just be normal? If it wasn’t one thing it was another, even before he knew of the Wizarding world he knew that he was a freak. One can only be told something a certain number of times before they truly believe it. It was his fault, but that did not mean he had to like it.
Harry hated it, he hated baths, he hated breakfast, he hated this hellhole, but even more so he hated Vernon Dursley. He had to out of the house. Upon hearing the door slam he slowly sat up, cursing Dumbledore and the ministry, he took one look at his aunt as he walked out of the kitchen. She was crying, but he could feel no pity for her, she wasn’t allowed to cry. She wasn’t the one who was just been violated among toast and eggs and blood.
Looking down at himself, he realized just how bad he looked, nearly unrecognizable. He would deal with that after getting to the potions master. Looking up again he found his belongings in front of him, even the articles from underneath the loose floorboard. Hedwig was nowhere in sight but she had been told to steer clear as soon as the order had threatened his uncle.
Grabbing the shirt and other garments from his aunt he walked into the bathroom to rinse a little of the filth from his body. The water was steaming near cracking the tile under its pressure, near scalding and the bar of soap, new from a box next to the sink, was stained red where it had once been white.
The water ran down the brunette’s shaking legs and swirled around the drain leaving stains of red on everything it touched. It stung to scrub his wounds and many he couldn’t reach but he supposed just being under the hot water would have to be enough until he could scour his body with magic. Harry missed the burn of magic in his fingertips, what Harry missed was the feeling of liquid fire coursing through his veins, it was nothing like the mild tingling he had heard others describe, maybe he was just more sensitive to the feeling.
Gingerly wrapping the light towel around his abused body Harry stepped in front of the mirror and stared at what that monster had done and for a second he understood Voldemort. It scared the hell out of him.
“Hey Harry! Mom says she’ll drive you as far as King’s… what the bloody hell happened to you?” Dudley had just looked at Harry after barging into the bathroom. He had not been home much all summer thanks to ‘tea parties’ and boxing practice.
“Your father.” Harry glared lightly covering his scalded bruised flesh. He found it almost comical when his cousin’s eyes widened and he had the grace to blush and back out of the room mumbling apologies. Harry dressed quickly, grabbing a familiar pair of black glasses that were taped along the bridge if his nose. Harry left the bathroom and was about to lift his trunk when thick hands pushed his out of the way.
“Let me you couldn’t possibly carry anything in your state, I’m surprised you’re standing.” For a moment, he had thought it was Vernon, but when he looked up, his cousin’s face greeted him sullenly.
Harry looked back down mumbling his thanks as they walked to the door to wait for Petunia. As she stood in the doorway from the kitchen, she looked sadly on her only nephew angry at what her husband had done to the poor boy. Frowning she handed the boy a small bag.
A small smile graced his face as he looked in to find a corned beef sandwich and a thermos that used to belong to Dudley when he was a kid. Fading bears in garish colors greeted him and reminded him of Mrs. Weasley. Crumpled bills lay next to the thermos and he wondered the exchange rate for Muggle currency.
The ride to the station was silent; Petunia was taking backstreets just in case her husband was coming home for lunch. She had left a note on the fridge declaring the ‘freaks; had picked up their nephew and her and Dudley were out shopping.
Once they had parked and carted Harry’s things to the barrier between the station and the invisible platform the younger boy said a quick goodbye. Harry turned to leave not expecting any response of fond farewells from his remaining family, and though he stiffened and flinched away at first, he quickly realized Vernon would never hug him.
“I do love you Harry, I wish I could have helped you more.” Harry’s aunt sniffled into his shoulder, and Dudley loosened his grip to hold onto his mother as she cried and Harry walked out of their lives forever disappearing behind the barrier.
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Blister