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The Protector	By : muteandtremorless Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 3711 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Title: The Protector
Chapter 4: A Starry Grave
Rating (for chapter): PG-13
Note: This is a bridge chapter, it drags you into the next part of the story.
Disclaimer: I don't own the character.

Time passed. No, it didn't just pass. It ran, ran from Harry's death like people from a volcano; like the truth and futileness of the situation would burn it away. As if it were afraid, time ran for its life in fear.
Ahead of me I saw only decades of pain. Life spread before me as a sea of empty dreams, a sea of nothing but suffering. I ceased to believe in anything.
And there was nothing inside me. I was the dry ocean looking for Harry, a lone seagull crying out to the empty waves. The dismal gray sun beat down on me and nothing mattered, and I did not care. I couldn't drudge up enough pieces of myself to care about anything.
I spent two months in the hospital wing unconscious re-growing my hands. They seemed to tear themselves from my body, suck my own bone and flesh to create themselves. Creating a permanent searing sensation of pain in my arms whenever I tried to move them. It stung and left a bitterness inside me that resounded for the rest of my life. I grew to hate the hands.
I could tell you that some days I missed Harry so much that I felt my body would turn to ash and just crumble away. I could tell you too that I hated myself for hurting him. That I clawed at my skin for it, that I cut as deeply as I could just to run away from all the guilt.
Harry was dead. How could I find my life again? What the hell was I supposed to do? What was the point, if there even was one to begin with at all? I never really had anything but Harry. And I didn't ever really, because people, no matter how much you manipulate them into serving you, belong to themselves. They are one person, one single soul, that cannot belong to you. Because they tear themselves away from your side just like velcro, like you were never attached at all. Sometimes I wonder if he even loved me. If his love wasn't just a reaction to fear and paranoia.
In sleep I would see him. He'd stand in a mist of gray that would fall down the slopes of hillside valleys. I'd call out hame ame and he'd turn for an instant, his face saddened, and disappear.
I hated sleeping, yet I welcomed it, because I was not awake, not momentarily alive enough to participate in life. Life was horrible, is horrible, will always be horrible. There were whispers, terrible sneering, and leering in the halls of Hogwarts. People stared at me like I was scum, like it was my fault that Harry died.
And it was.
And I will never live it down.
I was so angry that I'd take it out on others. I shouted at my friends, at teachers. I was so angry that I could barely concentrate that I could never get my work done. I'd just sit there in class and stare at the floor. For the first week I was fine. I just swallowed the onslaught of verbal abuse. All for Harry, because he wouldn't want me to get revenge for stupid things. Because he was a good person. But he had died. He'd died and he wasn't coming back, ever. So I began to physically assault those who teased me, and that's why they began to just stare, and whisper where I couldn't hear; because they were too afraid to confront me physically.
I hated myself. I wanted to die. I tried to, a couple of times. Poison a few times, only the dosage I took was always too high and I'd just throw it right back up. Twice I tired to cut off my new hands, then when that didn't work I tried to slit my wrists. The second time was the closest, I bled for three hours before Snape finally found me.
Snape was the only person who was kind to me. He let me sit in his office when I couldn't take it anymore. He'd hold me sometimes when I cried, but he wouldn't fuck me. He wouldn't even kiss me, and I tried to get him to, just so that I could—just— just to— forget. But Snape refused to be a replacement for Harry. He wouldn't say it out loud, but it hung in his eyes, heavy and dark. He sensed what I wanted, but his entire being said no. He was the only thing that I could talk or interact with civilly, the only thing I had.
Eventually they sent me back to my parent's house. That turned out to be disastrous, because there, in that horrid place with all my emotions and pain, all the suffering and abuse, all the failure, I came to terms with Harry's death and what I'd done.
My father was ecstatic. So gaggingly ecstatic and my mother sneered with such a malicious intent. Oh, how I hated them. I wanted to just hit them both, but I couldn't, because they were my parents, and I'd have to suffer my father's wrath. I was all right the first day, still completely in shock. But sitting at the dinner table, watching my parents smile and beam and be generally happy, just forced me beyond my breaking point. What finally made me snap was the liver, it reminded of how Harry looked when he died. I saw his face once again, so still and distorted. His formless moans echoed inside of me and I just had to distract myself. All this anguish rose up inside of me, it was anger, and pain, and hatred. It burned inside of me forcing my chest to throb with the ache of my mind's realization. I grabbed the plate with it's taunting liver and stupid gold trim and hurled it onto the floor. My father shoved his chair back, it let out deafening scrape that silenced everything. His eyes burned into me, and his mouth opened to say something. "It looks like his lips!" I didn't even wait for the confusion and anger on his face to form into words. "Harry's lips! The bloody liver looks like Harry's lips!" Getting nothing more than a cold I'm-ready-to-smack-you twitch from my father I lifted up my glass and hurled it again the wall. "His lips— his lips—" My father moved towards me but I lifted up a shard of plate from the floor. I was crying hard by then, outright sobbing, right in front of my father, the man I was never supposed to cry in front of. Snot began to run down my face, I wiped it with my sleeve. I'd begun to breathe hard, the sobs were making it difficult for air to come to my lungs. The look on my father's face was so dumb and angry, he didn't get it, he didn't understand!
Despite all this, the words I need to say, to tell them, would not fall out of my mouth. I could not bring my vocal chords to stretch over the syllables. To even utter one word. I screamed again, a loud bestial scream and plunged the glass into my wrist. The shcok forced my tongue to loosen a little.
""You're not ever going to touch me again! You made me do it! You made me do it. I never wanted to hurt him." I shouted, that hot slicing heat of a cut rushing to my wound. "Don't get near me." He kept moving forward, I kept backing up, right into the kitchen. The house Elves scattered. I grabbed plates, and glasses, pots, pans, anything that I could get a hold of I hurdled at my father. He drew away from the door. Beatings, beatings, and the eyes of Voldemort rose in my mind. I started screaming again, screaming and crying, and probably blabbering. Just letting everything inside of me free, letting it go, because I could no longer force it to stay locked inside me. Every time anything even resembling a living creature edged towards one of the entrances I threw something at it. I didn't want them to go away, not truthfully. I wanted them to come and hold me, hug me, tell me everything was going to be okay. It hurt, I felt there was only a hole where my heart used to exist, a big hideous open void, that in all its sadness and pain was trying to suck me in. I backed up into the corner of the kitchen and lifted a piece of broken glass too my wrists. Frantically I jammed it against my hands. I was screaming so loud and so hard it was a wonder I had any breath left at all. Why weren't they comforting me? Why weren't they trying to stop me? Any loving parent would have rushed to my side even though I'd told them to. to. Any loving parent would have forced me to stop cutting, pulling away the skin. I just kept screaming and cutting, cutting at all pieces of my arms, trying to get my hands off, tare every piece of flesh. It was nothing though, nothing compared to what raged inside me. Nothing compared to large empty void that was threatening to suck me in.
"Somebody help me!" I even screamed that in desperation, that of all things, it was all I wanted though. My own parents stood just outside the door, out of view, listening to me scream, and they did nothing! Nothing!
"What am I supposed to do now? Oh g-d— oh g-d— oh g-d." My words faded into quiet whispers as I slid exhausted on to the floor. My blood dazzled on the tiny mirrors of crystal, I began to laugh, because it was funny. I was bleeding. I was bleeding and the blood sat there sparkling on shards of suicide machines. I was bleeding and I wouldn't die, and it hurt, so I laughed.
My laughter paused itself only to allow my ragged breathing to break through. A numbing pain seized my whole body as Harry flashed through my mind, his laughter, his sad face. I couldn't stand, so I sunk, sunk farther into the sea of thousands of tiny glass pieces. My father's figure loomed in the door way, I began to laugh again, to cackle with all the sick desperation of someone who has just been told they are going to be shot
"I didn't hate him," I giggled, rolling back and forth driving the already infused glass shard father into my skin as well as picking up new tiny painful barbs "I loved him." I hoisted myself up onto my elbows seeking out my father's dark eyes. "And I fucked him. And that's why—" My voice cracked too burdened with the numbing pain, too paralyzed to stay steady. "He's dead!"
My father rushed forward, perhaps seeing my defenseless position or acknowledging this ultimate taboo. His hand jerked my neck up while his other hand slapped me, and then began to punch me, and there were no words, there would never be any words, for what it felt like, that last time he beat me.
The next day I was on a train back to Hogwarts, not even a goodbye from my parents, just a servant taking me to the station, putting me back on to the train. No one was there to greet me. Empty doors again. Empty life. Fading life, Falling life. Falling into oblivion.
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The Protector