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Beautiful Hurts	By : Morosemordant Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 16197 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 3
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.

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Beautiful Hurts
Morosemordant
It hurts to be thin, it hurts to pretend, and it hurts to smile with loose teeth. Triggering. Eventually HP/SS
“Harry I really wish you would eat something.” It was the same story every day, the same argument, and the only answer ever received was always something like the following.
“I told you Hermione I am not hungry. Here does this make you happy?” Harry would usually say shoving a piece of meat angrily onto the end of his fork and consequently into his mouth. He would chew rudely for a second, swallow, and wash it down with pumpkin juice. This was usually followed with a hasty retreat from the Great Hall disguised as storming off.
Harry’s feet would click hard and uneven on the stone floors as he stumbled in his usual path to the second floor and the toilet in Myrtle’s bathroom. Sometimes however he just didn’t make it. Either way the acid would rise in his abused throat and push past lips and teethe. Harry just couldn’t keep it down.
Oh, he had tried. But over the years it got harder and harder to eat in the first few months of school. He used to try a lot harder, but what is the point when you finally get back to eating small meals and then have to starve again. It hurt less to just not eat at all. It hurt least of all when he was thin. No one wants to touch a skeleton, and Harry was going to keep it that way.
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When Harry had been five he had asked what his cousin meant when he said girls and boys were different. His aunt had shown him. Harry hadn’t asked a question at Privet Drive since. When Harry had turned ten his uncle decided to teach him a lesson about respect, starting with the belt and ending in pain. Fortunately for Harry his uncle was incurably straight, the same couldn’t be said for his gym teacher.
Through all of this Harry had remained a virgin, scarred and molested, terrified of men and woman but his only hope was that the Wizarding World was different. His wish seemed to come true, Harry lived a year as a wizard and was untouched, safe and happy. He knew the illusion would eventually end.
The Wizarding World was a wondrous place, and most of the people Harry had met had been like characters from the books he had read. The one character Harry did not like upon meeting was Gilderoy Lockhart. Harry knew immediately this was not the wonderful man displayed in Witch Weekly. Something lurked beneath the surface and Harry was sure it was meant for him.
His first meeting with the man ended in bruises on his shoulders and chills down his spine. When he had found the man would be his teacher he was reminded once again of Mr. Browning the gym teacher. Except this time there would be no escape, living in the school with a man who could give detentions at will until all times of night. Harry was scared when the voices started; he was terrified for his first detention with the pompous windbag.
The man had liked Harry’s soft girlish frame and often told him that his round ass was his to do with as he wanted. Harry was helpless, terrified, and hoped he would die when the man had raped him over his desk; photos of his rapist pressed into his face and ink smudging under his nose. The pain of his glasses between cheek and desk, as well as the table splintering into his boney hips were nothing in comparison to the feel of his virginity being ripped away from him in an act of violence.
Gilderoy was all about control, he liked having the Boy-Who-Lived beneath him, his age didn’t matter. He was crueler than Snape ever considered being during his detentions and sweeter than Dumbledore in public. Gilderoy Lockhart was a dangerous and terrifying man. Harry hated him.
Severus Snape became a hero in Harry’s eyes that year, he seemed the only other person who new what a fraud the defense teacher was. When he knocked Lockhart on his arse, Harry crowed with joy and cheered his champion on silently.
The rapes continued however, and Harry was so ashamed that he had let it happen he kept it to himself. He thought that after Lockhart obliviated himself that he could keep the secret until his death. But Harry knew it was getting too hard to think or breath without remembering. His eating habits in the last three years had changed drastically, as had his sleep and study habits. Harry had Hermione to worry about now though, she was catching on and though he knew she wouldn’t get the theory right it still put a lot of stress on him.
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Retching could be heard through the room, echoing off of dingy tile and back into Harry’s ears. Heat and acid flowed up the brunette through and into the once white toilet.
“You know what Harry?” A pale figure giggled from above.
“What do you want Myrtle?” Harry pulled away from his vomiting long enough to growl over the rim of the toilet.
“You can share my toilet soon!” She squealed excitedly spinning around above the stalls.
“Fuck you” was eloquently upchucked into the water with a splash. Myrtle scowled and went back to her U-bend to sulk. Harry stood on unsteady legs leaning over and clinging to the walls of the small stall for support as he flushed the commode and wiped his mouth.
As Harry stumbled to the sink to wash his face he caught sight of his reflection in the old mirrors. Before him was a gaunt figure, pale as marble. Red streaks clung to his chin, dark gray smudges decorated the tops of his cheek bones. His skin was tight, sweaty, and cold. His hair was dull and clung to his forehead. Harry looked roughly like the living dead right down to the boney body and ripped clothing.
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“Pop Corn…” The mumble was just loud enough for the portrait to hear him as he stumbled through into the common room, lit by only a few torches this late at night. Harry took off his shoes before climbing the stairs. He opened the door slowly and closed it softly before shuffling over to his bed. Harry changed behind his curtains and set his alarm to six in the morning before chugging half of his dreamless sleep and casting silencing charms.
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The next morning Harry woke before dawn with a whimper coming through his sore throat. He shuffled quietly into the bathroom and flicked his wand at the torches. Bright light flooded the room and Harry was met once again by the ghost in the mirror. The boy turned away, disgusted, and walked to the last shower closing the curtain.
Pale calloused hands ghosted over bruises and sore muscles as Harry scrubbed himself red relishing in the harsh tingle of magical soap falling into reopened wounds.
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Beautiful Hurts