Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Endurance	By : WinterRaven Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 29170 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to any of Harry Potter universe. I make no profit from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-One
- 2-Two
- 3-Three
- 4-Four
- 5-Five
- 6-Six
- 7-Seven
- 8-Eight
- 9-Nine
- 10-Ten
- 11-Eleven
- 12-Twelve
- 13-Thirteen
- 14-Fourteen
- 15-Fifteen
- 16-Sixteen
- 17-Seventeen
- 18-Eighteen
- 19-Nineteen
- 20-Twenty
- 21-Twenty-One
- 22-Twenty-Two
- 23-Twenty-Three
- 24-Twenty-Four
- 25-Twenty-Five
- 26-Twenty-Six
- 27-Twenty-Seven
- 28-Twenty-Eight
- 29-Twenty-Nine
- 30-Thirty
- 31-Thirty-One
- 32-Thirty-Two
- 33-Thirty-Three
- 34-Thirty-Four
- 35-Thirty-Five
- 36-Thirty-Six
- 37-Thirty-Seven
- 38-Thirty-Eight
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Author's Note: A few years ago, I wrote the first drafts of this story on adult-fanfiction.org. I've decided to edit quite a bit, rearranging things here and there. As this is a work in progress, reviews and/or critiques are always helpful and appreciated.

Warnings: This story disregards HBP and DH; it takes place immediately after OoTP; there is a new character, plenty of angst, abuse, violence, self-harm, sexual identity issues, and (with much patience) Harry/Draco slash.

One

Two weeks had passed since Sirius died. Harry Potter slumped in the back of his uncle’s car on the way back from Kings’ Cross Station. His godfather’s death replayed, cruel and sharp in his mind – Sirius’ wide eyes, his look of surprise, his last exhale before his bony body tumbled behind the veil … Harry, consumed with repeating images of his godfather dying did not register his uncle addressing him. The boy stared down at his clasped, trembling hands, trying to wipe the images away…

Vernon’s voice suddenly blared into focus.

“Boy!”

Harry’s head shot up. He willed away tears pooling in his eyes and did not blink. Vernon Dursley was turned around, glaring at Harry from the steering wheel, his small eyes scanning the boy up and down, cheeks purple with aggravation.

“Did you hear me?” Vernon snarled.

Harry nodded, expressionless. He did not notice his aunt and cousin eyeing him curiously.

“Well then,” his uncle said, “what are you waiting for? We’re here. Get your things out and bring it upstairs.”

As though his limbs were on autopilot, Harry exited the car, his feet clamoring against the pavement. He fumbled closing the door and with a blank look, opened the trunk of the car and unloaded his possessions. He was barely aware of his movements as he heaved Hedwig’s cage, his trunk, his wand, his Firebolt outside. His uncle, aunt and cousin had emerged and with a quick glance, Petunia observed the boy before stepping into her foyer.

That night, none of the Dursleys spoke to Harry. He lay alone, curled on his bed, his possessions thrown about his room, Hedwig’s cage wide open, his bird out hunting. Harry willed himself to cry, hoping that the anguish would bring release or ease the tension he felt pummeling his spine, his neck, his skull, but he couldn’t. Until the wee hours of the morning, until dawn broke through the inky sky, Harry did not sleep.

*

The next afternoon, Harry snuck out of the house to sit on the empty driveway, quietly observing the vacant street. Treetops ruffled in a warm breeze, tickling Harry’s skin. The boy pulled his knees up to his chest and snuck his arms around his legs. Even outside of the house, Harry heard traces of Dudley’s television show or his aunt’s occasional simper.

Harry’s insomnia ravaged him. He did not want to be cooped up in the house but had no strength to walk far. The boy sighed; out of the corner of his eye, he saw his uncle’s car zooming down the street. Standing up before his uncle could bowl him over, Harry made to turn back inside the house, but Vernon’s shout stopped him.

“What are you doing outside?”

The boy didn’t answer. Vernon glared at Harry in suspicion.

“Answer me boy,” his uncle said, as he removed himself from the car.

“I – I just wanted some air,” Harry replied, monotone.

Vernon huffed, his briefcase knocking into his large side.

“What’s wrong with you?” Vernon asked. There was no note of concern in his voice.

“Tired,” Harry said.

He made to turn into the house again but Vernon whispered, “It’s that godfather of yours, isn’t it?”

Harry stood frozen, his back to his uncle.

“I read about it in the paper a few weeks ago,” Vernon continued coldly. “Murdered, was it?”

Harry felt as though he had been plunged into a tub of ice water. His scar prickled uncomfortably and his lungs seemed to have ceased working. Don’t cry, Harry thought quickly, Don’t cry. Not here.

“Seems to me a lot of people die around you,” Vernon continued, now hissing as he moved directly in front of Harry so malicious brown eyes met watering green ones. “Interesting, isn’t it? All your family dead?”

Harry sputtered as his uncle dropped his briefcase and advanced on him, the flab underneath his neck wobbling.

“Now, why is it everyone keeps dying around you?” his uncle snarled, jabbing a porky finger into Harry’s surprised chest. “Why is it that you seem to carry this curse wherever you go?”

Harry surveyed his uncle, at a loss for words. Vernon suddenly grabbed the boy’s shirt and threw him into the front of his car. Harry gasped as he felt his back collide into the windshield. The man didn’t care if neighbors saw or heard what he was doing. He itched to destroy his cursed nephew right there and then, this boy who seemingly smothered death on all people around him. Vernon was frightened he and his family would be next.

“You listen to me, and you listen to me good,” Vernon spat, spraying Harry’s horrified face, “There will be no funny business in my house this summer. Step one toe out of line and I promise you boy, I promise, I will make your life a living hell.”

The boy trembled underneath his uncle’s vice-like grip. Adrenaline pulsed through Harry’s veins, slowly ebbing away at his fear and filling him with rage. Sirius’ face flashed before him, defiant eyes shining.

“Get off me,” Harry snarled.

Snapping his head out of the way just in time, Harry missed the fist that came pummeling toward him. Vernon’s hand punched the front of the car instead, denting the polished hood. Harry took the chance to swing his own fist forward. His knuckles hammered into his uncle’s cheek and Vernon yelped as he fell backward.

The front door of the house bolted open and Harry’s aunt stood framed in the archway, shocked and frightened.

“Vernon!” she yelled, rushing forward and ripping her pink apron off at the same time. “Vernon, what’s happening?”

But the man ignored his wife, pushing her thin body to the ground.

Taking advantage of Harry’s brief distraction he pounced on the boy and gripped his neck with both hands. Harry struggled against his uncle as the bigger man dragged him with absurd ease up the driveway. Petunia was screaming things at her husband that Harry did not register. Harry was yelling too, unaware of the words that fell from his lips. The boy flung and kicked and even tried to bite every part of his uncle that he could, but the grip on his neck became tighter. After a few seconds, he couldn’t breathe and couldn’t see. Harry, helpless, could only feel the sting of being dragged up the stairs, his knees striking every step.

And before he was launched into his room, he had fainted.

*

He was alone, finally, with nothing to bother him. He was in his study in the castle, his own private quarters cut off from the main passageways and corridors. The lamps in the study emitted a soft glow, throwing shadows over the seemingly endless bookcases and shelves, his desk and papers strewn about. But Severus Snape was not seated as his desk as he usually would have been. Instead, he stood, perched by the open window, looking down on to the deserted, dark Hogwarts grounds.

It was the start of a new summer, but this one was different. In the back of his mind, Snape knew he wasn’t fully alone. He wasn’t the only one left in the castle and he was not the sole occupant in his living quarters. Of course, the Headmaster remained in his section of the castle, never quite leaving. Madame Promfrey also stayed, tending to the empty beds in the hospital wing. The rest of the professors were gone, perhaps with their families …

Yes, he had a family too — the girl. As if beckoned by his thoughts, he saw her walk by on the grounds, hunched over and sullen. She glanced up in his direction, as if sensing eyes on her. He thought she would be happy here, finally out of the house, away from the manor where she was locked up most of her life, but she seemed repelled by every place Snape was in. If he was in his study, she was outside, if he was outside, she locked herself in …

The dark haired man suppressed a pang of guilt. He walked over to his desk and sat down on his chair. He put his head in his hands, sighing deeply.

Snape never showed this side of himself to anyone; the frustrated, confused, concerned side. He was well adept at showing the world his worst – cold, cuttingly sarcastic and detached – especially to the students here. He thought immediately of Potter, possibly his least favorite student in all of his years of teaching. That obnoxious boy, just like his attention-seeking father, riled Snape to the core. However, the man admitted to himself, it was Potter that inspired him to bring the girl to the castle for the summer. Because Potter accidentally invaded Snape’s mind during Occlumency lessons not so long ago, forced forward the troubled memories of his youth, the loneliness and the isolation.

Snape hoped that Albus accepting her this year, despite her age, would have made the girl happy. He hoped that bringing her here to experience something new, something different, to perhaps build a relationship with her, would have begun to heal their severed bond. But she never did smile. Not once.

*

Harry awoke to a sudden rapping on his door. He sat up quickly, having been sprawled carelessly on the floor of his bedroom. Though dazed, he immediately winced at the sharp pain in his neck and spine, stinging so much that he could not move. How long had he been unconscious? Where was his uncle now?

He was overwhelmed with anger and confusion, the only thoughts passing through his mind of him torturing his uncle in a variety of ways -- Another knock forced Harry to snap back to the present moment.

“What?” he croaked weakly.

The door was pushed ajar and his aunt’s thin face stuck through.

“Come down to the kitchen,” was all she said. Harry, with a skip of his heartbeat, noticed her voice was soft.

He didn’t move. Petunia seemed to have expected this because she stuck her head back into his room and said, “Vernon isn’t here, so come down and eat something before he returns.”

The two looked at each other for a minute before she vanished again. Harry heard the distant thud of her footsteps marching down to the first floor. With much hesitation, he forced himself up, leaning against his bed when he became dizzy. He gingerly felt his neck, noting the soreness underneath his fingertips. A quick look in the mirror revealed dark bruises. Cursing his uncle, Harry shuffled downstairs, shielding his eyes from the sun seeping through the windows.

His aunt was alone in the kitchen, sitting at the table with her arms folded. There was a plate piled with a few pieces of toast and cheese.

“Eat,” she said, pointing to the food. “Eat before he comes back.”

Harry ignored a sharp pain that shot up into the back of his neck.

“Where is he?” he whispered.

His aunt closed her eyes, as though calming herself.

“He went … out.”

“Out?”

Her eyes flickered open, and Harry saw a quick flash of fear.

“He went to buy rope.”

“Fuck,” Harry said. Before he could muster a coherent sentence, his aunt told him to eat again.

Harry sat down at the table to placate her and mindlessly shoved the bread and tasteless cheese in his mouth. His mind was zooming. His uncle was now on a violent tirade against him, and while it was true that Vernon Dursley had been violent with Harry before, the boy knew this time was different. He knew he was in more danger than he had ever been while living with his relatives, from the way Vernon had attacked him outside, in plain daylight, to the way his aunt shifted nervously in her seat now, her eyes darting toward the foyer and back to Harry every second.

“Why is he doing this to me?” Harry asked.

She didn’t answer him, but opened and closed her lips as though she were gulping for air. Harry pushed the unfinished food aside. If his aunt couldn’t answer him, Harry would have to take things into his own hands. He thought quickly of how to defend himself and immediately, a clear image of his wand emerged before his eyes. Harry frowned, frustrated that he had not thought of this before.

His aunt, however, seemed to have read his mind. She gave Harry a look of true pity.

“What?” he said.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she whispered, leaning over the table as though worried someone would overhear her. “It’s gone.”

“G-gone?”

Petunia closed her eyes again.

“Vernon took your wand while you were unconscious.”

Harry felt his mouth go dry, as though he had swallowed a cupful of sand.

“Where is it?” he asked, his voice hollow, but he knew what her answer would bring.

“He broke it,” was all she said.

Harry jumped up from the table as though he had been burned. As he stood, he felt a sharp prick on his fingertip. He looked down; a gleaming knife lay against his hand, the top flecked with red droplets of Harry’s blood. The boy examined his hand, inspected the cut, relished the brief distraction of the physical pain. He almost forgot where he was.

“Where are you going?” Petunia asked, bringing his attention back to her.

“Where do you think?” Harry said, his voice shaking. “Back upstairs. I need to think.”

He left his aunt alone, resenting himself for not acknowledging her kindness. Harry closed and locked the door to his bedroom, shaking so viciously he knocked over his lamp.

His wand, gone. Destroyed. His only mode of protection, lost.

He glanced over at Hedwig’s empty cage, praying she would return soon. The moment she came back, Harry would write three urgent letters for help – one to Ron, one to Hermione and one to Dumbledore – because without his wand, without magic, he was quite useless.

Harry threw himself on his bed and pulled his hand in front of him. The cut on his finger, though small, still bled. He felt a thump in his chest as his heart beat faster. Without thinking, he pushed himself on his feet and dug through his room, upending his trunk, ripping forward the drawers of his dresser, tearing apart his closet, searching, searching, until he found what he was looking for.

The pair of scissors shook in his grip, the razored edge enticing him, beckoning him to produce another cut on his hand, maybe his wrist. Not fully aware of what he was doing, Harry opened the scissors and pressed the exposed blade to his forearm; his body craved the rush of adrenaline from the first prick, the flood of feeling detached from the emotional. This feeling, this was purely physical and blissfully distracting.

Thoughts of Sirius briefly plagued Harry, an image of his aunt’s frightened eyes, of a rope, of Vernon’s snarling mouth so near, so threatening … But the images ceased to be when Harry dug the blade into his skin, dragging it across, gasping as a rush of red fulfilled his need.

TBC
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Endurance