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Healing scars

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self-harm: [noun] Deliberate injury to oneself, typically as a manifestation of a psychological or psychiatric disorder. (Oxford dictionary)

Blood welled up from the stinging cuts. Harry could do nothing but watch as the blood dripped in the sink, where red islands were formed in a see of metal. He wouldn't try to stop the bleeding, he had caused it himself. Why, you ask? Because he deserved it, because he should hurt. It made him feel more in control, it made him feel like he actually was paying his debt. It was his fault Cedric was dead. It was his fault Sirius died. It was his fault Voldemort was killing everyone. Everything was his fault.

'Harry, are you done doing the dishes?'

Harry quickly covered his cuts with his sleeve and let the water run as his aunt walked into the kitchen. He started cleaning the knife.

'Almost, aunt Petunia, I just have to do this knife', he replied in the sweetest voice he could manage.

'Well, hurry up, and after that you can clean the stairs.'

'Yes aunt Petunia.'

After Harry put the clean knife in the drawer, he filled a bucket with water and soap and went of to clean the stairs. He scrubbed the stairs firmly. Afterwards, he watered the flowers, cleaned the living room, made dinner and did the dishes again.

He got a small piece of bread and some water and made his way to his bedroom. He sat down on his bed. He knew he should eat the bread, but he didn't feel hungry. Like everyday, this and breakfast were the only meals he had. He sighed. There had been no kicking today, no hitting, no black eyes or broken noses. He cursed. Harry missed the pain. He didn't like it, but he needed the pain so he was remembered of what filth he was. A piece of shit. No, less. He was less than nothing.

He was a cutter.

And no one cares about cutters.

He knew that.

—0—

Sadism: [noun]Psychology: the tendency to derive pleasure from inflicting pain, suffering, or humiliation on others.

Draco stared through the window as the grey world flew by. The raindrops made a faint ticking noice on the glass. He found he quite enjoyed rain, as long as he didn't have to go through it at least. He sincerely hoped the rain would stop before they reached Hogwards, or he had to go and find some spell to keep him dry.

A grunt from Goyle made him look up. He looked at the boy, but it seemed that he had fallen asleep on Crabbe's shoulder and Draco realised the grunt must have been a snore. Draco looked at his two sleeping bodyguards. He had wondered for a while now whether they were a couple or just friends.

Whatever, he thought, as long as they can beat the ones that oppose him to pulp. Except for Potter, he wanted to be the one to hurt Potter. He and he alone. His heart beat faster as he imagined Potter laying down on the ground, right before his feet. He was bleeding. Bleeding and crying and moaning his name as he begged him to stop. Draco smiled. That was what he wanted.

He knew he was a sadist, and Potter just brought this hate up in him… Draco just had to act on it. He didn't care whether he would be sent home from school. He didn't care what the papers would say. He wanted to be the one who brought the boy who lived to begging and crying on his worthless knees.

After all, let's be honest, no one cares about Potter. Everyone just cares about their perfect golden boy. Draco hated that. Potter wasn't perfect. And he for sure wasn't their golden boy. He clenched his fists. He would make everyone see that this year. That was his goal.