Beautiful World by Lissadiane

part 24

That night, sitting on his bed and staring at the roof, unable to get the faded images from the book out of his mind, Harry felt that itch under his skin again. The one that led to a panic attack, the terror and need to prove to himself that he was real, to reassure himself that he was still here.

The knife was in between his mattresses and Harry slipped his hand under there and pulled it out. It was habit now; to keep from going mad, Harry would reach for the knife. It had evolved past proving that he was real and still bled. Now it was a way to pull the panic from his mind out and put it somewhere else, into his arm. It was a way of exorcising it, canceling it out. Proving that it was there and by facing it that way, destroying it.

He hadn't actually done it since before the night at the lake. Now, however, his hand was trembling as he ran the blade over his forearm in a curved line, splitting the skin. Blood welled out, more than ever; he'd never gone that deep before. He watched it run down his arm for a while before grabbing a cloth nearby and pressing it to the cut.

He fell asleep that way, cradling his bloody arm to his chest.

***

It was Saturday, and Draco, as a general rule, loved Saturdays. This one, however, he reminded himself as he gradually woke up, was supposed to be spent in detention. Which significantly lowered his enjoyment of the simple fact that it was Saturday. He moaned a little as he opened his eyes, wrinkling his nose.

He dressed in jeans and a t-shirt and left the Slytherin dungeons before anyone else was even awake. They were to spend the day serving detention with Hagrid and who knew what the giant oaf would have them doing. Attempting to rid the forest of werewolves or something, no doubt.

Harry was waiting in the Entrance Hall for him, looking wan and pale, weak, with dark circles under his eyes. Feeling a strange hint of sympathy, Draco smiled at him. It was an unprecedented move, really, that smile that held no hint of sarcasm or sneer.

"Hi," Harry mumbled sleepily. "We're supposed to go out to Hagrid's and meet him there."

"Right." Draco led the way out the door and Harry followed.

Hagrid was waiting for them, a dark shadow in the predawn light, and he shouted a cheerful hello before informing them that Professor Sprout required a garden dug and they were to dig it, out behind the green houses. They were to remove the dirt so she could fill the hole with her own blend of soil.

"Dig a garden?" Draco whispered, appalled. "You'd think I was a servant or something."

"Detentions are not supposed to be pleasant," Harry said tonelessly. Draco looked at him sharply. His eyes were dark again, almost black, and Draco hated it.

Hagrid led them to where the plot had been marked with stakes and handed them both shovels, promising that someone would bring them lunch, and then ambled off, leaving them alone.

It was going to be a sweltering hot day, Draco could tell already and the sun was just now rising. A sweltering day of digging. Lovely. He scowled and watched as Harry mechanically went about prying up strips of dirt with the grass still sprouting from the top. They were neat, nearly perfectly straight rows, and Draco smirked.

"An expert at digging gardens, are you?"

"Dug them for my aunt," he replied absently, wiping the sweat that had already begun gathering on his forehead with his arm. He winced a little. "Pull up the strips and roll them up, will you? I'll break them, this is the hardest part. The dirt will be softer underneath."

Draco snorted. "I don't think so. Honestly, this is servant's work. My father would roll over in his grave if he could see me now."

"You're father's not dead."