aisling (n.) - a vision or dream; an Irish poetic genre where Ireland appears to the poet in the form of a beautiful woman.
TW!: self harm/ mentions of suicide
𖠋𖠋
People have this shitty saying that "time heals". Usually said after you lose someone meaningful and it's a lazy halfhearted attempt at comfort. But no one ever seems to talk about through that supposed "healing stage" how anger festers over time.
He was just so angry all the time. But he didn't want to feel better. He didn't want to sit around and pretend like everything was fine, like he was fine.
Like the events from last year didn't happen. Like he didn't watch Cedric Diggory fucking die in front of him less than two months ago.
Everyone convinced him that a two month long break back at Privet Drive was going to do Harry some good. A change of scenery from the yearlong time spent on the grounds of Hogwarts, but the only thing it's done for him was let his intrusive thoughts fester while he avoided the Dursleys like the plague.
The skin around his fingernails were picked raw and smudged with dry blood as the boy sat in the dim room.
His nightmares were getting worse and it didn't help that he had his lump of a cousin joshing him about it every chance he got.
Sick didn't even begin to describe how the fifteen year old felt. He'd stopped eating, not having an appetite for much except for a bag of stale sweets from months ago.
Anyone who even set eyes on the boy could tell he was near death, but Harry didn't seem to care.
Death seemed comforting compared to the trauma he endured a couple months ago.
Why should he even still be alive? It was him who told Cedric to grab the Triwizard Cup.
The hot August air was still and muggy as the boy laid on the hardwood floor of his cramped London bedroom for what felt like the fifth time in ten minutes. It was half past three and Harry's nails were bloody and bitten down to their beds.
Everything around him was annoying him, the heat, the rattles of Hedwig sleepily in her cage, even the settling of the house.
If anyone had a right to feel angry it was him. He was angry at the world and himself. Had he begun to go mad?
Why was it always him? He didn't want to be a hero. He never wanted to be.
Harry laid on the floor shirtless, as he stares at the blank white popcorn ceiling, pricking his fingertips with the tip of a quill.
The brunet haired boy just wanted to feel something. Anything to escape from this void of emptiness that was transforming itself into helplessness.
Harry sat up, the tip from the quill broken and lodged into his left hand index finger. "Fuck." he breathes.
The second one broken today.
The tips of his fingers stung, sending a buzzing feeling back up to the boy as he searches through his trunk for another quill, this time vowing not to break it.
YOU ARE READING
𝐀 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | h.j potter
Fanfiction{REWRITING/UPDATING} This was bigger. Bigger than our love. Bigger than the two of us. This was the end of our friendship. After all we've been through together. What ended it all was just a summer. One summer ended our entire friendship permanently...
