Painkiller - A Drarry Fanfiction

Part 003

Dark, again. Everything is dark, again.

And from the dark, an even darker dark emerges, again. Like smoke, perhaps shadow, or maybe even living, the darkest dark slithers towards me, again. Closer, and closer, dark approaches, again, never seeming to slow or stop.

Soon, it swallows me whole, again.

/////

There isn't a reason to get up on weekends as early as I do on weekdays. It isn't like Vernon wakes up with the bloody sun for work and demands breakfast at seven in the morning.

Then again, there isn't a reason to get up three hours after slamming the alarm clock off and slipping back to sleep for "just ten more minutes," or, at least I don't think so. Perhaps having rushed to finish all of my tasks for yesterday well into the late hours of the night—mostly due to delay of plans with cleaning Dudley's gaming den—could be an excuse, but I doubt the Dursleys would understand the concept of "fair reasoning for minor inconveniences."

So it's past ten when I fall out of bed at the sound of thunder, almost snapping my spine. Except, it isn't thunder at all. No, it's Vernon, stomping up to my room, his steps like those of elephants. From the number of thuds I managed to count as I hurry into consciousness, he is right about to—

"ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?" Vernon booms, throwing open the door and invading my room. "Didn't I make myself clear when I said today needs to be perfect? Are you ignoring me?"

His voice seems to stab my eardrums. I scramble to my feet and swiftly slide my glasses in front my eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't—" There isn't a chance to finish—of course there isn't—before Vernon snatches the back of my neck heavily. I barely notice myself being shoved out of my room, every moment like a dream through my half-awake brain.

Dragged out into the hallway, muscle memory turns me left to the stairs. But before I do, Vernon chucks me to the right, towards the bathroom.

"Wha—" I manage to blurt.

Once again, I don't get to finish. "Shower," Vernon says.

"Shower? Wha—"

Why do I even try? "Make yourself look presentable," Petunia says, coming up behind her husband. She throws me something, what appears to be a clump of fabric. "Wear those when you're done."

And just like that, within seconds, the bathroom door is slammed in my face. Bedhead, barely awake, and a pile of Dudley's clothes are in my arms, I blink.

/////

Water trickles from my hair, down my neck. Stepping out of the shower and standing at the sink, I rub the steam off the mirror. My back screams in agony.

I barely remember the last time I showered. I realize it's gross and probably the reason why I catch a cold every chance I get nowadays, but that isn't a good enough reason to waste twenty minutes on personal hygiene. The only people who have to suffer my greasy hair and body odor are the Dursleys anyway. And, I can sleep off a cold just fine.

I guess it does feel fresh. Something I might need once in a while.

Throwing a towel over my hair, I pick up the shirt and trousers Petunia apparently considers 'presentable.' All I see is a t-shirt—new enough to still have its creases from how the store folded them—and a stiff pair of jeans. Both Dudley-sized, of course. It feels odd to have such crisp clothes on my body after spending the past two weeks in an over-worn t-shirt.

With one hand, I not-so-thoroughly shake the water out of my hair. The other hand, I try my best to wipe my glasses clean. Neither task is performed particularly well, but it was performed nonetheless. Spitting the loose hair off my lip, I glance at the mirror.