Painkiller - A Drarry Fanfiction

Part 008

I may have been falling asleep involuntarily at eleven, but apparently myself three hours ago can't agree with myself three hours later. Even with the lights out, clothes comfortable, and fully tucked into bed, my eyes fail to drift closed.

I'm not magical.

I can hear every sound. The piled paper on my desk, the stray cat walking down the drive, my wand sitting perfectly still on the nightstand—unideal sleeping conditions indeed.

I'm not magical.

The way my hands are gathered together on my stomach becomes triggering. My feet feel poorly positioned under the sheets and there's an annoying tingle on my scalp. I squirm and itch, but it only results in different disturbing sensations in different parts of my body.

I'm not magical.

I'm not magical.

I'm not magical.

I sit up and rub my hands over my face, fingers through my hair. The wind slithering into my room is wet and chilly.

What does he mean? What does he and doesn't he believe? What did his family tell him? What did I do wrong?

Not magical—how could things be this twisted?

/////

The sun is up before six. I've barely had a blink of sleep until six. I decide to give up and get out of bed at six.

As I sit in bed, realizing I have, in fact, stayed up the whole night, I hear a surprisingly clear beeping from the otherside of the wall—Harry's room. I listen with every sleep deprived sense I have for any other movements following it. There's a few seconds of silence, creaks of wood, then an opening of a door. Does he always get up this early?

Harry's footsteps become louder as he nears my room and I hold my breath for some reason. I only breathe when the sound fades down the stairs into the living room. What is he doing at six in the morning?

The inpatient part of me begs to follow him downstairs, ask everything I've been questioning for the past five hours. But the rational part of me rolls its eyes. Calculate, what is the likelihood of getting answers compared to being yelled at?

And so I sigh and pull a book out of my bag. I packed a whole three books for this case, adding each thinking I couldn't possibly have the time to get to them all, but it turns out maybe I will have the time. I do feel a bit pathetic trying to read through my struggles, but what else am I going to do when the sun is barely up?

I won't sit still forever—in fact, I'm going to do something as soon as Harry's legal guardians sit in front of me for breakfast—but for now, this is what I'll do. That sounds g—

Clank! Crash!

That was glass shattering.

God damn my nosey ass.

/////

I jump down two stairs at a time, in my pajamas, wand in hand. Like that, I turn into the kitchen.

What I see: an upper cabinet half open, what seems to have been multiple plates now in pieces on the tiled floor, and Harry standing in front of it all. He has his back towards me, leaving his expression a mystery, but the back of his head tells me he's as exhausted mentally as he is physically.

It's starting to seem as though I can only say one thing when I walk in on Harry. "You okay?"

He doesn't face me, refusing to move his gaze from the disaster before him. "Go back to your room," he manages to blurt.

I don't look away, refusing to listen. "Are you hurt? What happened?"

"Go back to your—"

"What's going on?" I really need to stop jumping at voices coming up from behind me.

I take a step to the side as Mr. Dursley enters the room. He's in a robe, eyes still half closed. There's an unfortunately obvious tone of annoyance as he speaks.

"Nothing." Harry says, bending down to pick up the mess.

"Do you need help with that?" I say. And without thinking, I raise my wand. Trying cautiously to avoid Harry's fingers, I lift the broken plates from the floor and into the bin. Or, at least, those were my intentions.

Harry's intentions were different. "Hey!"

I flinch at the sudden yell, my wand quivers in my grip, and the ceramic pieces fall from the air. With more shattering, the couple bits of plates turn into a few dozen. Then, I see blood.

Not thinking again, I close the distance between Harry and I. A closer look: a rather worrisome size and depth of cut on Harry's hand, blood dripping from said cut, it landing in thick red dots on the kitchen floor.

"I'm so sorry, I—" I say, mind not working fast enough. All I manage is to reach out for the injured boy.

But Harry slaps my hand away. "Get away from me," he says, tone more pointed than it was at our first encounter. "Get that thing away from me."

I find myself stepping away. My mouth hangs open in hopes of getting something said, but no words form. The wood of my wand digs into my palm as I bring it behind my back. I breathe, watching Harry breathe.

Then Mr. Dursley cuts in. I don't notice him picking the dishcloth off the counter, but I see Harry taking it from him and pressing it against his wound. "It's alright, boy. Get yourself cleaned up," Mr. Dursley says.

As Harry walks out of the kitchen, my eyes see an odd look on him. My brain doesn't compute, convincing me that my eyes are just malfunctioning.

"He'll be okay," Mr. Dursley says, kicking away the sharding with his slippered foot. "Don't feel bad about it—it isn't your fault he's rude. Did you get hurt?"

I shake my head, my eyes fixed on the crimson drops growing thinner and larger on the tiles and into the grout.

/////

Dots. There are dots. Not many, but enough.

One, falling out of bed.

Two, denying being magical.

Three, dropping plates.

They connect, a trifecta which gives one solution.

Returning to the kitchen, it's as if Harry didn't see me sitting at the dining table, waiting for him. He simply goes back to the half opened cabinet and pulls out more plates, one at a time, giving me not a single glance.

Connecting the trifecta, I can see the careful concentration behind his eyes. Connecting the trifecta, I notice the slight tremble in his fingers—not just the one wrapped in gauze. Connecting the trifecta, I understand the dark bags around his eyes which show even through his thick fringe.

Connecting the trifecta, everything makes sense.

I clear my throat, attempting naturalness. "Do you ever—"

"I'm not gonna shove you out of here because I'd rather not touch you," Harry says, moving from the cabinets to the fridge, "so if you could at least stay shut up, that would be delightful."

"I think I can help you, Harry, if you would talk—"

He still doesn't look at me, but does snap. "You don't get to call me 'Harry.'"

I remember yesterday morning, in the entrance, him talking to his aunt and uncle. "You act like no one can."

"And that would be a great observation."

"You don't like people calling you by your name?"

"None of your business."

I roll my eyes, knowing he doesn't see me. "Of course."

He almost tosses a pan onto the stove. I swear he did it on purpose. "As is anything else in my life, hence why I ask you, once again, to leave this home."

"Fine," I say, getting up. "If you don't want to have a reasonable conversation right now, I won't force it. I need to talk to all of the family, anyway."