Cicatrices- Marks That Remain

Burn

Happy Sunday, this the SECOND of two chapters being published today. The schedule will now go back to its usual of every other Sunday.

Warnings for gore and severe declines in mental health.

Please, let me know what y'all think, and as always...Enjoy!

Even though Harry had received Dudley's letter on Christmas Eve, he could not bring himself to open it until New Year's Eve, and it wasn't even because he was feeling particularly ready. Really, ever since Hannah, Harry hasn't felt ready or fit for anything. But, not knowing the contents of the letter had been nagging incessantly at the back of his brain. So, despite being tired, scared, and trapped by the skipping record in his brain that showed him all of the worst bits of his life, he opened it and read it.

The contents of the letter baffled him. He wasn't sure what to make of it or how to go about it at all. So, without letting himself give it too much thought, he simply... put it away again, wishing that he could throw it away instead and forget it happened. (But of course, he couldn't even bring himself to walk it over to the trash bin.) Putting it away again didn't stop the words from repeating incessantly in his brain alongside everything else.

He tried to sleep, though it never went well. One time, he could be watching people die. Another time, he could be Little Harry trapped in a small, eerily cupboard-like space and unable to escape as the dusty air suffocated him and the world ended all around him. On his worst nights, it was a bit of everything. All the people who had died and could have died, and Harry, completely helpless to stop it no matter how much he thrashed and no matter how much he yelled as his lungs constricted... couldn't do a damned thing about any of it. He knew that the worst was playing out just on the other side of the door that he could never break through.

Harry got messier again. He watched Draco cleaning up after him, but he couldn't bring himself to do much more than just float through it all.

He also noticed that Draco is cleaning more in general, aside from the crap Harry leaves around. He knows that Draco is unravelling, just like Harry is. But he can't bring himself to ask or do anything about it, because he had the sinking feeling that doing so would just be an added burden for Draco. But, even moreso than that, if he admitted it aloud, it would become real, and he can't carry one more real thing while he's too tired to even exist.

When Harry realised fully that Draco's OCD wasn't miraculously cured by Hannah's death, it cracked something in him. He held his head in his hands and cried over how much it hurt to see Draco, restless and exhausted, panicking at the door over a divine punishment that was never going to come for him.

When Harry was woken by an owl from Dr. Sereno the next day, asking if he'd forgotten their appointment, Harry cursed, stomping about the flat angrily, wondering if she thought him a disappointment who doesn't truly want to get better. He couldn't bring himself to respond to her letter. Absently, he considered never responding and never turning up again, but that prospect made his throat close up with guilt. He brushed it away.

That makes two letters without a response now.

That evening, Draco and Harry had a row because Harry had left his third mug of tea, half drank, in the bathroom, where it had gone cold.

"Harry, I know things are terrible right now. I feel like shite, too. But for the love of Christ, stop leaving all of your crap everywhere!" Draco was practically vibrating out of his skin. "First, it was the takeout on the sofa, where I accidentally sat on it, then it was clothing... on the floors, on the tables- there was even a sock draped over a lampshade! And then these cups of tea that you keep drinking because you're too exhausted to eat, also everywhere...! And you aren't even drinking the whole mug most of the time! Just..." Draco began to pace, glancing this way and that, clearly on edge.