subject 13 // h.s. au

chapter seventeen.

After hours of laying on the cold concrete floor, anxiety coursing through me, I had willed myself up off the floor. I collapsed in my bed on top of my sheets, taking deep breaths. 

I couldn't understand why I felt like this, unable to process the fact that the parts of me that I had kept secret would now be laid bare. 

However, I did understand and agonize over the fact that Harry would now know that I was an experiment, a useless one at that. I was a human hybrid experiment, a freak, and I was furious at myself for caring about what he thought. He would probably never look at me again.

This is why I had left in the first place, the confusion, and I was beginning to realize that I couldn't run from it. It wasn't really Harry I was ever running from in the first place, it was myself. I  was the confusing aspect in my life.

I groaned into my pillow, I needed to stop thinking about Harry.

A soft knock echoed through my room, and I lifted my head, groaning again. It would be a sick, sick joke for Harry to be outside my room right now. I shoved my face into my pillow again, hoping that whoever it was would give up and leave.

But the knocking continued, louder this time.

"Go away," I yelled out, my voice muffled from my pillow.

"Open the fucking door," a voice rumbled, and of course, it was Harry's deep velvet voice on the other side of the door. I didn't feel like having to listen to his probable anger and disgust. I wasn't ready.

"No," I mumbled, turning my back to the door.

The knocking turned into pounding, and the sound reverberated harshly through my room.

I threw my pillow from my face and got up, striding towards the door. I cracked it open just enough that he could hear me clearly.

"Harry, go away," I commanded, but my voice was feeble and lacking any sort of confidence.

One of his boots shoved into the bottom corner of the door, and he swung it open. He stepped into my room, the outline of his frame intimidating in the dark. 

He pushed past me to flick on the lamp in the corner of the room, the weak light barely highlighting his demanding presence. He took two steps closer to me, and his face became visible, the light bouncing off him, sharpening his features.

I waited for the yelling, and I could feel his anger rolling off him in waves.

But, it never came and he stepped forward pulling me into his chest. I froze as his arms snaked around me, his breath against my neck as he leaned down slightly.

"I'm so sorry," he rasped, his voice heavy, and his arms gripped me tighter.

"What?" I stuttered, still rigid in his arms.

"I'm sorry about what happened to you," he mumbled, his lips pressing gently against the top of my head, and his hand pulled away from my back to stroke my hair.

 A warmth spread from my head down through my body, my fingers tingling.

I slowly began to process the fact that his anger wasn't directed at me, but at what I had been through. I relaxed into his arms, pressing my forehead to his chest. It felt good to be held, his fingers running through my hair sending a shiver through me.

"I thought you would be mad," I whimpered against the fabric of his sweatshirt, immediately frustrated at my vulnerability.

He pulled away slightly, brushing the hair from my cheek, and I could feel his eyes roaming over my face. I couldn't look at him, I didn't want to see his pity.