Harry potter fanfic-what more do you expect?

Chapter 1

Btw the picture is the picture of my OC (the main character) but you can imagine him what ever u want idc lol

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Blood bleeds from his neck.

        It isn't even a surprise, honestly. He had put a knife and cut the gleaming metal across his neck, of course he was bleeding. So that was why he was so annoyed at the letter hovering at his feet. It was sick, to think he was annoyed at the very thing that had saved him, but he didn't care about that either. But it was understandable, right? Because the letter had interrupted him cutting his vocal chords, just when he finally, finally, mustered enough courage to do it.

        Blood drips from his soft fingertips, cold to the touch. He'd be a scene out of a horror movie, blood smeared everywhere, a mildly annoyed look pointed at a floating letter.

But he had been feeling depressed again, and his hands itched to destroy something, anything. He knew he had to wait it out, he knew that self-hurt was bad. But he really didn't care about that either.

          Besides, he's horrible at patience, of waiting and waiting and waiting. Not even the small stuff like waiting for a ice cream-not that he'd had any chance to buy some-or waiting for his turn to drink water. It was impossible.  So he picked up a knife, and had cut his neck-or, at least, tried to until a stupid letter interrupted him.

          The sickest thing of all is that secretly, he's body felt relief. Relief cause his voice was all that he had, his pride and joy, his only worth.

          Alive Solution hated that he had such a weak hold on his emotions sometimes.

          He was supposed to be practicing for his stage next week. But he couldn't bring himself to, winter setting its bony fingers deep inside his bones, creeping under his thin sheets. It was both too early and cold for warming up his vocals.

         Surprisingly, he was still looking at the stiff letter.

         Alive sighs then walks away, choosing to wash off the blood instead. He wishes he could just melt into the water. How long had he stayed up practising last night? His neck stung, both from the makeup he caked on to hide the cut and the long hours that bled his vocal chords dry. Softly cursing so Father wouldn't hear, he ignores  the screaming of his joints, his entire body begging him to just stay in bed, you moron, you stayed up singing 'till midnight then got only two hours of sleep. His pounding head also added, how about we try to cut our neck off again? His body were traitors.

Forcing his numb feet to move toward the door, he ran toward the winding corridors, knowing, from long experience, that the quicker he burst into the icy cold silence, the better.

    He left his letter on the floor.

     'Heather?' The sound of his voice echoes around the mansion. Alive winces.  'Heather, my Hogwarts letter came today.' Well, he had tried. Guess he was going to Diagon Alley alone.

He walkes toward the door, his head a maze made up of music. He's known these corridors for so long he could map the whole mansion with his eyes closed. The excessively giant chandeliers, marble floor, sleek stone walls painted a lush black. But what stuck to his mind more was the utter silence that hung in between the walls. The silence that crawled along his arms, slithering around his neck, choking, reminding him to sing, sing, SING.

He quickened his pace. Or, he would have, if father hadn't materialised from thin air, beckoning for him to come. 

Why did he have to come out now? Why did they have to go through the inevitable course of a la' disappointment with a side dish of anger? Why didn't he just let him go, out of sight and out of mind?

But of course, Alive follows. He slinks back, shoulders creaking wider, chin tugging up, trying to be the perfect pureblood boy. His eyes looks forward, but never directly at his father. If you can't see the monster, it can't see you, right? Besides, what would be the point of rebelling when he would end up back at the front door, begging, penniless and heartbroken? He just had to wait 2 more weeks, then he'd be at Hogwarts, where he'd be free.

As soon as Alive closes the door he longs to leave. He stands painfully still, counting the seconds until this will be over. They loom above him, taunting, swatting at his face. The Father would not tolerate his flinches. He would not tolerate his tears, either. The air stifles his nose and blocks his mouth. He can't breathe. He needs to leave. His body doesn't move.

'I will not accept dishonourable behaviour in Hogwarts.' Father says. 'You will get sorted into Slytherin, and graduate with straight O's.'

'As you wish, father.' Fat chance he'll graduate with straight O's. He can't even read, the words hovering from the page, turning into sickeningly bright colours. The only thing he can read are notes.

He

needs

to

get

out.

Fathers voice softens.

'Why are you trembling, Cher fils? Do you not appreciate our conversation?' Alive ducks his head, then immediately looks up-The Father doesn't tolerate any sort of submission-but the damage has been done. Alive's words tumbles out, a weak shield against what will happen. 'I'm sorry-'

The Fathers hand flashes from nowhere, a sharp sting resounding from his left cheek. And yet Alive holds his pose, his pureblood grace. Its his way of rebelling against his father, showing him his echec, failure of a son still had his blood running through his veins.

'Do not show submission!' Father snarls. ' The only thing you are good at, the only worth you have is your voice. Does this all feel like a joke, Alive?' Poison practically drowns his words.

Something in Alive breaks, something that has been broken many times before. His eyes dart down. 'No, Père.'

'DO NOT SHOW SUBMISSION WHEN YOU SPEAK.'

Startled, his body flinches-and a vase flies toward his face.

For a numb second, Alive wonders whether he'll die from the glass shards, each carving out a delicate cut on his skin. The blood would mix with his hair, his eyelashes. A master piece. But the vase shattered on the wall right next to him.

Alive didn't even blink. Instead, blood draws wet lines on his hands, nails biting into soft skin.

'Get out.' Father sneers.

Alive doesn't  have to be told twice. He bolts.