The Poet

:: narrated mostly by Harry Potter ::

:: Authored by just a bit potty ::

This summer, Harry has more to worry about than Voldemort...

Rated R, for mature themes, mild ABUSE and allusion to RAPE. Yes, I have a dark side. Feedback and reviews will make Harry suffer less... for at least a little while, anyway. HEED MY WARNINGS; I WILL NOT TOLERATE IMMATURE AUDIENCES COMPLAINING ABOUT CONTENT AFTER I HAVE LABELLED SUCH. Not that I've had any of that before, but I know other authors have, so I just want to clarify it, hehehe.

Another big warning: please bear in mind that this story will be SLASH, as pretty much all my stories are. If you don't know what that is, you'd do best to leave right now, I think. Unless you think you're up for a bit of boy-on-boy action? The pairing MIGHT be Draco&Harry, or Harry might end up with no one. I'll decide as I go along. It's also a lot darker than my other fic, 'A Wet Tale' (which, by the way I really should get around to completing, and I'm biting my nails here with worry. It's a far cry from anything I've ever done before, including the 'Evanescence' series. And this will only get worse before it gets better, follow me?

As a general disclaimer for the rest of this fan-fiction, I do not own Harry Potter or anything associated with Harry Potter. Sigh I also didn't write any of the poetry in this story, except for maybe one or two pieces. All those that aren't mine will be noted in footnotes at the bottom of each chapter.

Thanks!

Prologue - Anaesthetic, the summer.

Suddenly I saw the cold and rook-delighting Heaven
That seemed as though ice burned and was but the more ice,
And thereupon imagination and heart were driven
So wild that every casual thought of that and this
Vanished, and left but memories, that should be out of season
With the hot blood of youth, of love crossed long ago;
And I took all the blame out of all sense and reason,
Until I cried and trembled and rocked to and fro,
Riddled with light. Ah! when the ghost begins to quicken,
Confusion of the death-bed over, is it sent
Out naked on the roads, as the books say, and stricken
By the injustice of the skies for punishment? [1]

T he scratching of my quill over parchment late at night has become the only comfort to me. When I curl up in my Spartan bed and dream of soft blankets, it's my feathered pen that calls me. When my relatives are snoring down the hall, and Hedwig's bright, yellow eyes blink at me sadly from the darkness, I take pen to paper and pretend I'm not here. When I tremble uncontrollably, yet feel nothing but an empty anger inside... writing is my only release.

And when the sun peeks shyly over the horizon, every secret word I've written is stuffed haphazardly into the loose floorboard in my room, unread.

It began in the summer after my sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The drive home was in a deathly silence, the very air pregnant with foreboding. Yet I sat, squashed in the back of the Dursleys' newest earning from Grunnings, trying not to squirm against the hot leather seats as my uncle glared every few minutes at me from the rear-view mirror.

Feeling very much like an unworthy mouse, not even fit to be squashed under his fake leather shoes, I hadn't the heart to muster any sort of anger. I watched the trees whizzing by my window and tried to summon the energy to feel. Lately, it felt as if my chest had been sealed in a block of ice, locking away all sense of feeling... all sense of reacting. Ever since...Sirius... It made me want to throw myself into the fire, just to feel heat licking at my bones, just to feel...something. Even anger. After blowing up at the end of my fifth year, I hadn't felt much of anything.

Too much weighed on my mind, hurting almost as much as the scar that cursed my forehead. I wouldn't even let myself think over everything that had happened in my fifth and sixth years. It brought the only feeling I could seem to muster, and one I didn't want to endure—nausea. It made my sick to my stomach, thinking of the betrayal, the fear... the death. I knew Dumbledore was trying, but I could see the war dragging him down, especially when he moved. He walked as if shackles bound his hands and feet wherever he went, bent low with that warm twinkle in his eyes dying a little each passing day. Harsh wrinkles etched jagged lines over his tired face. I suppose I could be angry at him, for manipulating me, and everyone, this way—but I can't. I just can't, not when I see how much this hurts him, to be using people like this. All he wants is for this... suffering... to end. That's all anybody wants. Anybody fighting for good, that is. It's still so easy to look at things in black and white. I don't dare stray into fields of grey until I'm alone with my thoughts, and only then for brief moments. It's just easier to think of life that way. Less... complicated.

And the last thing I need is complication.

I was torn out of my meandering thoughts when the supposedly 'new' car shuddered to a halt at number four, Privet Drive. I glanced up the street, at the rows and rows of perfect, identical houses. That nauseous feeling welled up in my stomach again. I fought it down and crawled out of the car. I supposed Dudley and Aunt Petunia are inside, cursing their fate that they were stuck with me once again for the summer.

Vernon barked his purple-faced orders at me. "Hurry up, boy. Get inside and put your things in the cupboard," he hissed, and with the lumbering gait of a sick elephant, entered the house. I heard Petunia let out a warm welcoming screech, and quickly hefted my belongings from the trunk. Loaded like a pack mule with my heavy trunk and Hedwig's dinted cage, I ambled inside, struggling with my things. Obediently I stuffed them all in the cupboard under the stairs; once my home for an entire ten years of my life. It wouldn't surprise if I could still fit in there—I certainly haven't grown much...

"Well, boy? What are you waiting for? I took the time out of my busy schedule just to pick you up from that ruddy train station, and my Dudley has been waiting all day for his afternoon snack! Get to it!"

Why couldn't I fight back? I used to be brave; I used to stand up for myself. Only a faint bubbling of indignation welled within me, smothered quickly by the sense of hopelessness.

It hardly seems worth it. Better to let them string me up and be their marionette. I have no energy to protest. It's all bottled up inside me, stoppered by the sheath of unfeeling in my chest. And I have no will to change it.

So like the obedient servant, I trudged to the kitchen and roasted an afternoon feast for the beached whale I have for a cousin. And with something that might have been hunger, I watched him gobble the lot, the least of which was an entire chicken.

Hours later, I was finally given a respite. After Dudley had devoured his 'snack', he had plopped in front of the telly like he had nothing better to do and Petunia attacked me with chores she was glad she didn't have to do anymore.

The mop became my dancing partner for the next hour, as I whirled it around every floor that needed polishing. I drove the vacuum around the carpeted floors, ones the mop could not touch, casting my mind far away. The windows were sparkling clean when I finally set down my cleaning weapons.

It was a numbing torture, scuttling around the house like a beetle, ducking slaps from my uncle's meaty fist or cuffs to the head from my aunt's bony palm. I was glad for it, though, as it gave me a chance to sneak some of my things upstairs — there was no way I was going to risk my ticket out of here by not doing my homework. By the time Dudley was whining for dinner, a purple bruise had blossomed over my left cheek. And even though it stung and made my eyes water, it didn't move me. It was just another part of living in this household. I felt not a thing. Not even anger... Not even fear... Not yet.

And when I had dutifully done my chores, and finished a painstakingly scrumptious dinner that, of course, I wasn't allowed to eat, I was dismissed, with a warning not to make any noise whatsoever, as apparently Grunnings was going to be on the news that night and they wanted to watch without missing a thing. Easy enough. I didn't feel much like talking anyway. I suppose I should have felt elation, being released from duty for the night, but all I felt was a deep weariness in my bones. Far down inside, I felt as old as Dumbledore looked.

The lumpy mattress that barely passed as a bed beckoned, and like a child I curled up on its uncomfortable cushioning, pillowing my un-bruised cheek on my hands. Sheer fatigue scooped me up and cradled me into sleep.

I don't know how long I lay there, slumbering lightly, but by the time I woke the sun had finally sunk beyond the suburban hills. My eyes rolled about listlessly, pondering the time. I supposed it might be prudent to begin my studies — there was no way I wanted to get behind this year, not with the Newts looming ever closer.

So decided, I soon had parchments sprawled all over the rickety desk and a book nursed in my lap, drowsily skimming through the contents as time slipped away. Potions never was my favourite subject.

It was Hedwig that roused my from my ardent studying. I'd moved on from Potions after my mind kept wandering too far, and instead was flipping through a Transfiguration text, scribbling down various notes.

I slid my gaze to her cage, where she shifted her claws restlessly, craning her neck toward the shuttered window.

"What is it, girl? Hungry? I'm sorry; I don't have any food right now. Maybe later," I murmured, my voice thick with defeat.

I knew she understood me, but still she persisted with her quiet hooting, flapping her pristine wings at me from behind the bars of her cage. A mild frustration rippled under my skin — couldn't she understand? She was going to get me a right pummelling if she didn't quit it.

"What is it? You know I can't let you out. What do you want?" I flicked my eyes toward the door, cringing as I heard the distinct sound of a chair scraping over freshly polished tiles, chased shortly by heavy, thumping footsteps and an angry muttering. "Please be quiet, Hedwig."

If anything, her squawking escalated, her wide yellow eyes glaring at me in what looked like fear. What was wrong with her?! For the first time in months I felt something genuine pounding in my chest; fear. Leaden feet stomped up the stairs.

"Hedwig, why can't you just shut the hell up?!" I hissed, clutching the bars of her cage in my fists. Oh god... please she had to be quiet... "You're going to get me in—"

"Boy!" Uncle Vernon's throaty growl rumbled from beyond my door. Eyes wide with fright I whirled to face the entrance to my prison, knocking the parchments and books from the table in my haste. The doorknob twisted...

The last thing I remember from that night is scattered sheets of paper on the floor.

"Throughout the echoing chambers of my brain
I hear your words in mournful cadence toll
Like some slow passing-bell which warns the soul
Of sundering darkness. Unrelenting, fain
To batter down resistance, fall again
Stroke after stroke, insistent diastole,
The bitter blows of truth, until the whole
Is hammered into fact made strangely plain.
Where shall I look for comfort? Not to you.
Our worlds are drawn apart, our spirit's suns
Divided, and the light of mine burnt dim.
Now in the haunted twilight I must do
Your will. I grasp the cup which over-runs,
And with my trembling lips I touch the rim." [2]

I suppose that's where my... obsession began. I'm still not sure what happened, but... I...

When I next drifted from unconsciousness, I was sprawled in a gangly heap on the floor, pain pulsing through my veins, gunshots firing in my skull. The silvery blue light of the moon sprawled across my bedroom in bright stripes. With strangely trembling hands I plucked my clothes from the floor and pulled them back on my shivering body, wincing as they scraped over tender skin, yet the rest of me felt number than before. I didn't dare question why my flesh had been bare. Just shoved it to the back of my mind...

Hedwig was silent now, her bright, glaring eyes peering sorrowfully at me from her round face.

All my eyes could see were the pure white parchments blanketing the hardwood floors; pure in a way I couldn't be. Unmarked, unblemished, unspoiled. My hands twitched, and I wanted to sully those harmless sheets of paper. Despoil them with my words, with my thoughts. Maybe I should've cried. Maybe I should have been shocked, appalled, anything. But instead I found myself dragging those unsullied sheets toward me. I huddled on the floor and reached for my stained old quill and Never-Spill Impervious ink, coloured black, number thirty-four: obsidian; laying innocuously on the floor by the desk. And I wrote.

I wrote until my hand was cramped and twisted, and piled before me were pages and pages of script. I wrote until I forgot, forgot everything. I wanted to linger in my memory, nothing of what happened... nothing. A Muggle pensieve; a release of memory. Of emotions I'd thought I'd lost forever. And even though I'd written every word, I still had no idea of what my stenographic writing had produced.

It wasn't until much later, when the first stray lights of dawn were peeking into my barred window that I shuffled through the many sheets.

I can't describe what I felt when my eyes drank in words that couldn't be mine, but were.

My lips moved silently, as I read, "Music, when soft voices die, vibrates in the memory. Odours, when sweet violets sicken, live within the sense they quicken..." [3]

Through every page I rifled, pouring over every word I'd scrawled, until I realised: I was real. Emotions still lay within me and... and I could feel. And with that came the urge to hide it, to keep it all away, locked safe, so they couldn't steal it from me. Already, so much had been stolen. In that moment, I wanted so badly to cry. Just a tear. One, single tear. I knew I should... but still they would not come. No moisture to shine in my dull green eyes. No life behind the windows to myself. It was hidden deep inside me, my being, for no-one but blank paper to see.

I would keep it that way. It was mine.

When the shrill cry of a morning bird rustled me out of my thoughts, I hurriedly packed those precious pieces of myself back under the floorboard, and predicted it to be around six in the morning, well before the Dursleys even thought of hauling themselves from their warm, comfortable beds. The stairs didn't creek under my meagre weight as they did under Dudley's and for that I was grateful. I ignored the stabbing pain each step brought me, and meandered slowly into the kitchen. From the freshest loaf, a slice of bread was stolen, and a glass of water was quickly gulped down by my parched mouth. I hardly had a stomach for food, but I dutifully ate my stolen share, saving some for Hedwig, though a part of me thought she hardly deserved it. My body was grateful for it, rewarding me with enough energy to begin breakfast.

When my 'family' stomped down the stairs like a small herd of elephants, I had to hide a cringe. Dread filled my stomach, but I couldn't... remember... why? Why was I so scared...? I blinked my fear away and carefully laid out the table. Perfect. Nice and normal.

When Petunia entered the kitchen that morning, it was with a white face and a pinched expression. For some reason her eyes watered whenever she looked at me, which was never for very long. 'You must be too hideous for her to bear the sight of me this morning...' said a cold voice in my mind. I was disturbed to realise it was me. And then the strangest thing happened. I noticed Petunia slyly sneaking portions of her breakfast into the overly-large pockets of her nightgown. Later, as Dudley and V-Vernon (why does it hurt to say his name?) settled in front of the telly to watch the best morning shows, she ushered me into the kitchen, and with a stifled sob offered me the contents of her pockets. Just some bacon and toast, and it occurred to me how strange it was that she wasn't afraid of smearing her gown with grease. I tried to question her, find out her reasoning, but she just shoved the food into my hands and quickly moved upstairs. To change, I presumed.

Puzzled, I decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth and quickly nibbled on my given food. The bacon was gone within minutes, but I wisely stashed the toast for later the pockets of my pants. I wasn't about to think that one could deed would precede another. That was plain stupid.

From that moment on, my summer away from Hogwarts was both different and the same. Whenever Uncle Ver...Vern... (I still can't say his name... why? Why can't I say it?). Whenever ... he and Dudley weren't around, Aunt Petunia was almost... nice... to me. Her words were still terse, and her horse-like features as stony as ever... But always, if we were alone in the house, she would help me with my chores and give me some food. Tend my bruises... though... I... I can't quite remember anymore... where they came from... Randomly they'd appear; on my back, my arms, my thighs, my cheek... I just ignored them.

Then there were the nights, my nights, when I would fumble for paper and write. And write, and write, and write. Words poured from my quill like water, flowing onto the paper as if channelled by someone unseen... someone with something to say. I never halted the stream, never questioned where these words were coming from. After that first night, however, I've never had the urge to read them. They're simple my secret, my respite, to be kept safe away from conscious thought. I'm not sure if I'm even awake anymore, when I write...

And then came the day when my letter from Hogwarts finally flew through the bars of my window; the tawny owl had somehow pecked it off its leg and tossed it through, as if it knew just where I would be. Sure enough:

MR. H. Potter,

The Upstairs Bedroom to the Left,

4. Privet Drive,

Little Whinging,

Surry

...was scrawled in the same green ink across the front of the envelope, closed at the back with a Hogwarts seal. Calmly I unfolded the letter and skimmed through its contents. It was nothing really new to me; last year, since I had been denied the opportunity to spend the summer at my best friend, Ron's, I had asked the headmaster if he would ask Hagrid to get my school supplies. He knew enough about the Dursleys to agree.

However, it was the last few sentences that caught my attention, and I felt something that may have been surprise, had I the energy to feel it.

...pleased to inform you that you have been selected as Head Boy this year. Congratulations.

Sincerely,

Professor McGonagall,

Deputy Headmistress.

Head Boy? How could that have happened? I neither wanted, nor deserved that privilege.That was it. No explanation, no nothing. Yet I couldn't find the energy to be truly appalled. As the minutes passed, I did what I had been doing a lot lately; accepted it and moved on. Forgotten until it was necessary to remember.

And now, as I sit on my bed like I have done countless nights before, silently caressing a bruise on my forearm, I await the coming dawn. Today I will be on the train to Hogwarts, pasting on a happy mask while inside I feel dead. A walking corpse, I rise from my mattress and slither into the bathroom, gazing upon the stranger in the mirror. For a moment, I'm shocked at the ghastly face staring back at me, wondering who it could be. But... but this is no magicked surface; just a simple Muggle version, that reflects what I am. What I am...

When did I become so gaunt? Why are my cheeks so pale and sallow, sunken into my face? My eyes are large, round orbs of dull green, looking like they take up half my pastel face. My hair is a stringy mass of black capping my head. I look dead. I look sickly and weak and nothing like the hero I'm supposed to be. I skim a skeletal hand down my chest, feeling my ribs jut out grotesquely. I feel ugly, deathly. I stare at the skeleton in the mirror, and feel nauseous. It's sickening to see what I've become, but I can't force myself to care much.

It's painful, but I drag myself back to my room to collect Hedwig and... my writings. Hastily I shove them and the few school supplies I had with me into an old pillowcase Petunia had given me in one of her bouts of generosity that still vaguely puzzle me. With Hedwig's cage in one hand and my paper-stuffed pillowcase in the other, I scramble downstairs. The meagre mass of my belongings is enough to slow my frail body down. I already know what to do; load the car so that ... I don't have to be yelled at to do it later. That way we can just pile into the car and go. Go... away from here... away...

A noise from upstairs startles me, and I hurry out the front door to load Hedwig's cage into the back seat along with my paper-stuffs pillow case. I'd let Hedwig out earlier, so she wouldn't have to suffer the ride with me. Perhaps I still cared about some things.

When I step back through the front door, I'm greeted with an explosion of pain on the side of my face. Falling with the motion, all I can do was move with the blow and allow myself to be knocked aside as Vernon storms out of the house, muttering heatedly about 'stupid, good for nothing boys taking up more space than they have a right to do'. I raise a hand to my cheek.

Oh.

I order my feet to stand and move me to the cupboard under the stairs. Crouched by the small cupboard door, I struggle with my heavy trunk. My body feels... so weak... I hear a noise, a soft, pitiful noise. My eyes find Aunt Petunia, lingering on the stair case. Her eyes are shining...

Are those... tears?

Why is she crying...?

With a blank face and blank heart, I turn from her and walk out the door.

Once again I'm watching the houses zoom by in colourful blurs, smattered with streaks of green that I presume are trees. I'm lost in myself, in my mind. I'm sure my eyes are glazed and far-off, staring into a vacuum only I can see.

And something touches my leg. From far away I feel a heavy hand sliding up my thigh... higher. Touching me. Touching... me... no, don't... no, stop it, I don't like it. Don't touch me. Don't touch me... I scream at my body to move, but it's numb and won't react but I don't want anyone touching me like this. Why is he touching me like this? I don't like it, I want it to stop, but my chest is constricted and air won't pass through my lungs and my heart is rabbiting in its cage, demanding to jump out of my throat. I should scream. Scream goddamn you! Don't... NO! STOP IT! STOPITSTOPITSTOPITSTOPITSTOPITSTOP—I gasp, and my eyes roll back.

The hand slides away. We're at the station. Frozen inside, I step out of the car, remove my things and walk inside the Kings Cross.

To be continued...

[1] 'Cold Heaven', written by W. B. Yeats.

[2] 'The End', written by Amy Lowell.

[3] From 'Music, When Soft Voices Die', written by Percy Bysshe Shelly.