The Only Thing That's Real

By: Dreamfall

Summary: Harry has more on his mind than Voldemort and nobody has even noticed. But then, he's always been good at disguising his pain. When his schoolyard enemy is the one to find him out he's just relieved it's not somebody who actually cares about him. And Draco? Well, he figures he can have a bit of fun with a secret the Boy Who Lived doesn't want told.

Warnings: Child abuse (in the form of flashbacks, presently nothing graphic). Emotional, mental, physical, and sexual. Not nice. Don't read it if it's something you'd rather avoid.

Author's Notes: Chapters are in alternating first person perspective, Harry's in present tense because it seemed to fit his state of mind. Feedback is welcome, constructive criticism particularly so. If it's spelling/grammar/etc e-mail is better than actual comments, but whatever. Any feedback is good.

Review Response: I've started a livejournal to contain responses to reviews I receive on my stories, as well as update notices, and maybe other story stuff if I get around to it. The address is refusing to show up on here, but it is under homepage on my front page, or you can go to livejournal and it is username dreamfall(underscore)ff If I can figure out a way to make fanfiction just show the webpage I'll add it in later. And if I can figure out how to make an underscore character show up, I'll replace the (underscore) with it:p.

Chapter One
Hurting

I grin, pick Hermione up in a hug and twirl her around, to her delighted laughter.

"Hey, now," Ron teases, "didn't I just tell you that she's mine?"

"You did," I agree, setting Hermione down with one last squeeze and turning to clap Ron on the shoulder. "And congratulations to you both! It's about time!"

They thank me, blushing, then Hermione grins and says, "Now we just need to set you up with someone!"

I feel something in my eyes still, but I only laugh and reply, "No, Hermione, surely you know that after seeing you I could never look at another witch?"

Ron snorts and Hermione smacks her boyfriend lightly across the back of his head, though her fingers linger in a caress that make Ron's eyes drowse close. Leaning into her fingers, he smiles at me and says. "And you didn't look at her either. We weren't thinking witch, Harry."

"Muggle?" I raise my brows. "When would we get a chance to meet, then?"

Laughing, Hermione shakes her head. "Harry, there's no need to pretend with us. We're your friends. We meant- well, we meant a wizard."

The color drains from my face and I quickly force my expression to neutral. Ron doesn't notice, but Hermione's face stills and her eyebrows quirk together, worried, then confused. Thinking she's imagined it, probably, I think hopefully. "No. Thanks," I say shortly, controlling my emotions enough to say it lightly, an amused smile on my face. When Hermione starts to protest, I shake my head. "Listen, Hermione. I do not want to be set up with anyone. Witch or wizard. Or muggle. Or squib. Or anything else you can come up with. And I won't take any attempts to do so in good part."

"But-"

Ron lays a finger over her lips and grins. "The boy knows what he wants, love. Girls," he shakes his head. "Every one of 'em a match maker." When her eyes begin to blaze and she opens her mouth to snap a retort, he pouts. "What? Aren't I enough for you, Mine?"

I have to fight back a laugh, although admittedly a hysterical one, at her instant switch from furious to conciliatory. Who knew Ron would ever be so subtle? Could wrap Hermione around his fingers so easily? A wizard--a male... Again I fight down the panic that thought brings on, but it rages back over me in a wave of sensation. Harsh voice. Rough hands. Hot breath. Pain. Agony.

Abruptly, I rise to my feet. They hardly hear me excuse myself and head outside, so wrapped up in each other are they.

I go out to the stand of trees at the north end of the lake. Nobody much comes out here, and no-one will come in search of me--the trees hide me from view from the school. With practiced ease, I swing up into the tallest tree and climb until I reach my spot. High enough that it makes the tree tremble. The meeting of the last large branch and the trunk, where the tree has a bit of a hollow, just enough for me to curl up and sit for hours. I often do. It feels good to be back. The first time in months, since the Hogwarts Express only pulled in last night and I haven't previously had the chance to get away.

Slowly, in the safety and privacy of the tree, I let my masks slip. Lips gradually relax from their smile and eyes are permitted to lose their cheerful intensity as my face slowly folds into lines of anguish. I get the silencing charm up only instants before the first ragged sob bursts from me. To stop the sobs I began to scream, wordlessly, knowing my charm will hide the sound from anyone more than ten feet from me. Only I can hear my agony. Just as only I ever see it. Here, at least. I try to let all of my misery, all of my grief, all of my anguish out through the tortured shrieks and shouts, a technique I haven't been able to use since spring. No magic when not at school. No silencing charms. So no screaming except when I can't help it. And then, usually--

I pull a tiny but infinitely sharp knife from my pocket and slash at my arm to break the stream of thoughts. The red flow of blood soothes me and I catch my breath enough to banish the concealing charm on my arms. The crisscrossing of white scars and scabbed lines calms me, and I slowly manage to control my breathing, still staring at the wounds. I draw another cut parallel to, almost touching, the vein running from elbow to wrist. Knowing that if I did it a fraction of an inch over I would die in minutes. Before anyone even realized I was missing. Nobody could possibly reach me. The knowledge is soothing, and I am able to calm myself, watching the blood flow.

But I have to heal them. Even the scars. If something happens, a quidditch accident, a charm gone awry, anything, I'll be sent to the mediwitch and she would dispel them in an instant. They'd see and they'd all know... My breath catches again as I contemplate not being able to see the scars. They're so soothing... And I can't remove the--the other ones--

Steel flashes out again and a new red line forms across the back of my arm. No panicking, I tell myself sternly. I'm not going to think about what caused the marks. But I can't heal them. They resist me. So what can--I pause, considering, sawing lightly at the back of my arm to keep myself focused, barely drawing blood. Something magic wouldn't dispel. Make-up? But it would be too obvious, smear too easily. But it was on the right track...

Ah. I read something late last year, hadn't I...? A flesh-toned wash that didn't come off, with or without magic, unless it was specifically ordered that all things touching the skin be removed. Or unless washed with a counter. I'll have to find the book again. Quickly. It wouldn't do to get hurt first. To be discovered first. I can see the headlines now: The Boy Who Lived For Self-Mutilation.

Having a plan now, I cast a small healing charm on my arm, just enough to stop the bleeding and encourage it not to start again too easily, spit another charm at my robes to banish all sign of blood, and put my concealing charm back on. Half an hour later, I'm in the library, and, within another couple hours, I'm holding in chuckles while the librarian glares at me. I've found the recipe. Covrall, the wash is called, its counter imaginatively titled Uncovrall. And what I find so amusing is that the key ingredient to both mixtures is blood. The same blood has to go into both potions. Blood is something I don't mind gathering at all. And without being removed it will last almost a month. So I can do my whole body monthly and my arms--well--when necessary. It should blend with natural skin tones. Cuts made after it is applied show clearly, though bruises don't. It will, I think, suffice rather nicely.

Quickly, I copy both recipes into a notebook and put the book back on its shelf. None of the ingredients are even hard to get, I rejoice. And it is mostly water, so I can make a fair amount. I just have to find some time to cook it up without being disturbed. That shouldn't be too hard. Especially now that Ron and Hermione are distracting one another so nicely. I'll have plenty of time on my own. I couldn't have planned that any better even if I had planned it. They'll make each other happy and not be so much in my way. Sometimes I have to be alone.

I'm careful, for the next few days, not to do anything that could result in injury. But by the end of the weekend, I have a large tub of "broom polish" that is much too thin to be polish. Another, smaller, jar of dreamless sleep potion, which isn't quite the right color and smells completely different. A flask hidden in the bottom corner of my chest, chilled by magic, and containing blood, currently almost empty. And a small tube of lip balm, apparently empty, that had a number of command words. One each for each of those three containers to lock it on to them. And two more, one which would fill it with the contents of whichever container it was set to, and another that would empty anything within it into the container. It is rather a nice piece of work, I think. Were I able to show it to Hermione I rather think she'd be proud of me for it.

I use half my supply of Covrall, dousing down my whole body, checking in a mirror to be sure I don't miss anything, and then clean up what I've spilled, and dress. I walk out of the bathroom with only a minor glamour to hide the weight I've lost and the bags under my eyes. The least I've used in ages.

The next morning I wake, biting back a scream, perfectly still except that I'm shuddering, feeling huge arms around me, a leg cast over my thighs. I don't struggle, and slowly realize that there's nobody with me. Just my blankets tangled about me from a restless sleep. With that realization, the tears begin to flow silently down my face. Silently, I pick up my knife and the tube of 'lip balm', slip into the bathroom, and lock myself into a stall. With shaking hands I cast the charm that fills the tube with uncovrall, and quickly wash my arms with it. The reappearance of the cuts, bruises, and scars calms me slightly, and I stare at them for a long moment, admiring them. The bruises are fading. Mottled yellow and green rather than the earlier purple and black. I don't mind. They aren't mine, anyway. But the white scars and red lines of cuts not yet healed remain the same. Switching the spell on the tube to first send its contents back to the uncovrall jar and then lock onto the flask of blood, I transfigure a square of toilet paper into a funnel and set its narrow end into the tube which I balance carefully on my right thigh. I cut a line around my wrist, a red bracelet that slowly grows its own little rubies. The bracelet grows to a glove and then begins to drop slowly into the funnel.

Only when my vision begins to blur do I stop watching the beautiful dripping and, reluctantly, wrap my wrist in cloth. Still more reluctantly, I cast a minor healing spell on it when it continues to ooze blood. It stops. I clean the stall and my robe, turn the funnel back into toilet paper which I flush down the toilet, and sit still, staring at the wounds, new and old, refusing to remember the dream.

Refusing to remember the hands, the words, the pain, the smell, the--

With a strangled sob, I cut again, the back of the arm where I can get more pain with less blood. I can't afford to lose too much more blood right now. Not unless I call it the end. Game over. The idea is tempting and I trace the veins of both arms with the tip of the blade, so lightly it leaves only a white scratch behind, which then turns briefly pink before vanishing altogether. I turn resolutely back to the back of my arm. I can't kill myself. Who else is to save the world?

When the pain focuses and centers me again, I once again clean what needs cleaning, stop the slow ooze of blood from the new cut, douse the wounds in covrall, and return to the other room. I lay on the bed the rest of the night, blankets on the floor beside. I clench my teeth to stop their chattering and let myself shiver with cold. There are worse things to shiver from. And the cold is easier to accept than the reminder of behind held, tied, hurt--no. No more. Not tonight. I begin listing potion ingredients to myself, one potion after another, to keep my mind from other things. When it requires so little thought to list them that my mind begins to wander, I try History of Magic, scavenging my memory for names and dates, events and consequences.

When light begins to fill the hall I rise from my bed and go to shower. A glance in the mirror shows me a face pale and drawn, with black bags under empty eyes, the livid lightning-bolt scar standing out harshly on my forehead, and cheeks hollow. Quickly I don a concealing charm to hide the fatigue, the mirror murmuring approval at the change.

Ron is groaning when I step back into the dorm room, and I force a laugh. Did I ever laugh without forcing it? I can't remember... "Morning, Ron."

"You sure, mate?" he groans, an old joke.

"Pretty sure. You and Hermione out late last night?"

"Studying," he mutters.

This time my laugh is almost real. "Studying, Ron? Surely you can do better than that."

"No, seriously: studying," he replied, tone forlorn. "After all, we have a potions test in just five weeks," he added bitterly. "Five weeks, Harry. Don't you think studying could be put off a little more? Say four weeks and five or six days?"

I grin unsympathetically. "You chose to go out with her, Ron. You knew what she was."

"And I wouldn't trade her for the world! But--five weeks!"

"Well. I'm gonna head for breakfast."

"Sure, mate. Seeya when I get there."

Which wouldn't be for at least twenty minutes. I've been careful to stay ahead of everyone at breakfast, so nobody would notice just how little I've been eating. My appetite is all but nonexistent, and it's easiest if they don't worry. Lunch and dinner are harder, but I manage for the most part. I eat more than I want but less than they want me to and call it good. Enough that they leave me alone.

Twenty minutes later I stiffen for an instant as a hand claps my shoulder, but clear my expression and force my body to relax as Ron sits down beside me. Others are trickling in, to all the tables.

"Is everything okay, Harry?" Hermione asks for my other side.

I do a decent job at looking surprised. "Of course. Why?"

"You've just ... been really quiet. And a little jumpy."

I force a laugh. "You know how it is. I get out of the habit of being sociable on vacations."

"Those damned Dursleys--" Ron starts from my left.

I shrug. "We're back here now. Better things to talk about. So what did you guys do on vacation? Besides the obvious?" Which is enough to distract them quite nicely, I congratulate myself, as Hermione blushes a furious crimson at the insinuation.