Title: Famished
Rating: R, for violent content in later chapters, and some swearing.
Summary: Harry Potter is changing, and not for the better. Can he find salvation before he becomes a monster?
This story is inspired by M.T. Anderson's "Thirsty", and is written in a similar style.
---
"Who so sheddeth man's blood,
by man shall his blood be shed."
-Genesis 9:6
---
I don't know how it happened.
It is summer again, hellish summer, when the heat is bad and the company is worse. Even though they see me as a maggot, I'm the one who cooks. I'm the one who cleans, even though I'm seen as a virus, as dirty as the flies they crush with yesterday's newspaper. I almost wish for house-elves, no matter how much Hermione would be angry with me. Then I remind myself that not even house-elves deserve to call the Dursleys 'master'.
When I turned fifteen, I barely remembered it was my birthday. It had been a long day. No owls came. And the familiar, faint glow of my digital watch was much too dim to read.
It was the worst birthday of my life.
That summer, I felt so hungry. They weren't starving me, but they weren't feeding me enough. And even back in the second year, back when I had a bowl of soup a day, my stomach felt more peaceful. No matter how much I ate at the table, I was still hungry. No matter how much I drank, I was still thirsty. The emptiness was strange.
So, on my birthday, I sat in my room, unable to sleep, pangs of hunger shuddering through my stomach, without so much as an owl of recognition from my friends. 'It's late,' I reminded myself. 'Maybe they'll come tomorrow. Maybe the owls just stopped to eat. Maybe they're just as hungry as I am.'
I waited. Nothing came. I worried.
I had always been hopeful. Even in the times of trial, I was always hopeful. Even after ten years of Dursley-world, I was still hopeful. Now I had no room for hope. Just worry. And hunger.
The darkness was rising, both in the wizarding world and in the corners of my eyes. Two days after my birthday, and I still hadn't slept. My skin vibrated. My teeth itched. And every nerve in my body screamed for a newspaper, screamed for a letter, screamed for some sort of token from the world I called my own. I wanted to know how the fight was going. I wanted to know how my friends were.
I wanted to know that they hadn't abandoned me.
That assurance never came.
And so I was left alone. With only my incessant thoughts. My sleepless nights.
And my hunger.
Rating: R, for violent content in later chapters, and some swearing.
Summary: Harry Potter is changing, and not for the better. Can he find salvation before he becomes a monster?
This story is inspired by M.T. Anderson's "Thirsty", and is written in a similar style.
---
"Who so sheddeth man's blood,
by man shall his blood be shed."
-Genesis 9:6
---
I don't know how it happened.
It is summer again, hellish summer, when the heat is bad and the company is worse. Even though they see me as a maggot, I'm the one who cooks. I'm the one who cleans, even though I'm seen as a virus, as dirty as the flies they crush with yesterday's newspaper. I almost wish for house-elves, no matter how much Hermione would be angry with me. Then I remind myself that not even house-elves deserve to call the Dursleys 'master'.
When I turned fifteen, I barely remembered it was my birthday. It had been a long day. No owls came. And the familiar, faint glow of my digital watch was much too dim to read.
It was the worst birthday of my life.
That summer, I felt so hungry. They weren't starving me, but they weren't feeding me enough. And even back in the second year, back when I had a bowl of soup a day, my stomach felt more peaceful. No matter how much I ate at the table, I was still hungry. No matter how much I drank, I was still thirsty. The emptiness was strange.
So, on my birthday, I sat in my room, unable to sleep, pangs of hunger shuddering through my stomach, without so much as an owl of recognition from my friends. 'It's late,' I reminded myself. 'Maybe they'll come tomorrow. Maybe the owls just stopped to eat. Maybe they're just as hungry as I am.'
I waited. Nothing came. I worried.
I had always been hopeful. Even in the times of trial, I was always hopeful. Even after ten years of Dursley-world, I was still hopeful. Now I had no room for hope. Just worry. And hunger.
The darkness was rising, both in the wizarding world and in the corners of my eyes. Two days after my birthday, and I still hadn't slept. My skin vibrated. My teeth itched. And every nerve in my body screamed for a newspaper, screamed for a letter, screamed for some sort of token from the world I called my own. I wanted to know how the fight was going. I wanted to know how my friends were.
I wanted to know that they hadn't abandoned me.
That assurance never came.
And so I was left alone. With only my incessant thoughts. My sleepless nights.
And my hunger.