Low Man Is Due

Hiya guys. Another chapter. And this one nearly made me cry.



Not physical nastiness so much now, but a lot of emotional nastiness. The characters\' minds are not nice places to be at the moment.



Chapter Five: Break the spell or become the doll



Harry was finally released from the hospital two days later.



The trial was continuing and Hermione was reluctant for him to go, but the atmosphere in the ward had become intolerable. All of Ron’s old insecurities and self-doubts had come back, and seemed to have festered and become infected with poison. The ward had been filled with the venom of Ron’s hatred, all directed at his supposed best friend. And now new charges were levelled at Harry – that he had got off easy, that Ron had never once given up on Harry, and for what? The evil spewing from Ron’s mouth went on and on. Harry hadn’t defended himself, hadn’t tried to. Ron’s problems were more than he could even attempt to deal with.



Harry couldn’t believe that Ron truly thought Harry wanted the attention, or that it was all some plot to make Ron the forgotten victim. He, Harry, wanted nothing so much as to be forgotten, to be allowed to forget, but every day The Daily Prophet screamed headlines at him about the Death Eaters and what had happened to those who had been caught. Of course, every day they dragged up what had happened to him, which fuelled Ron’s anger.



Some Death Eaters had been cleared of raping and torturing the boys, but had been condemned for other actions. The paper didn’t focus on those people, only on the ones who were accused of torturing the boys. They were waiting for Snape’s trial with great glee.



Harry had already worked out, without being told, that Snape would be the last to stand trial. Harry would have to wait, stomach churning, sleep impossible, to find out what was to become of his captor.



So, released from the hospital wing, knowing Snape was yet to stand trial, he had gone to live at Grimmauld Place. He wasn’t keen to do so; it held too many memories, both of Sirius and of Snape, but it was his, and it was somewhere where he could be safe. And, more importantly, away from Ron.



That first night, dressed only in black cotton trousers, he paced the house, treading softly up and down the stairs, quietly passing the portrait of Mrs Black, running his fingers along the expensively papered walls. All of it gone to ruin. Wasted because of one wrong decision.



Harry wondered about the Black family. They had believed in their pure blood, had believed that Voldemort was the one to sort out the Wizarding World’s problems, but they had been wrong, had lost. And the house was all that remained of them.



Was Harry wrong in what he believed? Was Ron right? Was Harry glad the papers were talking about him, not Ron? Was he jealous of Hermione’s feelings for the red-head?



He considered. No, he wasn’t jealous of Hermione and Ron. Sometimes he felt lonely, yes, and recognised something was missing from his life. And, of course, he had, until recently, wanted sex. Certain events had killed that desire in him. He hoped one day he would want sex again. He couldn’t imagine feeling like this for the rest of his life.



He refused to feel like this for the rest of his life. He had had no choice but to be a victim whilst captured. He would not allow the rest of his life to be lived like that. He would take control.



He was surprised when he glanced at the clock in passing and saw the time. 2.30. He had been wandering the house for over five hours. He still wasn’t sleepy as lying in a bed in a hospital for so long had left him edgy and full of energy, but he had to at least try.



Climbing the stairs was surprisingly difficult. He didn’t want to get to his room. He was frightened, but he didn’t know of what. The dark house, far from being comforting, as it had been earlier in the day, was now oppressive and full of hidden dangers.



The door opened easily when he pushed it and he stepped into his room. The shadows were especially dark in here, and it took him a moment before he could summon up the courage to enter. When he did he felt ashamed of his foolishness. It was just as it always was – a decent sized ordinary bedroom.



Still, there was something in it that made Harry nervous.



He got into bed quickly, not changing or removing his trousers, almost jumping onto the mattress, childish fears of monsters lurking in dark places surfacing. The covers were son pulled up to his chin and he lay there, listening only to his heart thumping in his chest.



He stared at the ceiling, eyes adjusting to the utter darkness of the room. No light peeked on from the grimy window. The blackness of the mahogany door was nerve-wracking. The walls were dark sentinels, trapping him in place.



Harry sat bolt upright, sure he’d heard breathing. He stared into the darkest corner, holding his breath.



Snape.



He’d heard Snape. He was sure of it.



“He-hello?” he croaked.



Nothing.



It took a frantic ten seconds of fumbling about on the bedside table before he found his wand and managed to cast lumos with a shaking hand.



Nothing.



A careful search of the room revealed no monsters, no people, no anything in the room.



Leaving the wand tip glowing, Harry tried to settle to sleep. He couldn’t.



Even when his panicked heart beat had steadied to its usual quiet thump, he couldn’t rest. He just didn’t feel safe. Knowing there was no one in the room wasn’t helping. Too many demons swirled about in his own mind.



He checked his wrist watch. The hands pointed the time clearly – 4.50. It was time to take control.



Full of resolve, Harry knew what to do. He picked up his wand and cast a spell.



The bed vanished, and he settled himself onto the suddenly cold stone floor. He curled up and quickly fell asleep.



A rough wooden chair stood quietly near by. In the wall, a magical window stayed dark.