Low Man Is Due

Unhappy puppy today, for a number of reasons:



1 - Reviewers still arguing over my AN. You can disagree with my defintion of rape (in this story), but for the purposes of this story, it is important that technically it is not rape. Harry is 17, an adult in the wizarding world, and whilst he was co-erced into sex, he was NOT raped. Also, please comment on the story, not my notes!



2 - Another reviewer, who, unintentionally I'm sure, gave the impression that I was just writing down the first thing that came into my head, and needed help to write the next part. This story is incredibly thoroughly plotted so I was actually quite insulted. Also, this puppy doesn't play well with others, so co-authoring is a no-no.



3 - This is a BLOODY depressing chapter!



But, in better news:



1 - I wasn't expecting to get this chapter written at all for a while, but the bunny this morning gave me the barest bones of it, and I finished off the rest tonight.



2 - Some reviewers have been very supportive (and are obviously as deeply attached to the story as I am) so thanks for that!



And now, onwards! SP



PART THREE



Chapter one: Please forgive me



How many letters did I write whilst awaiting my trial? Hundreds. Thousands, maybe. All of them addressed to Harry, to my obsession, my addiction. And in each of them I finally managed to explain everything that happened and why. I finally got my say.



What was the point? Why did I write? To exonerate the guilt I feel? To justify my actions? I don’t know anymore.



So many letters.



Well, he’ll never read them now. Never hear what I have to say. He’s gone somewhere far away, where I want to follow, but can’t. I’m here, two Aurors standing by, impassive and cold. Hating me for daring to keep breathing in and out, wishing me dead with every ounce of their being.



I understand that feeling. I am too tired to think. Lost, even. I wish for death every night. Hope I will close my eyes and simply drift away, but I don’t deserve it. I deserve this pain and misery. What I did to my Harry, whatever my reasons, was cruel and wrong.



My Harry? He was never mine. Even when I was fucking him he was never mine. That hurts, I realise, that I could claim his body but never once touch his mind, never once understand what it was that made him who he was. And now it’s all gone. Ruined, because I had to go and speak to him. Knowing it was stupid, knowing it was dangerous, given that I might have been hexed by him. But I still had to see him. And for what? To again share my pathetic justifications? They would not be good enough. They would not change what happened.



I don’t even know what it was that made me run up those stairs after him, after standing there and waiting for him to come back down. Maybe some sixth sense, some link between him and I made me rush after him, heart beating fit to burst.



Heart stopping when I reached that room.



Oh Merlin, that bathroom.



Every time, every time I close my eyes I see him on the floor, a white figure dressed in black sprawled in his own red blood, green eyes fixed upon me. That’s my chief memory, those eyes, and the bright colours. They hurt with their intensity those colours.



So much blood. All of it spilling from Harry’s wrists.



I’ll never forget those eyes fixed on me. Dazed, confused, light fading from them. Never forget that he stared at me until the very end.



I was back under Auror guard when they told me. They wanted to hurt me, I could see it in the way they moved, how they spoke. I wanted to hurt me too. I had done this to Harry.



I had to see it for myself. Had to know it of my own knowledge.



Oddly enough, they let me. Maybe they got some savage satisfaction from scouring my face for some emotion as I looked at him. Maybe they wanted to see my face as the realisation sank in of what my selfishness had caused. Maybe they wanted to ensure I would see his face forever.



Whatever their motives I got to see him.



Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived.



What a joke.