Low Man Is Due

OK, my muse vanished *poof* for this story, which is annoying! But I\'ve wrangled it back and will tie it down if I have to!



Thank you to my lovely reviewwers. I have been evil with the whole Is Harry alive thing? Can I remind you - DARK fic! SP



Chapter four: But I lie, lie straight to the mirror

The one I\'ve broken, to match my face



Why is everything so loud?



Noise assaults me, almost like a physical presence, and I cringe, wanting to escape from the pain and torment. But the storm is approaching, and it will sweep me away. If I knew where it would take me, I would go willingly, but the element of uncertainty stops me wanting to give in to its power.



I feel the wind battering my ‘body’. My ‘hair’ whips out all around me, sometimes slashing into my ‘skin’ and I feel stinging cuts where it has hurt me.



I open my eyes and wince – the bright light hurting me. It’s so tempting to close them again and face that storm, but a shriek pierces the stillness about me. Stabs right through me, and then someone is hugging the life out of me, leaving wetness on my face – tears, I suppose – babbling. I think this person is saying my name. Not that any of it makes any sense.



***



Hermione didn’t believe Harry when, after hours of testing and poking and prodding, he said he was well enough to go home. His green eyes held a certain calm, his smile irritatingly peaceful. He got up and dressed himself, uncaring that his actions made her blush.



“Not tonight, Harry. At least, for tonight, stay with me, or Molly, or someone. You shouldn’t be alone.” She turned her face away as he pulled own his pyjama bottoms and began tugging on boxers. Her face flamed and she studied the white walls of the building, pretending she hadn’t caught a glimpse of Harry’s penis.



“How long have I been out of things?” he asked, voice quiet, self-controlled.



“Th-three weeks,” Hermione answered, voice shaking. She was remembering the agony of suspense, of never knowing if he was going to wake back up, and, if he did, what he would be like. Would he be Harry? Was this person truly Harry? She opened her mouth.



“Then,” he said before she could speak again, “I have been alone for three weeks. I think I can cope tonight.” He shrugged off his pyjama top and pulled a t-shirt over his head, messing up his already messy black hair and knocking his glasses askew.



The girl narrowed her eyes. There was something distant about her friend. He seemed to have locked all of his emotions away.



“What about cutting yourself?” she said, eyes looking dangerous, “Was that coping?”



He didn’t even answer. He pushed his feet into shoes. He picked up his wand from the bedside table and left, letting the door snick shut behind him.



Magic took him to his home, and he was happy to note that his magic was working well. He had doubted it for a moment, his stomach clenching at the thought of losing his abilities. But he had idly waved his wand and felt the burst of power and connection as it had shot sparks out of its end.



In his house at Grimmauld Place, he set about settling back in. Three weeks had passed, and somehow he expected things to look and feel different, as he himself had changed. How could nothing physically have changed, when mentally he was so different? But the walls were the same, the layout of each room was the same, even Kreacher’s silent bow at him was the same.



It felt strange to be amongst this world and for it to look no different.



Slowly he mounted the stairs, moving as if through treacle, not sure what was making him move so slowly, so hesitantly. He passed bedrooms, returning to the bathroom where he had stood and panicked and slit his wrists. Harry glanced down at his arms to see the silvery marks where his skin had been healed. Even in the flickering light the silver traces stood out against the white of his inner arms. The imperfection of his skin pleased him somehow.



Someone had fixed the mirror, and he stared into it, remembering what he had seen. Snape had been standing behind him, a silent sentinel. His black robed figure had practically been touching Harry, and it had scared the younger man. He felt terrified but oddly exhilarated at the thought of Snape being so close to him. His excitement faded as he gazed more intently into the mirror. Dark eyes had pierced his own, a scowling face had stared at him, lank black hair had framed that sallow face. The face of a man just waiting for Harry’s collapse so that he could again use the youngster’s body.



Harry’s heart began to beat more quickly. His breath came in short gasps. His green eyes in the mirror were black, with just an emerald rim around the black dilated pupils. His face was pale, paler than it had been when he had first seen his reflection. He could feel a tremble beginning in his hands, moving up his arms, making his teeth chatter.



He’s not here. He told himself sternly. Snape’s not here



He felt relieved and yet so alone at the same time. Of all of them, all of those whose lives intermingled with his own, Snape was the one who understood best what had happened.



Well, yeah, of course he does. He did most of it to you!



Harry pushed away the idea, staring at his pale face in the repaired glass. Snape would understand, he suddenly realised. Snape could help him.



He told himself that that last notion was ridiculous, and unnecessary. He didn’t need help.



Slowly, he stretched out one finger to the cold mirror surface, tracing over where cracks should have been. The perfection of it irritated him, he wanted it marred, damaged, broken.