(no subject)
Title: The Nature of Pain
Author: initial_aitch
Rating: R
Pairing: Harry...solo
Warnings: blood, self-inflicted pain
Disclaimer: JKR wouldn't want me doing this to her character
Summary: Post-OotP, Harry's in pain at the loss of Sirius. He's used to pain.
Cross-posted in my lj and on hpslash. I'm trying to finally get my work out there.
Due to Umbridge’s hurried disappearance, there was ample opportunity for her former students to raid her classroom. Her hideous collector plates were smashed, her pink cardigan shredded on its hook, educational decrees incinerated. Items were destroyed, stolen, and defiled. Few students were above a bit of pillaging, considering Umbridge‘s universal lack of appeal.
There was only one thing Harry Potter wanted from Umbridge--her infamous punishment quill.
A Dark object if ever there was one, this quill was responsible for Harry’s second-most famous scar--the one on the back of his hand which read 'I must not tell lies.'
These pale lines etched onto pale skin stood as more than a reminder of a despicable teacher. Harry saw them as a key to an understanding of his own nature--the only valuable lesson Umbridge had taught him. A quick rummage through the teacher’s desk, and once again he had the quill. Considering all the upheaval in his life of late, perhaps it was time for a reinforcement of the lesson.
Tonight he sat at a desk in an unusually quiet Grimmauld Place, guarded by friends but imprisoned nonetheless. Victory over Umbridge was merely another conquest, the thrill of which quickly faded in light of the recognized return of Lord Voldemort. He made a mental note against complacency, desperate for distraction. Harry slid the black feather quill lightly through his fingers, empathizing Sirius’s frustration at being pressured to sit back and take little action. At the thought of his godfather, despair took him. Harry clenched his eyes and his fists against the pain of memory and the imprisonment of thoughts. He dragged the extraordinarily sharp point of the quill slowly across the parchment and at once felt the corresponding crawl along the back of his hand. Gasping, yet strangely calm, he looked at it. A tiny scratch.
Harry shivered at the sense memory of detention with Umbridge. Inwardly, he abused himself for his arrogance. He had thought he’d known hate. He thought he’d known hate then, but it was as nothing compared to his new insights. Sirius was gone. Dumbledore had as good as lied to him. Harry was sentenced to death; how could it be otherwise?
Yes, Umbridge was hurtful, but the battle was more in the nature of a clash of wills. The daily soreness as his wounds healed and re-healed served as a focal point for his hatred of Umbridge and her regime. Though consumed with loathing, it hadn’t been enough to distract him from watching Quidditch practice out the window. That’s not hate. That’s pouting.
He could still blame her for his godfather’s death. He could blame everyone, including himself. Life and death are supremely unfair. A twitch of his features knitted Harry’s eyebrows. He drew an ‘H’ on the paper. It reproduced itself in red on his hand. It faded.
Part of his brain told him that he was sensing pain, and that ‘Pain’ was unpleasant and unwanted. Another part of him came alive to the satisfaction of it. Pain mustn’t necessarily hold negative connotations. Obviously, there was something seductive and potent about the Dark. Lord Voldemort was a master of manipulation through pain. Hurt must account for Voldemort’s following, whether inflicted on his followers or inflicted by them. Sensation is a matter of perception.
Opening his mind, Harry perceived himself in terms of ‘Pain.’ All he knew was the familiar security of it. It was perfectly possible that this yearning for the quill was just another manifestation of Voldemort on his all-too-pliable mind. Life hasn’t become easier since Hogwarts; it’s merely confusing me by injecting unreal moments of happiness. Harry Potter was a product of pain. It’s not a stranger. Why not assimilate it?
Harry stared at the new lines crossing over the veins on the back of his hand. Wiping his mind of all preconceived notions of reaction to pain he slashed and zig-zagged trails on his parchment. He found as he concentrated that the sharpness of the pain felt icy. His skin closed, erasing the marks. The healing process burned.
Curious, that. Healing causes its own discomfort.
Tentatively, he scratched with more pressure, drawing random violent strokes on the sheet of parchment. The red scratches slid down his hand as his skin was cut and immediately healed by magic. Pushing firmly with the quill, he experimented with the formation of letters and words, varying the speed of his scribbling. Heart poured out on the page. Invigorated, Harry felt his breath grow ragged.
The rising blood was fascinating to witness. Harry wondered whether it was the macabre thrill of seeing his own blood or the exhilaration of the self-infliction which made the supposed punishment of ‘doing lines’ a dark pleasure. Just as during detentions, the longer he scratched, the longer the healing process was taking. He’d no idea how long he'd been at it, but the lines on his hand no longer healed as quickly, if at all. Harry made an attempt to re-trace his lines, going over already tender areas of flesh, urging the blood to pool and drip over him. ‘I must not feel hurt.’
His entire being seemed hyper-sensitive, on alert for the next stimulation. Awareness extended throughout his body and he felt empowered with the control over his body’s response.
Harry struck especially hard across the parchment and cried out. Pain seared him, and he stared at his hand with wide eyes, and finally, with a stab of fear. Upon discovering that he hadn’t hit anything vital, the sight of his life’s blood welling to the surface enthralled him with an interest he wasn’t aware he possessed. What an amazing machine, the human body! How simple, focusing on the physical. Pain. All else blotted out. And it worked, it worked! It gave him a point of concentration. A focus. A friend. Familiar. Welcome.
If you can feel, you are alive. I must be alive. The dead cannot feel. I’ll feel for you, Sirius.
Mentally, he checked himself to make sure he hadn’t gone too far and done himself an injury. Everything seemed okay. It was with equal surprise and pride that he discovered he had a pulsing erection. Perfect, Harry thought. Mind over matter. I am in command.
This was good pain. Self-inflicted pain. Pain of the body. Not unbidden or forced upon him. Not the emotional abuse of Snape nor the punishments of the Dursleys. It was unlike any Pain previously known to Harry. It was not the pain of playing Quidditch. Not the Pain of Voldemort. Not the Pain of losing his parents, or Cedric, or Sirius. Physical. Controllable. This pain would begin to fade as soon as it was applied. It would only continue to fade.
The sting on his hand was lessening. He missed it. He wished for more. He wished it to spread in a tingling all over him. Harder.
He pressed the sharp nib into the left edge of the parchment and sharply whipped a slash across the page. The pain flashed along his hand and up his arm. He gasped.
If only he could make marks of pain on other parts of his body! He tried a few spells in an attempt to do just that, without success. He made a mental note to look into the matter later on.
His reddened hand loosened his trousers and encountered another example of a reaction to Pain. Harry’s fingers tightened to his erection which quickly hardened further at the touch.
Enthralled and intoxicated with his reaction, he decided to bring one throbbing sore part to another throbbing sore part.
Pleasure-pain. Does pleasure hurt...or does pain feel good?
He began to understand the power of pain as a weapon. Potentially powerfully effective, yet...cowardly somehow. Almost too easy to use hatefully upon someone else. Using it on oneself is much more complicated! Harry thought with a grin as he beat himself.
He was a child of abuse. A child of pain--at least, not having a fear of pain. After all, Pain was much more familiar to him than pleasure. Many new experiences of pleasure had been his during his time at Hogwarts, yet they still did not feel completely natural. When they built up too much they need to be counteracted. Cannot become spoiled.
Harry reached an epiphany as he slid from his chair, pumping a bloody hand, accepting a life of pain. His life was about Pain. He was made to take pain. He was meant to channel pain. He was indeed even meant to cause pain. Really, he had no choice but to accept it. Learn it. Use it.
Using Pain on oneself is assuredly complicated.
Using it hatefully is natural.
Using it lovingly upon another is more complicated still! Oh gods! How many possibilities! Harry came hard, screaming silently.
Author: initial_aitch
Rating: R
Pairing: Harry...solo
Warnings: blood, self-inflicted pain
Disclaimer: JKR wouldn't want me doing this to her character
Summary: Post-OotP, Harry's in pain at the loss of Sirius. He's used to pain.
Cross-posted in my lj and on hpslash. I'm trying to finally get my work out there.
Due to Umbridge’s hurried disappearance, there was ample opportunity for her former students to raid her classroom. Her hideous collector plates were smashed, her pink cardigan shredded on its hook, educational decrees incinerated. Items were destroyed, stolen, and defiled. Few students were above a bit of pillaging, considering Umbridge‘s universal lack of appeal.
There was only one thing Harry Potter wanted from Umbridge--her infamous punishment quill.
A Dark object if ever there was one, this quill was responsible for Harry’s second-most famous scar--the one on the back of his hand which read 'I must not tell lies.'
These pale lines etched onto pale skin stood as more than a reminder of a despicable teacher. Harry saw them as a key to an understanding of his own nature--the only valuable lesson Umbridge had taught him. A quick rummage through the teacher’s desk, and once again he had the quill. Considering all the upheaval in his life of late, perhaps it was time for a reinforcement of the lesson.
Tonight he sat at a desk in an unusually quiet Grimmauld Place, guarded by friends but imprisoned nonetheless. Victory over Umbridge was merely another conquest, the thrill of which quickly faded in light of the recognized return of Lord Voldemort. He made a mental note against complacency, desperate for distraction. Harry slid the black feather quill lightly through his fingers, empathizing Sirius’s frustration at being pressured to sit back and take little action. At the thought of his godfather, despair took him. Harry clenched his eyes and his fists against the pain of memory and the imprisonment of thoughts. He dragged the extraordinarily sharp point of the quill slowly across the parchment and at once felt the corresponding crawl along the back of his hand. Gasping, yet strangely calm, he looked at it. A tiny scratch.
Harry shivered at the sense memory of detention with Umbridge. Inwardly, he abused himself for his arrogance. He had thought he’d known hate. He thought he’d known hate then, but it was as nothing compared to his new insights. Sirius was gone. Dumbledore had as good as lied to him. Harry was sentenced to death; how could it be otherwise?
Yes, Umbridge was hurtful, but the battle was more in the nature of a clash of wills. The daily soreness as his wounds healed and re-healed served as a focal point for his hatred of Umbridge and her regime. Though consumed with loathing, it hadn’t been enough to distract him from watching Quidditch practice out the window. That’s not hate. That’s pouting.
He could still blame her for his godfather’s death. He could blame everyone, including himself. Life and death are supremely unfair. A twitch of his features knitted Harry’s eyebrows. He drew an ‘H’ on the paper. It reproduced itself in red on his hand. It faded.
Part of his brain told him that he was sensing pain, and that ‘Pain’ was unpleasant and unwanted. Another part of him came alive to the satisfaction of it. Pain mustn’t necessarily hold negative connotations. Obviously, there was something seductive and potent about the Dark. Lord Voldemort was a master of manipulation through pain. Hurt must account for Voldemort’s following, whether inflicted on his followers or inflicted by them. Sensation is a matter of perception.
Opening his mind, Harry perceived himself in terms of ‘Pain.’ All he knew was the familiar security of it. It was perfectly possible that this yearning for the quill was just another manifestation of Voldemort on his all-too-pliable mind. Life hasn’t become easier since Hogwarts; it’s merely confusing me by injecting unreal moments of happiness. Harry Potter was a product of pain. It’s not a stranger. Why not assimilate it?
Harry stared at the new lines crossing over the veins on the back of his hand. Wiping his mind of all preconceived notions of reaction to pain he slashed and zig-zagged trails on his parchment. He found as he concentrated that the sharpness of the pain felt icy. His skin closed, erasing the marks. The healing process burned.
Curious, that. Healing causes its own discomfort.
Tentatively, he scratched with more pressure, drawing random violent strokes on the sheet of parchment. The red scratches slid down his hand as his skin was cut and immediately healed by magic. Pushing firmly with the quill, he experimented with the formation of letters and words, varying the speed of his scribbling. Heart poured out on the page. Invigorated, Harry felt his breath grow ragged.
The rising blood was fascinating to witness. Harry wondered whether it was the macabre thrill of seeing his own blood or the exhilaration of the self-infliction which made the supposed punishment of ‘doing lines’ a dark pleasure. Just as during detentions, the longer he scratched, the longer the healing process was taking. He’d no idea how long he'd been at it, but the lines on his hand no longer healed as quickly, if at all. Harry made an attempt to re-trace his lines, going over already tender areas of flesh, urging the blood to pool and drip over him. ‘I must not feel hurt.’
His entire being seemed hyper-sensitive, on alert for the next stimulation. Awareness extended throughout his body and he felt empowered with the control over his body’s response.
Harry struck especially hard across the parchment and cried out. Pain seared him, and he stared at his hand with wide eyes, and finally, with a stab of fear. Upon discovering that he hadn’t hit anything vital, the sight of his life’s blood welling to the surface enthralled him with an interest he wasn’t aware he possessed. What an amazing machine, the human body! How simple, focusing on the physical. Pain. All else blotted out. And it worked, it worked! It gave him a point of concentration. A focus. A friend. Familiar. Welcome.
If you can feel, you are alive. I must be alive. The dead cannot feel. I’ll feel for you, Sirius.
Mentally, he checked himself to make sure he hadn’t gone too far and done himself an injury. Everything seemed okay. It was with equal surprise and pride that he discovered he had a pulsing erection. Perfect, Harry thought. Mind over matter. I am in command.
This was good pain. Self-inflicted pain. Pain of the body. Not unbidden or forced upon him. Not the emotional abuse of Snape nor the punishments of the Dursleys. It was unlike any Pain previously known to Harry. It was not the pain of playing Quidditch. Not the Pain of Voldemort. Not the Pain of losing his parents, or Cedric, or Sirius. Physical. Controllable. This pain would begin to fade as soon as it was applied. It would only continue to fade.
The sting on his hand was lessening. He missed it. He wished for more. He wished it to spread in a tingling all over him. Harder.
He pressed the sharp nib into the left edge of the parchment and sharply whipped a slash across the page. The pain flashed along his hand and up his arm. He gasped.
If only he could make marks of pain on other parts of his body! He tried a few spells in an attempt to do just that, without success. He made a mental note to look into the matter later on.
His reddened hand loosened his trousers and encountered another example of a reaction to Pain. Harry’s fingers tightened to his erection which quickly hardened further at the touch.
Enthralled and intoxicated with his reaction, he decided to bring one throbbing sore part to another throbbing sore part.
Pleasure-pain. Does pleasure hurt...or does pain feel good?
He began to understand the power of pain as a weapon. Potentially powerfully effective, yet...cowardly somehow. Almost too easy to use hatefully upon someone else. Using it on oneself is much more complicated! Harry thought with a grin as he beat himself.
He was a child of abuse. A child of pain--at least, not having a fear of pain. After all, Pain was much more familiar to him than pleasure. Many new experiences of pleasure had been his during his time at Hogwarts, yet they still did not feel completely natural. When they built up too much they need to be counteracted. Cannot become spoiled.
Harry reached an epiphany as he slid from his chair, pumping a bloody hand, accepting a life of pain. His life was about Pain. He was made to take pain. He was meant to channel pain. He was indeed even meant to cause pain. Really, he had no choice but to accept it. Learn it. Use it.
Using Pain on oneself is assuredly complicated.
Using it hatefully is natural.
Using it lovingly upon another is more complicated still! Oh gods! How many possibilities! Harry came hard, screaming silently.