TW for panic attacks and flashbacks
The pop and bang of faraway duels echoes, and Harry sighs, knees curled to his chest as he hides in his cupboard. He wants to laugh at the irony, and at the same time he wants to punch fate in the face.
(He can't breathe.)
His childhood was far from normal. He knows that even Ron, despite the low wages of his parents, was provided with his basic needs.
(Gagging, and the memory of blood spilling into his mouth, the only soothing sensation of all of them.)
He bites into his fist, until the pain is agonising and he can finally taste the iron of his own blood. (Call him mentally unstable, but blood in his mouth, his opponent's for once, was the best part of a battle. )
Then one hair sways into his vision, and he bites back a sob. (They found you, curl up. Defend yourself. Certainly, no one else will.)
(No one will ever save you, not here. Never ever ever.) His breaths sound foreign, and they sting his throat as they choke out.
(But never ever safe in the open, always safer where you can roll into a ball and maybe maybe maybe here's hoping they won't find you. They always do, though.)
He's pulled into slightly cool arms, making him sob just the slightest bit. (They never save me, a part of him cries, and this is no different.)
He feels someone stroking down his back and tenses before slowly unraveling under the soft touch of a stranger.
He opens his eyes to see Lucius Malfoy's face by his own, and stifles his squeak of surprise.
(But maybe, just maybe, it won't be the same, he thinks as a soft whisper shush him and a murmur of reassurance, accompanied by another back rub.)
He's kissed on the forehead, tenderly. Like I matter, he thinks incredulously, like I have something to offer. Like broken glass, to be cradled.
Harry James Potter has never been protected since before he could remember. (He likes it)