Author Diddy: Okies, it's been a while since this piece was updated, much less posted, but since I'm now going through and rewriting it so the plotholes don't eat me I decided to repost it. Written under the alias Kalinx previously, I present to you the rewritten Switchblade Symphony.

Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter it would not be a childrens book...much love and adoration to JK, the mother of this masterpiece.

Warning: The following fanfic will contain references to death, suicide, self-mutalation, sex (SLASH, boy on boy action), rape, confusing ideas, and language. If I've forgotten anything, please let me know...

the voice

Switchblade Symphony

Prologue

I'm Not Okay

Everything was dark. Nothing mattered anymore. Even the Dursley's had recognized the utter apathy in me at the platform, which was why I was alone. I had been sent to my room as soon as my feet had crossed the threshold. A strangled laugh escapes through the tears that had been falling since The Ministry mistake. The bloody muggles were pushing aside their hatred of a freak like me for once, I must look a right mess.

Aw buck up boyo, it ain't that bad, the pain will dull in time. 'Sides, don't you want t' live so you can get revenge? You know?

Rough blanket against my cheeks as I shake me head at the imagined voice in my head. Revenge is for the Dark, Dumbledore and the Order will avenge Siri for me in the end.

Come on ducky, don't you wanna take matters into your own hands? Make your own decisions for once? Do you really believe that old coot is going to give you what you want if he doesn't see himself gaining from it? Live your own life boyo.

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Fingers jerk the weeds from the giving earth the hot sunlight battering my bare back. The imagined voice hadn't come back since my first night here. I guess I was glad it hadn't. Too many questions had been brought into the forefront of my mind because of it. Damned Dursley's had only given me a respite for that night before renewing their crusade to kill my spirit. Not like I had much of one left to kill. Siri stole it when he fell through the Veil.

Sharp sting snapping me out of my fog I stare at the line of blood welling up on my palm. In my absentmindedness I had cut myself on a blade of grass - but, now that the initial pain had passed it felt kind of good.

Gaze landing on the pair of scissors I have been using to prune Petunia's flowers I feel my lips curve into a smile as the open blade come to rest on my wrist. Deft slash of the hand gripping the scissors a peace settling over me for the first time in weeks.

Oh.

Feeling was nice.

Now what had that voice said? Right, live your own life boyo. If I'd been following its advice Siri might not have died. Dumbledore was the one who had kept important information from me, like the Prophecy, maybe if I stopped allowing him to chose my direction I wouldn't lose anyone else?

Come to think of it, why did I really hate Draco? Was it only because of Ron and Dumbledore's prejudices? Could he really be 'that' bad once you got past the mask of snot he wore? Was it a mask? Like my Boy-Who-Lived mask? Could someone be given permission to see beyond it?

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The bath water was turning a nice pink shade already, all thoughts and troubles draining through it. Damp fingers pinched the stolen shaving blade at the edge. Eyes fluttering shut I slide below the water's surface, fingers releasing the blade. I was in my quiet place.

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Blow out the candles I had filched from the grocery yesterday. Happy birthday boyo, the voice whispers. Laugh croaking into the still air I hurl the dead candles at the wall. Damn Dumbledore, making me remain here rather than allowing me to go to the Burrow for the weekend. It was my birthday dammit! Didn't that give the famous Harry Potter some sort of leeway?

I wish I had a family to love me, any type of family will do.

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It was the darkest time of night. The time when all is quiet and nothing but the light of the stars and the moon guide the errant traveler. Here on this side of the world millions were dreaming of happy moments that had passed and those that had yet to become reality. Children slept nestled beneath the warmth and care of family visions of unicorns and magic dancing behind their eyelids, the movement of their eyes proof of deep sleep. Teenagers dreamt of idols and fame, the riches of the 'American Dream' within reach, sorrow and suffering put aside briefly. Parents lay in the arms of each other, the surety of their children's safety allowing them to drop the reins of control and protection. Lovers drew fingers through sleeping partner's hair as it lay, fanned out across pillows and sheets. Some even clung together as they made love, their soft cries of joy dropping into the serenity of the night. Overhead, stars began to fade as the darkest moment of night passed and the barest of the sun's light crept into the sky.

Blood was flowing somewhere in the dying night. Intricate lines pressed into pale flesh with the power of a simple straight razor. Harsh, silent sobs shake bony shoulders as crimson life runs together in steady lines. Feet are glued under narrow hips, unwashed hair hanging in clumps around what could be a finely boned face. Tears burned in bloodshot eyes filled with pain. Clutched between thumb and forefinger the villainous razor glints in the blue glow of the stereo.

Dropping the razor to the beige carpet he clings to his engraved wrist and collapses into a fetal position on his floor among the piles of indiscriminately mingled clothing, dog-eared books, and haphazardly stacked rolls of parchment and loose leaf sheets of doodled on paper. Bloodied arm stretching over his head he snags a worn, slightly threadbare plaid, flannel blanket and hauls in over his body.

"I don't want to dream."