Harry woke up some time after the accident. He didn’t know what time or what day it was. He couldn’t move. If he’d thought it was bad before, it was nothing compared to how it is now. He couldn’t move one inch, and he could barely see his own hands because of his swollen eyes. The pain was so everlasting and so real, almost like he could feel his aching bones the whole way to his heart. Like his heart was beating in the same pain that it felt to have a broken limb. Harry’s mouth was dry, and he could taste the blood that probably stained his lips and teeth. He coughed, more blood spilling out on the carpet, and his ribs screamed for help. He screamed for help, but quiet; if that was something you could do. He thought back to Snape at his detention a very long time ago and thought that maybe if he’d shown him more, maybe he’d be safe from this. But yet again, Snape wasn’t that far from his uncle; they both hated him a lot. Maybe his professor would’ve laughed at him; he did, after all, think Harry deserved the little he saw. Harry wished someone would’ve seen him for what was real. He guessed he had himself to blame for that one, but it was too late. He could as well be dead, he thought while lying there still. Nothing could be worse than this. Harry was pretty sure he would die there; he couldn’t move or say a word, and with his state, food was no option either. If he were to get some, that is. No, he’d die in his cupboard, surrounded by cobwebs and dust. That’s when he closed his eyes.