A/N: I have officially decided something. As much as I want to, I don't think I can continue my long-ish fics. It's not you, it's me. I have troubles with commitment, and there are plenty of other authors out there for you in that proverbial internet sea! However, I do not intend to leave you completely. I still love you, I really do! DON'T GO, WAIT!! *chases after "fans" that are running away* I've still got some of my dumb little fluffy fics up my sleeve, I really do! Please don't go! Admittedly, after the fifth book came out, I was beyond depressed, and I haven't looked at my fics the same way since. I was in a state of mourning. I wore all black for days straight (not that that was too different than usual) and cried in my room whenever I would read page 806 of Order of the Phoenix. This fic is a bit of Harry being a bit like me. This, I assure you, won't actually happen, because Harry is a happy little fellow, and would never act like this. At all. EVER.
The Stars in the Sky
By Wolf Speaker
The full moon shone brightly outside a young man's window. It was well past one a.m., but his eyes remained wide open, without a hint of tiredness etched onto his somber face. There was no expression on his face at all, other than the burning hatred and pain that shone deep in his emerald eyes. They took no heed of the joyous congratulations scrawled into his birthday cards on his bedside table, nor the photographs near them waving madly, trying desperately to get him to smile and forget his troubles, if only for a moment or two.
"Why'd he have to go?" he whispered quietly to himself. "Of all people, why did Sirius have to be the one to die? All he ever wanted to do was help me, and he died for it."
It wasn't fair. Sirius had had so much to live for. His name hadn't even been cleared of the treachery Wormtail had smeared it with. If only Harry hadn't been so foolhardy as to believe the dreams he had been having….
These were the types of thoughts that had been running through Harry's mind every night for the past month. Tonight especially was difficult, because his birthday had been the previous day, and the fact that no word came from Sirius only strengthened his fears and doubts.
The sole comfort in his mind was the scars. Etched all over his body, they were relics of Harry's struggles over the past month. He wasn't quite sure where the idea came from, nor why it helped so much. But one thing he did know, that most other people wouldn't if they knew about the scars; he didn't want to die.
No, if Harry had wanted to die because Sirius was gone, he would have simply given up when Voldemort tried to kill him. But that wasn't it. He felt, somewhere deep in his heart, that he deserved this pain, because, after all, it was his fault Sirius was even dead. The cuts and scrapes helped keep him sane. They were his breath of air when he started to drown in depression and self-pity. Nobody would quite understand it, he knew, so he kept it a secret. Not a soul knew, although it was obvious that Ron and Hermione would figure it out eventually. Even Ginny would probably guess, with how clever she was getting. But they didn't need to know. Not yet. Harry could just imagine the looks of fear and disappointment on their faces when they found out what he'd done.
Harry had always been considered strange. Whether in school or out, there had always been something different about him. And now, compliments of his sorrows, he was even more so. He knew of perfectly normal people, whom everyone had liked previously, that had been considered freaks for doing the same thing he'd done. There had been a girl, back in primary school…
Her name had been Marie. Her father would hit her, her mother was never home. She may not have been one of the "popular people," but nobody had a problem with her; they only spoke well of her. Apparently, everything just got to be too much one day. She was only 10 years old, and she was put in a detention center for attempting suicide. When she got back, nobody treated her the same way. Harry, having gone through hell himself, tried not to judge her for it. But he couldn't help but wonder how mad you would have to be to try to end your own life.
He knew now. Oh, he didn't want to die. But he knew how it felt, all the same. To just wish the morning would never come, to want to be free of all the stress and turmoil, knowing one slash of the blade could end it all and he'd never have to worry again. But, in a way, he was more scared to die than anyone else. Because he didn't want to be right, to find out that everything really did fix itself after he was gone. The pain of a blade can never bring the kind of emotional torture that that would induce.
Harry lifted his picture of Sirius and wished for the hundredth time that he hadn't gone. That all he would have to do is send Hedwig with a letter, and within a few days get a response telling him what to do when he was so scared, and so alone. Ron and Hermione were great, but he could always turn to Sirius, no matter what. Well, not anymore….
Harry pulled out his razor blade. He'd had it for a while now. One more cut wouldn't hurt, it wasn't like he didn't already have a hundred all over his body. This was his way of keeping from committing suicide; the pain reminded him that he was alive and he could control what he did.
He took a sharp intake of breath as the cool steel bit into his skin. It felt good to see little droplets of blood blossom out of his arm. He would never cut deep enough for it to bleed a lot. Only to cause the pain it took to bring him back to his senses. What was he thinking about this for? Sirius was probably happier where he was. He had fixed so much for him in the past 2 years, he couldn't complain about any of it. Right up to the moment he died, Sirius would do anything for Harry, and to go so insane when all Sirius wanted was for Harry to be happy was dumb.
Harry smiled grimly as he realized he was sleepy. He wrapped a tissue around the shallow cut on his arm, found a piece of tape, and taped it on so he wouldn't bleed on the sheets. When he finally laid down and curled up in a ball, Harry looked at his picture of Sirius. As a tear ran down his face, he smiled and closed his eyes.
A/N: You may not believe it (*coughSARCASMcough*), but I kind of knew what I was talking about there. Self-injury is real, and even though Harry probably won't resort to it, a lot of real people do. All they need is someone who cares to talk to. If you see one of your friends getting really upset about something, talk to them. You have no idea how much good it will do; what it could prevent. Anyone who is a SI-er, knows a SI-er, or just wants more information, go to www.si-am.info, because these people know what they're talking about. Do what you can to support anyone you know who SI's, because that may be the one thing they really want from it all.