A/N: Strong trigger warning, graphic description of self harm, strong themes of mental illness and abuse.
Sirius had let his friends leave without him, knowing full well that it wasn't a good idea given the dark turn his thoughts had been taking. He waved them out with a smile, telling them he would be down in time to see the beginning of the match, not at all letting on that something was troubling him, and so they left without hesitating.
He knew it wasn't rational to be upset that they had left so easily, considering he hadn't told them anything was wrong, but he couldn't help but feel the sting of rejection. He drew the curtains around his bed shut and sat without moving for a few moments, unsure of what he was going to do. There were two distinct sides to Sirius, the fun loving and rowdy prankster, and this other side that he had been careful to keep away from everyone, which always lurked beneath the surface. The fun and outgoing side of him loved life, loved being at Hogwarts and thrived when he was away from his family. The other, darker side of him while more like an echo in the back of his mind most of the time he was at Hogwarts, took when he was unoccupied. It was almost like he could distract himself from the self destructive voice in his head as long as he was engaged in some activity, but as soon as the distractions fell away it grew louder and louder until finally he gave into it's wishes. Doing as the voice (or whatever it was inside his head) demanded gave him a small break, during which the urges would subside, until the next day or the next incident when they would start over again. It was a cycle that Sirius felt trapped in, he couldn't figure out a way to escape the cycles grip and he certainly couldn't ask his friends for help. He wasn't crazy, or maybe he was, he really wasn't sure sometimes, but he was certain that he didn't want anyone to know, he didn't want to give them the chance to think that he was insane.
The day had started well enough, he woke in time for breakfast and joined his friends while they ate and chatted about the quidditch match about to take place between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor. James was particularly excited to beat them and get one step closer to playing for the house cup, remarking that the Ravenclaw might have had a chance if they pulled their noses out of their books long enough to practice. He was looking forward to the chance to play and have his parents watch, they would only come if it was the final match of the school year because there were so many games through the year they wouldn't possibly be able to make it to all of them. Sirius had pointed out that if he actually played, his own parents would never come and support him because of their fierce loyalty to the rival house Slytherin. Remus rolled his eyes, not knowing anything about Sirius' home life he always assumed that it was perfect, considering the state of Sirius' robes and how he always had enough money to buy anything he wanted from Hogsmeade.
"Here he goes, complaining about his perfect, rich family again." Remus' words bounced around in Sirius' head. Remus had probably had it tougher than anyone in their little group, growing up poor and then of course there was the werewolf thing and so he often scoffed at the others complaints about their own home lives. It was his own fault that Remus had no idea of the hell he went through behind the closed doors of 12 Grimmauld Place, he reminded himself sternly, how could they possibly know anything about it if he refused to open up about it. He shied away from questions about his family, often deflecting with humour and gave everyone the impression that he was treated well. Which of course was the opposite of how he was treated, he was often starved or beaten, or both, for doing something wrong. His parents had never kept it secret that they didn't like him, and that they would have gotten rid of him if it had been socially acceptable to do so. Still, it made him feel like shit when anyone commented on his family.
He felt selfish and spoilt for complaining, and the little echo of the voice in his head grew louder. He's right, you always complain and you've never been beaten when you didn't deserve it. He let the voice continue without trying to argue, knowing full where where it would lead him. You don't deserve to be as happy as you are now, you are rotten, useless, a disappointment. You deserve to hurt, you deserve the pain, you know you want to do it.
He didn't cry, though it hurt to think those things, he had always been taught that only weaklings cried, and weaklings got beaten in his house so he had learned early on not to let it happen. His brow was tense, his jaw clenched. It was only a matter of time before he would have to do it, before the voice in his head would win again, and so he decided it was better to do it now. He reached under his bed and pulled out a small box, his heart racing. He opened it and carefully laid out his tools in front of him, needing the order and the ritual as much as the physical release.
He picked up the blade, it was shining silver and clean- it always had to be clean, he couldn't risk infection, he couldn't see a healer about this and so he did it in the safest way he knew how. He tugged back his sleeve to reveal rows of scars, each in a different stage of healing, the oldest ones where white and faded, the newest different shades of red and purple. He carefully placed the blade to the skin on his forearm and began to drag across, applying as much force as he could muster. If they weren't deep enough he new he would have to do it again until the voice was satisfied and so he tried to do them exactly as the picture in his mind told him too. Blood began to run down his arm, it was red and warm and oddly comforting. He wiped it away to see the damage, and his heart sank- he knew it wasn't enough and so he began the process again. The dragging, the pressure, the blood dripping. Over and over and over again. He continued as if in a trance, his movements automatic and yet deliberate. He felt a sense of calm begin to wash over him and new that he would be done soon, whatever dark requirement his mind had set he had almost met. He was in the rhythm of it now, and wasn't ready to stop, he decided he would allow himself a few more before he cleaned the wounds and bandaged them. Sirius had completely lost track of time, consumed by the task at hand and slightly dizzy with endorphins and blood loss, his arm was torn open and he would soon stop and admire his work. He pressed the blade down for one last swipe.
"I knew you'd gone back to sleep!" A familiar voice shocked him and he quickly reached for the blanket to cover his arm and the evidence scattered all over the bed, but it was too late. The curtains opened and he saw Remus' amused face turn to shock, all colour drained out of him. "What the fuck?" He took in the state of his friend, sickened with concern by what he saw.
Sirius swore he could feel his heart stop, and for a second hoped that he would die right then and there rather than deal with explaining this mess. "Go away." His mouth moved without permission from his brain, and he scrambled to come up with something better to say.