The Longing
Disclaimer: Anything you recognize as J.K. Rowlings' is hers. I am merely borrowing her characters
Summary: It's the summer after OOTP, and Harry is feeling terrible. (WARNING: If deep depression and self-mutilation bother you, then I suggest you not to read this.)
Chapter 1: Back at the Dursley's
Harry was lying on his bed thinking for the thousandth time about the night in the Ministry of Mysteries. The scene seemed to be playing over and over in his mind in slow motion, like a broken record. All he could see when he closed his eyes, or when he wasn't doing anything, is Sirius suddenly falling through the veil, and then Remus trying to stop him from going to the veil and trying to save his godfather. It was an ever-repeating nightmare, and it was all Harry could think about.
"BOY! GET DOWN HERE BEFORE I COME UP THERE AND DRAG YOU OUT OF THAT BED!" came Harry's Uncle Vernon's booming voice from downstairs.
Harry got up off his bed and sluggishly walked down the stairs. He walked into the kitchen where his aunt, uncle, and cousin were sitting at the table. They all looked up when he came in.
"Sit down and eat something," growled his uncle.
"I'm not hungry," said Harry, remaining where he was.
"You'll bloody eat something or I'll force it down you."
"No you won't. You're too worried that 'my kind' will hex you from here to America. Well, I'm sorry, but I'm not eating anything. But I would love to see you try."
Uncle Vernon just glared at Harry. Seeing that as a sign that he could go, he turned on his heel and went back to his room. He paced through his room. He had to get out. He had to do something. He grabbed the CD player and a few CDs he had stolen from Dudley, put them in his overlarge pocket and set out downstairs.
He walked out the front door and slammed it behind him. He didn't care if anyone came after him. He figured they wouldn't. Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out the headphones. He put them on and turned up the music as loud as he could handle. He then reached into another pocket and pulled out some cigarettes which he had also stolen from his cousin. He lit the fag and deeply inhaled. He let it out slowly.
He walked to little park a few streets from his aunt and uncle's house. He sat on the only swing that his cousin and his friends hadn't broken. He continued to smoke, and he wondered if any of the Order was watching him. Then, he realized that he didn't really care.
Nothing meant anything to him anymore. He reached into his pocket again and pulled out a small pocket knife. He opened the blade and gently ran it along his finger. It was sharp, and he knew it. He had carried it around with him the entire week he had been back so far. He hadn't yet used it, he'd been too scared. But now he really felt like using it. He had to feel something other than the emotional pain he felt now.
It was his fault after all, that Sirius was gone. He was the one who hadn't mastered Occlumency. He was the one who had taken Voldemort's vision seriously. He deserved to be punished. He deserved more than just the emotional torment he was going through. He had to hurt physically too, because all the dirt he felt inside him would go away.
He took the blade, and put it in the middle of his forearm. He pushed the blade gently down, and sliced it across his arm. The pain was almost unbearable at first, but it didn't last long. He made two more cuts beside the one he had just made. After wincing each time, he looked down and watched as the blood flowed from his arm. He felt a little better. He hadn't cut deep enough to kill himself, nor would he.
All Harry wanted was just a little relief. He wouldn't kill himself. He was going to kill someone else. That someone was Voldemort. He deserved to die. Harry had been through so much because him. He had lost his parents, his godfather, and had been forced to live in Hell on Earth with his aunt, uncle, and prat of a cousin all because of that stupid evil jerk who had decided he wanted to rule it all. Well, he would pay. He would pay for everything he had done.
Harry continued to watch some of his blood fall to the ground. He then took a torn piece of cloth and wrapped it around his self-inflicted wounds. He continued to sit on that swing and listen to the angry rap music that came from his headphones.
He didn't know how long he had sat there, but his bum was beginning to get numb, and more broken records of that night were starting to play in his mind. So, he got up and started to walk slowly back to his place of residence.
As Number 4 Pivet Drive came into view, he stuffed the headphones back in his pocket, and doused the new fag he had been smoking. He then walked into the house, and straight up to his bedroom. He looked at his clock and saw that he had been gone nearly 5 hours. But he didn't care.
He hid all the stuff under the loose floorboard, and went to take a shower. He walked into the bathroom, undressed, and stood under the hot gush of water. The water stung his cuts, as he had taken off the "bandage" and thrown it away. The pain felt relieving, however.
He stayed in the shower until he heard loud pounding on the door. He got out, redressed, and left the bathroom to find his aunt Petunia glowering at him. He looked at her unwaveringly.
"Boy, you need to be a little more gracious. You have not eaten, you go out without warning, and you abuse the hot water source like it is everlasting. Now, I want this ridiculous behavior to cease immediately. Dinner is almost ready, and I expect you to eat something. I will not be ignored. Do you understand me? And if you refuse to eat, I will see to it that you are force-fed. Understood?"
"Fine. Whatever. But I'm not hungry, so don't expect me to eat much."
Without another word, they both went downstairs. Harry sat at the table, and glared at the floor. He wasn't a little kid. He didn't like being treated like one. He ate a small portion of the already small meal of meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans. When he was done, he went to his room.
He saw that a large barn owl was sitting on his bed. He took the letter from it, and stroked the bird graciously. It gently nibbled his finger, and then took off through the open window. He gave Hedwig two owl treats because he had missed her when she had been gone, and opened his letter.
Dear Harry,
I hope you are well. I have thought about you a great deal this past week. I know that Sirius' death must be very hard on you. It is very hard on me as well. I want you to know that I am here for you if you need to talk about anything.
Harry, please realize that I am no longer your professor, and that I want you to be able to come to me with your problems, and to stop calling me Professor. You need to feel free to call me Remus, or even Moony.
Please, tell me how you are doing, and how the muggles are treating you. Don't let them get you down.
Your Friend,
Remus
Harry closed the letter and pulled out a piece of parchment and ink. He looked at Hedwig and asked, "You up to delivering a letter?" She hooted her response.
He looked at the piece of parchment blankly. What could he tell Remus? He couldn't tell him the truth, but he couldn't completely lie to him. He thought and then wrote:
Dear Remus,
My summer is going okay, I guess. The muggles are being okay. The feed me and then ignore me, so it's all okay. Listen, I know you mean well and everything, but I really don't feel like talking about that night just yet. Thanks for your concern.
Thanks again,
Harry
He reread the letter, and then tied it to Hedwig's leg. He watched her fly out the window, and then he went to his bed. He sat down and sighed. He really hated lying to the only person left who knew his parents, but he couldn't tell him anything that he had really been doing. He knew then that the Order would swoop down on him and treat him like a little child.
He lied down on his bed and looked at the ceiling. He never knew when he fell asleep, but he finally did. And it was the same type of sleep he had had to endure every night since that night in the Ministry of Mysteries: restless and full of memories.