Taking Control
By: Someone2
Look at me, I can't even kill myself properly, Harry thought fingering the faint lines running along his wrists. He looked at the blade sitting on the edge of the counter. Dirty and dull and broken—just like him. He lifted it up and held its heavy weight in his hand, staring at the blade's marred surface.
He had tried to survive, had tried to live, but it was too much now—way, way too much. Voldemort was gone now. But at what cost? They were all gone. Every single one of them and they had taken Harry bit by bit with them. The list goes on and on: Hermione, Ron, Percy, Ginny, Remus, Sirius, Dumbledore, Arthur, Molly, the Creevy brothers, Fred, George, even Draco… Every name brought a face and every face brought a vision of death. Visions of the people in agony, calling for help, help that Harry couldn't give. It wasn't fair; then again they always said that life wasn't fair. He should have helped them. But no, he was being protected. Being protected from what? From life? He had never understood that part of it. It wasn't their life to live. Didn't they know that he would have welcomed death as long as it had come by his decision? They hadn't cared. He was the secret weapon, one that they would only use when necessary—in other words, when it benefited them. The word still brings vile thoughts and feelings. It was all their fault! All of it! The Order had taken itself too far. It had let innocent people die. They had locked Harry up like a precious white dove—the vision of hope, but only to be seen when they let it out of its cage. And that, to speak of it, was very rare. Harry couldn't remember the last time he had been let out of his new cage. Freedom was a forgotten virtue. Large and spacious as it was, not many people would believe it to be a prison, but it was. They didn't really care what happened to him as long as he was there to save the day when things got a bit tough. Which wasn't very often anymore.
Harry put the blade to his skin and pressed down slightly, tracing one of the previous lines. He watched as dewdrops of deep red blood rose to fill the crevice—the only noticeable flaws among the tan surface. There was no pain, so he pressed harder, trying to feel the pain he knew he would never feel. New crosses filled with blood again and again until Harry dropped the blade, he was crying so hard. His arm was a mass of blood and frayed skin… for a moment. Within seconds the cuts stopped bleeding and healed, leaving only faint scars. He wanted to feel the pain; he wanted to feel something other than loneliness. He didn't want to live and he couldn't die. He couldn't because of those powers, the same powers that could have saved those people. The powers that kept him from dieing… and from living. It wasn't fair! He just wanted to be happy again, he just wanted to be normal. Ha! That was never going to happen. Being normal went along with freedom—a virtue that Harry wasn't allowed.
Harry sat on the edge of the tub and watched his blood go down the drain. He buried his head in his arms and cried. Something he had never been allowed to do before. He felt the salty tears cool his warm skin. One tear dripped into the tub and mingled with his blood until it finally went down the drain. If only he hadn't agreed… Harry lifted his head when he heard his name being called.
"Harry," the person called. But this couldn't be right; he was dead—wasn't he?
"Harry, wake up right now before I have to call Hermione up here!" Ron's voice woke Harry from his dream. "Mate, come on! We're going to miss breakfast."
Harry sat up quickly. This wasn't a dream. The other was. He wasn't trying to kill himself and nobody was dead.
"I'm up," he said as he flung back the covers. Ron grabbed his wrist.
"Those look bloody nasty, mate. Where'd you get them?" Harry looked at his wrists and saw the familiar pattern of scars—cuts he had just dreamed about. What was going on?
"I have no idea," Harry said honestly. Shortly after they went to Great Hall for breakfast.
Later that night Professor McGonagall came up to him and gave him a note. It read:
Mr. Potter, please go to the headmaster's office at once. The password is "Licorice Wands." ~Professor McGonagall
This was giving him a certain feeling of déjà vu, but he went to Dumbledore's office immediately, barely realizing when he got to the old mage's door. Harry didn't even bother knocking before he walked in. There was a man talking to Dumbledore. No one that Harry knew, but he immediately hated the old man. The man radiated smugness to the roots of his white hair. His fingers were tracing the bottom of his goatee as he listened to what Dumbledore had to say. He was wearing a set of deep blue robes. Both men stopped talking and looked at the door when Harry had so rudely walked in.
"Harry," Dumbledore said, looking a little grave, "please, take a seat."
Harry didn't move from the door. "No thank you, sir. I prefer to stand."
Dumbledore blinked, but then gestured to the other man. "Harry, this is Mr. Van Schmitt, head of the Order. Van, this is Harry Potter."
Van stood up and held a hand out to Harry. "A pleasure, Mr. Potter," he began but stopped when he realized that Harry wasn't going to shake his hand.
"What's going on, Professor?" Harry asked quietly. Something still didn't feel right, and by now he had learned to trust his feelings. Van sat down, fairly ruffled.
"Mr. Schmitt is here to talk to you about Voldemort, please listen to him."
Harry nodded, that dream still playing in his dreams.
"Mr. Potter, on behalf of the Order of the Phoenix I would like to ask you to join. Please listen to me before you make your decision,"—Harry had opened his mouth to say something but Van had cut him off with a raised hand. "Thank you. Now, we are an organization against the Dark Arts. Right now we are mainly focused on the defeat of Voldemort. We feel that your 'talents' would be useful for his diminish. You'd be trained up properly and such, but you would be the one to defeat him. What do you think?"
That fool of a man honestly believed that he was appealing to Harry. However… he knew something that Van didn't. He knew what he would become if he did join and he never wanted to feel that lonely and sad and angry again. Ever. Plus, that man was too confident for his own good. Harry narrowed his eyes at Van.
"No."
Van looked at Harry with disbelief. "What did you say?"
Harry smiled very coolly; it was more of a smirk actually. "I said, Mr. Schmitt, no. No, I will not join your organization."
Dumbledore looked at the younger boy with a guarded expression. "Why?"
"Because I don't wish to be locked up like a song bird. I will choose who I fight and when, and, I'm sorry,"—Harry really didn't look that sorry—"but I refuse to be under someone else's orders."
Van stood up, enraged. "You are making a mistake here, Mr. Potter. You'll see."
Harry stood his ground. "No, Mr. Schmitt, you'll see."
Van walked out of the room and Dumbledore watched Harry keenly. "Why didn't you join, Harry?"
"I told you. I'm not your bloody possession. Besides, I reckon he can't tell me that I have a chance of a normal life afterwards." He fingered the scars on his wrists. "No, I don't believe that at all."
"You may go now," Dumbledore said with a sigh.
"Thank you, sir," Harry said as he walked out of the office.
Dumbledore looked at Fawkes. "Well, my dear phoenix, do you think he knows something we don't?"
The bird let out a low whistle. Dumbledore nodded. "So did I."
A/N: Awe! Look at that! Harry's taking charge of his life. Isn't it wonderful? No, this won't be a series; I just wanted to write it down. I am having trouble on "Days Gone By" but I am still working on it. Hope you liked this!
Disclaimer: If it came from the Harry Potter books then I don't own it. Please don't sue; I only have three dollars and a purple bouncy ball.
Thanks to my wonderful beta's—Katrina Skyfrost, Krazy Kris, and Pumpkin Hatching. Even though they haven't seen this.
Please remember to review!
Someone2