Harry finished his slice of bread and took care of the dishes, while Dudley went to sit in front of the telly and his uncle got to work. He washed the knives, bowls and spoons without thinking, habits kicking in. It had been two weeks since he'd been back to the Dursleys, and they hadn't been too bad so far, probably thanks to the Order's warning. As long as he did his chores, which for once weren't too many for him to handle, and as long as he didn't speak, he was free to do whatever he liked.
There wasn't anything he wanted to do, however. He was numb, unable to feel anything anymore. Sirius was dead, and it seemed that with him, Harry's mind was dead too. And he was tired of being this way. He just couldn't help it. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. Not even the prophecy. It was just the way things were. His destiny was to kill Voldemort or die trying, and it didn't even matter, except in the sense that it meant he couldn't kill himself right now and end his meaningless existence. His life wasn't his, and he couldn't bring himself to care.
Slowly, he made his way to his bedroom and closed the door. Sitting on his bed, he just stared into nothingness for hours. In a way, his newfound freedom at the Dursleys made things worse. It felt like he was rewarded for getting his godfather killed. He realised he wouldn't mind his uncle's punishment, this year. He deserved pain. He needed pain, he realised. Anything that could make him feel alive at all. Anything instead of the fog he seemed to live in, these days.
Time for lunch, already. Funny how time seemed to pass by without affecting him. Boredom was for the living. He was dead inside.
Without hurry, he stood up and made his way downstairs. His aunt had put some mashed potatoes on the table for him to make, and so he did. His cousin and aunt sat down in front of their plates, chatting and laughing, and he served them without earning a thanks. Not that he was expecting one, of course. It didn't matter either. He sat down too and toyed with his small portion, not really hungry. But of course he had to be strong and fit to fight Voldemort, so he ate anyway. His life didn't belong to him, and it didn't make him angry either. It was just the way things were.
Once again he cleaned up after his so-called family, and made his way up his bedroom. There, he opened his trunk and took the broken mirror Sirius had given him. It was just a plain mirror now, reflecting his ashen face and dead green eyes. He wished he could cry, but the tears just wouldn't come. He was beyond sadness.
He toyed with the broken mirror to occupy his hands while his mind wandered, and cut himself on the finger. It bled a little, and Harry stared at the red drops falling on the bed. It hurt. Fascinated, Harry experimentally ran the mirror on his left arm. He felt it, tearing his skin, but nothing happened at first. Then, a red swelling line formed where he had run the blade, and he smiled, though disappointed at the lack of blood drops.
He took it more firmly, and cut, holding his breath as he pushed harder, cutting as deeper as dared. This time, the reaction was quicker, and two blood drops, bright red, fell down his arm…