One Step at a Time

Summary: Finding his most dangerous enemy in an unexpected place, Harry Potter has to figure out a way to fight his own battles. This new-found routine is not easily unlearned and might just prove to be the one thing keeping disaster at arm's length - especially as Harry's definition of 'his own battles' changes and his odd brand of warfare gains support. Canon compliant up to the end of GoF.

Disclaimer: I'm not a thief, you know. And if I was, there are better things to steal than Harry Potter.

Trigger Warning: Depression

AN: Hello, you brave, brave people whom my first chapter failed to scare away. Hope you still find this story worth your while after this one, too!

~o~o~o~

2 - Talk

He didn't recognise the person staring back at him from the mirror. Those dead eyes surely were not his own. Neither was the clammy, wan skin stretched over cheekbones prominent to the point of looking painfully sharp, nor the shaggy mess of too long hair. That gaunt thing with pallid chapped lips and the blankest of blank expressions was not Harry Potter.

Except it was and he scrambled for explanations. Why did he let himself fall this far? And how did it happen so fast without his consent? He certainly hadn't asked for this.

Explanations along with all rational thought were proving frustratingly elusive. There was this all-consuming, stifling mist rolling around in his head and he vaguely remembered finding it pleasantly numbing a few weeks ago, when it had first come. Now, he was struggling to make it go away with little success.

This was getting pathetic. Wrong – this had been pathetic for quite a while. He needed to pull himself together right this instant and stay together for as long as possible. He had-

So many things to do.

Tired.

"SHUT UP!" he roared at the ghastly image in the mirror planting both his hands onto the cold white sink. He had only a split second to cherish the sudden spark of anger before it disappeared in the thick mist of fatigue. If he had had any doubts, the harsh contrast told him exactly what he had been – and now was again – feeling. Nothing.

Abruptly, the bathroom door flew open and there stood a miffed-looking aunt Petunia in all her apron-clad glory.

A distant part of his mind thought that it would be appropriate to flush with embarrassment, take cover behind the nearest towel and perhaps apologise for yelling. But that part sounded muffled and weak while the rest loudly assured him that he didn't care, he was numb and so very tired.

So he stood there, stark naked, and watched his aunt stare at him. Surprisingly, she didn't start shrieking right off the bat. She, in fact, said nothing and just before turning away to leave, when their eyes met for a brief moment, there was a flicker of something in her face. Something Harry would never have expected to see there directed at him. Something his pride would normally have him rage and scream at. As it was, he felt an odd mixture of mild irritation and amusement wash over him.

The door closed behind her with a soft click.

When he finally found it in himself to return to his bedroom, there was a bowl of steaming stew on the table. He could work with pity, all right.

~o~o~o~

In the last five hours he had managed to avoid imminent death by dehydration, take a shower and eat a full meal as well as keep it down. Harry Potter was quite proud of his recent accomplishments.

The same, however, could not be said about his behaviour for the past month. Sitting on a plain wooden chair at the table, empty bowl pushed to the side, elbows burrowed in a jumble of crumpled old newspapers and letters, his head in his hands, Harry was desperately trying to explain himself to his conscience.

There must have been a reason. He must have made a decision - a very bad one for sure - resulting in this mess, somehow. But everything after about a week into the summer holidays was a blur, days and nights blending together into one big gob of raw emptiness and mild confusion. Who knew that survivor's guilt plus complete lack of non-frustrating human contact equalled a month of being utterly useless?

Tired.

...useless and tired, then. Exhaustion was no legitimate excuse. Besides, he wasn't looking for an excuse, anyway. He was searching for a reason.

Why? What usually makes me tik in a tight spot? What's missing now that was there before?

Why had he gone off to save the Philosopher's Stone in his first year? He couldn't even remember making the decision. Sure, he had been only eleven but he couldn't simply have waved the threat to his and his friends' lives off as no big deal. He couldn't have weighed the possible outcomes and determined the risk worth it, could he? If there had been a decision made sometime throughout that evening, it had been totally impulsive with zero brainpower behind it. There had been two kids to bond with as well as a burning desire to prove himself firmly entwined with a barely healthy amount of daring and self-appointed responsibility.

Should he be honest with himself, his second and third year adventures were alarmingly similar in origin - maybe with the added effect of his infamous, rapidly developing saving-people thing. And as for this year's events, well, he had never been a great fan of denial. He knew he had only his instincts and fortunate spur-of-the-moment actions to thank for his continued survival.

No kids to bond with - check. No clear-cut problem to be solved by taking responsibility and running head first into danger - check. And one had themselves a useless and tired Boy-Who-Lived.

So all I need to do is get myself back into the mindset of a rash show-off with enviable instincts, an unholy amount of luck, a saving-people thing and a distinct reluctance to use anything remotely resembling a brain.

...Tired?

Or I can take this opportunity of having to rebuild myself from scratch and make Harry Potter into an actual human being - complete with some patience, humility, rational judgement...

Huh.

~o~o~o~

As soon as he woke up screaming after yet another one of his one-to-two-hour naps, he knew that this rebuilding-Harry-Potter plan was going to be the hardest thing he had ever done in his life. That is, if he went through with it.

Whatever progress he had made - or whatever it had been he had made that had seemed like progress at the time - was gone without a trace. Where there had been hope before, now, there was nothing. The tiny flame of determination he had managed to kindle two hours ago was nowhere to be found and at the moment, he would swear he had just imagined it - since the energy to feel anything at all seemed entirely unattainable.

Having sufficiently acknowledged that, yes, he hit rock bottom again, Harry let himself fall into a restless slumber.

~o~o~o~

Considering the peeving brightness of the sunshine coming through the window it appeared that this time, he had actually gotten a somewhat more substantial amount of sleep. That, however, did not seem to have endeared the idea of moving to him any. He just wanted to curl into a ball and die.

Well, maybe not die.

Who cares?

I do?

Tired.

He was aware that it was weak, pathetic and altogether unbecoming of Harry Potter to admit defeat to something as banal as exhaustion. He was aware that if innocent, naive, annoying Colin Creevey saw him this way, he would lose that ever-present nervous enthusiasm that always got hold of him around Harry. He was aware that insecure, shy, brave Neville Longbottom would no longer deem him safe enough to talk to so openly. He was aware that if Sirius, Hermione, the Weasleys, professor Lupin, Hagrid or professor Dumbledore knew, they would be ashamed of him. He was aware that wherever they were, he was probably making his parents sad. He was aware of many potentially unpleasant, humiliating or outright awful things - he just, for the life of him, couldn't come up with one that would make him care.

Proving to yourself exactly how deeply you don't care won't change anything. Don't dig yourself a hole you can't crawl out of. You need to get better, whatever that means. Think on that.

There had once been a plan to mould Harry Potter into a better person, he vaguely recalled. It had once made him feel like he had a future outside this bed.

How do I implant a goal into my mind and make it work towards fulfilling that goal even though it lacks the capacity to care?

Harry shivered. When put that way, it sounded rather ominous. And he didn't actually lack the capacity to care, it was just...asleep. He had cared enough to sit down, think and come up with that very goal less than twenty four hours ago. What on Earth had given him the supernatural power to do that?

Some or all of the following: Getting yourself out of bed, taking a piss, taking a shower, brushing your teeth, making aunt Petunia pity you enough to leave food in your room, eating said food.

When he seriously thought about it, it wasn't that hard a puzzle to crack.

Overcoming obstacle. Successfully completing task. Human contact.

Well, this was surprisingly straightforward. He was at a standstill, that was his problem. He needed to move. Gain momentum. Get back to the next level where 'take a shower' meant 'have a relaxing break' to him and not 'prepare for the peak achievement of the day'.

Careful. Don't get ahead of yourself. You have some idea now what your reaction to failure would be. If you can't see it in time, you want to walk into the brick wall rather than run into it. There's no rush. Think before you do anything at all.

Systematically, then. One step at a time.

All he needed to do right now was give himself a task. Something simple enough to accomplish in the next few hours but still challenging while somehow involving at least one person other than himself. Since at this point just about everything seemed challenging to him, 'simple enough to accomplish in the next few hours, somehow involving at least one person other than himself' it was.

His internal clock told him it would soon be noon, meaning the only other person in the house would be in the kitchen downstairs cooking. Conveniently, she was probably the best option if he had to choose one person to talk to at this point. Petunia Dursley already thought the worst of him, there was nothing to lose if he made an idiot out of himself - and in this state of mind there was no doubt he would do exactly that. Besides, he should probably eat something, anyway.

Objective: Get better

Obstacle: Myself

Short-term goal: Talk to aunt Petunia

Human contact: Check

Go.

~o~o~o~

Sun shining through the open patio door bathing the pristinely clean dining room in natural light and warmth, gentle breeze playing with the net curtains, bringing a taste of the heat outside into the house; it was a beautiful summer day, really. Except Harry couldn't but find the sun intrusive and obnoxious, the heat suffocating.

The kitchen area seemed somewhat more bearable as the rays could not reach there. A fair-haired tall woman in a very proper-looking calf-length yellow skirt and a simple white cotton blouse was moving about the nook with practised eficience, her back to the door, not even noticing her nephew's arrival.

As he walked across the the room, Harry distantly felt himself panicking. It wasn't like anything he remembered ever feeling but somehow he knew it was, in fact, panic. Although the forefront of his mind was eerily calm, there was this disturbing background noise setting Harry's teeth on edge, making him somewhat jittery, restless.

It was one thing to tell yourself 'I will talk to my bitch of an aunt, who has hated me for as long as I can remember, the only precedent for the two of us having a civil conversation being...non-existent' and another thing entirely to actually open your mouth and in full consciousness, sound of mind unleash Hell. Suddenly, Harry had to wonder whether it hadn't been that side of him too tired to care about staying alive, who had come up with this crazy idea.

But he was freaking himself out; that was the weakness, the numbness, the void talking. He could do no harm here. Even if his aunt threw him out of the house as a result, he would have done the right thing. He would have tried. Keeping the promise to himself. Moving forward. Getting better. With that in mind, Harry braced himself and pushed.

"Need a hand?" he asked, his voice softer than intended but making Petunia jump, nonetheless.

Having set the knife down on the chopping board next to a shiny pink lump of chicken breast, Harry's aunt turned around wiping her hands on the floral print apron - slowly, as if buying time to compose herself. She must have done a good job of it since when her eyes met Harry's at last, her expression was perfectly unreadable.

"Peel the potatoes," she finally said motioning to the steaming colander in the sink before turning back to the meat.

Marvelling at the lack of spite or command in his aunt's tone Harry quickly found himself a clean bowl, a knife and careful not to get burnt if it was still too hot, picked up a potato.

Halfway through with the second one, he chose to say: "Thanks for dinner yesterday."

The next few minutes gave a whole new meaning to 'awkward silence' in Harry's eyes. He was on his eighth potato when Petunia finally spoke.

"You should air out your room. It stinks." No disgust, no contempt. Just a flat statement of fact. Quite a feat, coming from his obsessively cleanly aunt.

Well, that's what happens when you spend days on end in bed without showering or changing the sheets, I guess.

Shame, embarrassment, urge to justify himself; none of it felt quite urgent enough to pay attention to. So his aunt who had so far believed him to be merely a worthless freak now also thought he was a filthy slob. Oh well.

"Sorry. I will," Harry replied a potato later.

Oil sizzled as Petunia added the pieces of chicken to the mix of onions and red peppers in the frying pan.

It took three tries failed after taking the initial breath and one more potato for Harry to ask. Maybe his aunt had noticed he hadn't been himself this past month. Maybe she would know what to do. Maybe she could help. There was no way Harry was mentioning this to anyone in his letters - what with them being the epitome of unhelpful - and his next best shot at getting some advice was barmy, cat-loving Mrs Figg. On the other hand, the Dursleys had always been as observant when it came to him as Ron was tactful.

Here goes nothing.

"What else do you think I should do?"

Petunia tensed, shot him a strange look, prodded at the chicken with a wooden spatula for a while, then glanced at the clock on the wall, sighed and with an air of finality, turning down the heat under it covered the pan with a glass lid. Harry began peeling his last potato watching curiously out of the corner of his eye as his aunt set about making tea for two.

~o~o~o~

AN: Thanks for reading. Review, please? The big change making ripples and causing the story to irreversibly move away from canon coming next!