The next week was a torturous one for Harry. The muggle world held nothing to distract him from his thoughts and his pain. Yet the magical world would hold all to remind him.
Harry tried desperately not to cut again. It was hard. After finding a way to momentarily forget everything, it was extremely hard to give up, not to do again.
Which is why he didn't quite succeed.
But now it was Sunday, which meant that Harry would be returning to The Burrow at last. How, he didn't know. So Harry just stood, looking out his window, waiting for something somewhere to happen.
And it did. A car drove down the road, then pulled into the Dursley's driveway. Harry watched as a balding man and three of his sons got out of the car. All of them had red hair. Harry gently tugged down his left sleeve, and dashed downstairs. He opened the front door before they even got to it.
"Hey Harry," Ron said, grinning at him. Harry returned the smile. He had decided to keep everything private. Not that he really had any other choice, he would never be able to bring himself to tell Ron or Hermione or anyone about any of it.
"We'll get your stuff," said George, and he and Fred went up the stairs.
"How've you been?" Ron asked Harry.
"All right, I guess." *Complete, total lie.*
"That's good. Hermione's already arrived." They started toward the ministry car, followed shortly behind by Fred and George, who were grinning mysteriously.
***************************************
"Harry!" Hermione greeted Harry with a hug, to his displeasure.
"Hullo," he said wearily. Hermione pulled away, looking him over. She was disturbed by a change in his appearance she couldn't quite place, like he looked older and younger at the same time.
Harry smiled. Not much, but he didn't know what else to do.
"Come on, let's go up to my room," Ron suggested. Ron closed the door behind him when the three of them got there.
"How've you been, Harry?" he asked seriously.
"Fine," Harry said rather quickly, rubbing the fingers of his left hand over the outside near end of his left sleeve, thankful for the overly large size of his shirt. "I've been fine."
"Really?" Hermione asked.
"*Yes,*" said Harry, a hint of annoyance in his voice. "I'm *fine.*"
"All right..." she said, looking doubtful. *She can't know, can she?*
"Great," said Ron, smiling, looking a bit relieved. He could have no idea what Harry had to cope with, but was glad to see he was handling it well.
Harry sighed inwardly with relief as the three of them went back downstairs. They didn't know. They weren't *going* to know. They'd never gang up on him like that again, and they'd let him deal with it and make his decision in relative peace. He hoped.
*****************************************************
Harry gazed up at his own reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror in the Weasleys' bathroom, the only place he could be alone. He didn't like his appearance: his messy black hair, bright green eyes, glasses, scar. He shifted his gaze downward.
There he saw his hands. They were steady, perhaps surprisingly so, as one was holding a knife and the other was held out further, bringing the revealed wrist just inches under the blade.
Harry examined his wrist. There were already cuts there, healing. He didn't regret one of them.
Harry brought the knife slowly and carefully down. He felt the cool edge of the knife on his skin for a moment before the stinging surged through him.
Harry gave a soft, short gasp of pain, then let the feeling travel momentarily through the rest of him, willing it to stay for a few precious moments longer. Then it was centered back around the wound, and lingered, Harry focusing his whole being on the pain and becoming it once more. He felt nothing else, he thought nothing else, he was nothing else, just the pain, until it slowly started to ebb away.
Harry sat back against the wall and leaned his head back, closing his eyes, concentrating on the pain that was leaving him, trying desperately to forget for a little while longer. After several moments he opened his eyes and looked back at his wrist. It was still bleeding, not profusely, not more than he could handle, but probably a bit more than he could be comfortable with.
He watched it bleed. Watching his blood leave him gave him an odd feeling of satisfaction and caused his mind to go blank. Soon he had to get up and wash it off in the sink. Then he watched it bleed some more, until finally it stopped. Harry surveyed the wet redness of the blood over his arm that came from the cut, then gently rinsed it away. Making sure all the blood was gone, he carefully dried his arm and hands, pulled down his sleeve, and left.
***********************************************
It was a beautiful summer day, which Hermione, Harry, and Ron had chose to spend outside. Currently they were in the shade under a tree, Harry unusually quiet and sitting a bit apart from Ron and Hermione.
Harry laid down on his back, staring up into the leaves of the tree. Hermione and Ron stopped talking and glanced over at him for a moment, then looked away and continued their conversation. Harry was grateful they were letting him be alone.
He needed to think. His dreams were only getting worse, as was the situation in the wizarding world, from what little information was coming to the surface. The ministry was still denying that Voldemort had even come back, but all of them were able to read between the lines.
Harry wanted peace, and couldn't see any way to get it. Any way, that is, except to take his own life. But he still needed to figure out if suicide would be easy or if it would be right.
He wanted peace. He wanted rest. He wanted to escape, to really escape, for all these problems, for Voldemort, to go away, and he didn't see any way for that to happen. Harry didn't see any way for it to ever stop, and as far as he could tell, there was nothing for him to do to help.
He gently ran his thumb under his sleeve and over each cut on his wrist. This is what his life had come down to. Existing, moment to moment, only feeling real and at peace while he was cutting, while the rest of the time trying not to. He was trying not to find peace, because of his life, because of how the world would react to his cutting. Because cutting was the only thing that brought him peace.
Harry glanced over at Hermione and Ron. How would they react, if they knew? They'd both be saddened, confused, and upset, he knew that. They wouldn't be able to understand. They didn't have to experience what Harry was experiencing, what he had already experienced.
No one did.
Harry turned his head and looked toward the Weasleys' home. They had been so kind, taking him in at their own risk. At their own risk.... Harry quickly turned his gaze back to Ron and Hermione, so quickly that he attracted their attention once more.
Harry smiled at them. They smiled back. Harry looked back up at the tree, and Ron and Hermione continued talking.
Harry couldn't stand the thought of anything happening to Ron or Hermione. Or any of the Weasleys, or any of his other friends.... The list just went on and on. Them being around him, around Voldemort's inevitable target, were putting them at serious risk. It would really be good for all of them if he were gone.
And he was so much trouble to have around as well. Dumbledore had to put up special protections around the Burrow on account of Harry coming to stay there. He had more important things to be doing, he had Hogwarts, he had such influence over so many people's lives. He couldn't waste so much time and energy for Harry's sake. And he wasn't the only one making special accommodations for Harry. Harry felt that he was too much trouble to have around. And too much risk.
And so it was decided. Now all he needed to figure out was when.
********************************************************
"Hurry!" Mrs. Weasley said to her children, Harry, and Hermione. They were at King's Cross station between platforms nine and ten on September first, and eleven o'clock was rapidly approaching.
Harry ran through the barrier. There it was, the gleaming scarlet Hogwarts Express, which would bring him back to Hogwarts... where he would meet his death.
Ron and Hermione smiled at Harry as they came through the barrier. He smiled back. They boarded the train. After putting away their things, they went to the window to say goodbye.
"Take care of yourself," Mr. Weasley said to Harry. "All of you."
"I will, Mr. Weasley."
The train started to move, and with his right hand Harry waved goodbye.
Harry tried desperately not to cut again. It was hard. After finding a way to momentarily forget everything, it was extremely hard to give up, not to do again.
Which is why he didn't quite succeed.
But now it was Sunday, which meant that Harry would be returning to The Burrow at last. How, he didn't know. So Harry just stood, looking out his window, waiting for something somewhere to happen.
And it did. A car drove down the road, then pulled into the Dursley's driveway. Harry watched as a balding man and three of his sons got out of the car. All of them had red hair. Harry gently tugged down his left sleeve, and dashed downstairs. He opened the front door before they even got to it.
"Hey Harry," Ron said, grinning at him. Harry returned the smile. He had decided to keep everything private. Not that he really had any other choice, he would never be able to bring himself to tell Ron or Hermione or anyone about any of it.
"We'll get your stuff," said George, and he and Fred went up the stairs.
"How've you been?" Ron asked Harry.
"All right, I guess." *Complete, total lie.*
"That's good. Hermione's already arrived." They started toward the ministry car, followed shortly behind by Fred and George, who were grinning mysteriously.
***************************************
"Harry!" Hermione greeted Harry with a hug, to his displeasure.
"Hullo," he said wearily. Hermione pulled away, looking him over. She was disturbed by a change in his appearance she couldn't quite place, like he looked older and younger at the same time.
Harry smiled. Not much, but he didn't know what else to do.
"Come on, let's go up to my room," Ron suggested. Ron closed the door behind him when the three of them got there.
"How've you been, Harry?" he asked seriously.
"Fine," Harry said rather quickly, rubbing the fingers of his left hand over the outside near end of his left sleeve, thankful for the overly large size of his shirt. "I've been fine."
"Really?" Hermione asked.
"*Yes,*" said Harry, a hint of annoyance in his voice. "I'm *fine.*"
"All right..." she said, looking doubtful. *She can't know, can she?*
"Great," said Ron, smiling, looking a bit relieved. He could have no idea what Harry had to cope with, but was glad to see he was handling it well.
Harry sighed inwardly with relief as the three of them went back downstairs. They didn't know. They weren't *going* to know. They'd never gang up on him like that again, and they'd let him deal with it and make his decision in relative peace. He hoped.
*****************************************************
Harry gazed up at his own reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror in the Weasleys' bathroom, the only place he could be alone. He didn't like his appearance: his messy black hair, bright green eyes, glasses, scar. He shifted his gaze downward.
There he saw his hands. They were steady, perhaps surprisingly so, as one was holding a knife and the other was held out further, bringing the revealed wrist just inches under the blade.
Harry examined his wrist. There were already cuts there, healing. He didn't regret one of them.
Harry brought the knife slowly and carefully down. He felt the cool edge of the knife on his skin for a moment before the stinging surged through him.
Harry gave a soft, short gasp of pain, then let the feeling travel momentarily through the rest of him, willing it to stay for a few precious moments longer. Then it was centered back around the wound, and lingered, Harry focusing his whole being on the pain and becoming it once more. He felt nothing else, he thought nothing else, he was nothing else, just the pain, until it slowly started to ebb away.
Harry sat back against the wall and leaned his head back, closing his eyes, concentrating on the pain that was leaving him, trying desperately to forget for a little while longer. After several moments he opened his eyes and looked back at his wrist. It was still bleeding, not profusely, not more than he could handle, but probably a bit more than he could be comfortable with.
He watched it bleed. Watching his blood leave him gave him an odd feeling of satisfaction and caused his mind to go blank. Soon he had to get up and wash it off in the sink. Then he watched it bleed some more, until finally it stopped. Harry surveyed the wet redness of the blood over his arm that came from the cut, then gently rinsed it away. Making sure all the blood was gone, he carefully dried his arm and hands, pulled down his sleeve, and left.
***********************************************
It was a beautiful summer day, which Hermione, Harry, and Ron had chose to spend outside. Currently they were in the shade under a tree, Harry unusually quiet and sitting a bit apart from Ron and Hermione.
Harry laid down on his back, staring up into the leaves of the tree. Hermione and Ron stopped talking and glanced over at him for a moment, then looked away and continued their conversation. Harry was grateful they were letting him be alone.
He needed to think. His dreams were only getting worse, as was the situation in the wizarding world, from what little information was coming to the surface. The ministry was still denying that Voldemort had even come back, but all of them were able to read between the lines.
Harry wanted peace, and couldn't see any way to get it. Any way, that is, except to take his own life. But he still needed to figure out if suicide would be easy or if it would be right.
He wanted peace. He wanted rest. He wanted to escape, to really escape, for all these problems, for Voldemort, to go away, and he didn't see any way for that to happen. Harry didn't see any way for it to ever stop, and as far as he could tell, there was nothing for him to do to help.
He gently ran his thumb under his sleeve and over each cut on his wrist. This is what his life had come down to. Existing, moment to moment, only feeling real and at peace while he was cutting, while the rest of the time trying not to. He was trying not to find peace, because of his life, because of how the world would react to his cutting. Because cutting was the only thing that brought him peace.
Harry glanced over at Hermione and Ron. How would they react, if they knew? They'd both be saddened, confused, and upset, he knew that. They wouldn't be able to understand. They didn't have to experience what Harry was experiencing, what he had already experienced.
No one did.
Harry turned his head and looked toward the Weasleys' home. They had been so kind, taking him in at their own risk. At their own risk.... Harry quickly turned his gaze back to Ron and Hermione, so quickly that he attracted their attention once more.
Harry smiled at them. They smiled back. Harry looked back up at the tree, and Ron and Hermione continued talking.
Harry couldn't stand the thought of anything happening to Ron or Hermione. Or any of the Weasleys, or any of his other friends.... The list just went on and on. Them being around him, around Voldemort's inevitable target, were putting them at serious risk. It would really be good for all of them if he were gone.
And he was so much trouble to have around as well. Dumbledore had to put up special protections around the Burrow on account of Harry coming to stay there. He had more important things to be doing, he had Hogwarts, he had such influence over so many people's lives. He couldn't waste so much time and energy for Harry's sake. And he wasn't the only one making special accommodations for Harry. Harry felt that he was too much trouble to have around. And too much risk.
And so it was decided. Now all he needed to figure out was when.
********************************************************
"Hurry!" Mrs. Weasley said to her children, Harry, and Hermione. They were at King's Cross station between platforms nine and ten on September first, and eleven o'clock was rapidly approaching.
Harry ran through the barrier. There it was, the gleaming scarlet Hogwarts Express, which would bring him back to Hogwarts... where he would meet his death.
Ron and Hermione smiled at Harry as they came through the barrier. He smiled back. They boarded the train. After putting away their things, they went to the window to say goodbye.
"Take care of yourself," Mr. Weasley said to Harry. "All of you."
"I will, Mr. Weasley."
The train started to move, and with his right hand Harry waved goodbye.
