It wasn't until night fell the following night that Harry realized just how screwed his life was.
It was one of those oh-so sentimental moments that usually occur when you're sitting alone for long periods of time and you get the full perspective of your life.
It was so that Harry was assured that he was screwed.
Sirius would be his guardian for the next three years of his life. If he wasn't a pathetic heap of broken limbs by then, surely Sirius would have figured out that that he seemed unusually battered. How long would the "It was a Quidditch injury" excuse hold out?
And plus, it would be a short time before Sirius decided to do something that couldn't be covered up by a shirt. It was all ready that he couldn't wear short sleeves or shorts.
It would be a long time before his summer was over, and an even longer time before he was free of it forever.
It was with that realization that he decided that something needed to be done.
There had to be someone he could tell… wasn't there? Someone who wouldn't make it horribly awkward to face them everyday knowing they knew that he got beat up by his godfather on a regular basis.
Pfffff!
Yeah, those were excellent odds.
It couldn't be the Weasleys, since, he admitted feeling awkward, they just weren't people that he felt comfortable confiding to. Well, maybe to Mrs. Weasley, but he knew that no one could keep a secret like that in their house.
Hermione… he didn't even know her parents, and what could she herself do?
Maybe an adult he felt comfortable talking to? The first person that came to mind was Sirius. That wouldn't work too well. What about Remus?
He felt comfortable talking to him for one, but also, Remus just seemed like the level-head person who could deal with these situations.
If he were a muggle, he could probably make a good social worker.
He was lying in bed. His rib cage varied in many different colors, ranging from the various stages of healing bruises. Yellow, green, black, blue, purple. Then there were the cuts.
The shattered glass had done a number on his shoulder. Pulling shards of glass out of his flesh hadn't been a picnic, and the blood had been flowing for an awfully long time before they finally clotted over.
Harry's room had hardwood floors, though most of the room was covered with carpeting. Under his bed had found a loose floorboard which had held some… rather interesting articles from the last occupant of his room.
"It's a pity those things expire." He had joked after exploring its contents. He also found a stack of, ahem, 'magazines' from the fifties.
Preferring just to leave those at the bottom, he loaded the top up with gauze, cleaning fluid, and other medical supplies. He had found that he was running low on bandages and had to find some time to go out and buy more.
The next day was a normal one. Harry had fallen into the dull routine pattern of summer.
Breakfast was held, though Sirius ate nothing as always. His hair was standing on end and Harry was choking from concealed laughter.
"I'm going to be out for a while. Is that all right?" Sirius asked him staring down at his untouched plate of food.
Why did people ask questions they already knew the answer to, he wondered. It wasn't like he could stop him.
"Yeah, all right." He replied.
"You can go outside, or into town, or wherever you want to go while I out, okay?"
He waited fifteen minutes until after Sirius left before he left walking towards Remus's little one-story house.
He paused outside of the door. His head got dizzy with all of the thoughts that plagued him.
Was it right to just come over without asking him first? Would he really be able to go through with it? Was Remus going to believe him? Would he tell Sirius? Would he think that he was just making mountains of molehills? Maybe it was actually natural for Sirius to be doing this.
He stood there thinking about it for almost five minutes; his hand stretched out in midair to knock.
"Screw it." He thought, and he knocked.
The door open a few minutes later to Remus's face. "Oh, hey Harry." He greeted politely. He looked around. "Where's Sirius?" He asked looking around.
He finally found his voice. "He's- he's not here." He said stupidly. "I mean… it's just me." He took a deep breath. Remus looked a bit worried.
"Are you all right? You seem a bit flushed to me. Is something wrong?" He looked concerned. He put a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Ow! Ow! Damn! Cuts all over shoulder!" He screamed to himself, but he kept a relatively straight face.
Harry paused for a while. He didn't want to just burst right out the open like this, but he didn't know how to go about doing it.
"Would you like to sit down? I'll put a pot of tea on the stove." He offered.
Harry mutely nodded his head. He sighed to himself in relief when Remus finally pulled his hand away.
There was silence as Remus prepared their tea and Harry tried to gather his courage. How was he going to begin?
This was one of those things that should have been confessed at the beginning. It was like when you saw someone on a daily basis and had never asked them their name. It was an awkward thing to bring up and he was not at all anxious to talk about it.
"So." He started. "Something tells me this isn't a social visit."
"No." He let the steam from his cup tickle his nose, looking down into it.
There was a silence. Of anything, he admired Remus for his patience.
"Did… you know that Sirius has a drinking problem?" He asked meekly.
"A drinking problem? Uh… Harry, I'm not trying to sound skeptical or anything, but I don't think that you could really consider Sirius an alcoholic."
This wasn't staring off good.
"I mean, I know for a fact that Sirius will have a couple of drinks every once in a while. I'll go as far as to say that he likes to get drunk, but… I don't think it's really going to pose too much of a problem. IF it bothers you, you should talk to him about it."
Harry sighed. "Remus, I don't know how to say this." He looked at Remus for any encouragement. "He's… hit me."
He couldn't tell if it was just him, but the temperature seemed to rise. The whole discussion, the whole situation just seemed really bad from where he was sitting. He could feel the sweat on his forehead begin to form. He had really started off on the wrong foot.
He stared at Remus's face. At first, skepticism showed on his face, but then he looked a bit alarmed.
"When you say hit, do you mean… he's attacked you?" He nodded slowly.
This time, Remus made no attempt at making him feel like it was a misunderstanding. "I really can't see Sirius doing that Harry."
There was a look in his eyes that made Harry wish he had never come. He knew exactly what was going on in Remus's head at that moment. "He thinks I'm just trying to get attention, doesn't he?" He told himself.
Any evidence that he might have had was all ready contaminated. He'll think that I'm completely faking it. The bruises could have been faked as well as the cuts. He had never heard of it happening, but he was almost positive it could be done.
Remus looked at him, noticing how uneasy he had gotten. A painful feeling passed over his shoulders, and he started feeling very numb. He had the incredible urge to run away, but he knew he couldn't. He was bolted to the seat. He knew that he had to get out of this somehow. Remus was going to tell Sirius that Harry had accused him of beating him, and Sirius wouldn't know what he was talking about. As much as he didn't like having to live with the abuse, he would much rather live with it then have Sirius thinking that he would accuse him of it.
"Remus. I know what you're thinking, but… It's not true." He offered lamely. "Can we just forget this ever happened?" "Yeah, that's likely. He's just going to completely forget that I've ever said this." He said bitterly to himself.
"Harry…" Remus looked like he didn't even know how to respond to this. "What is this all about? I mean, I know that Sirius isn't really an excellent guardian, but do you really hate him so bad that you want to make all of this stuff up about him? They- they lock people up in mental institutions for this stuff. Sirius could get sent to prison for allegations like these, and you know his record. The ministry would send him back to Azkaban faster then you can say abuse."
Remus looked at him with disbelief. "I don't know what you were thinking about, trying to claim he's 'abusing' you, but Harry, I thought I knew you better then that."
The numbness had come back with a vengeance. He couldn't feel anything… not even emotion. A lot of sensations he had only read about came to pass. His lungs felt like they were being squeezed. His breath hitched in his throat and he starting wondering if should even breathe.
During the nights when he was lying in bed, listening to his heartbeat pulse with incredible force, he had been sure he had thought of every single problem that would arise from his situation. He hadn't even considered Sirius's arrest record.
This was worse then Catch 22. If he told the truth, Sirius would definitely go to jail. There would be no hesitation, and Harry probably wouldn't even be able to defend him.
If he lied and said that Sirius had never done anything, he probably would be locked up, and Sirius would want nothing to do with him.
Even if he tried to tell Remus the truth, what would come out of it? Remus wouldn't believe him. And it would be worse if he did. He couldn't even be assured that he wouldn't go to the ministry with that information.
He had no idea what to do. He felt cold… sick… he wanted to throw up, or cry. Remus took no pity. He just stared at him, shaking his head.
He didn't want to cry. There were enough people who discouraged doing it. He had been in situations when his own life was at risk before. Heck, just about once year since Hogwarts. But this was different. This time, it was between his own welfare, and his godfather's. He wanted both, but he knew there was no way that could happen.
Why couldn't he have just left well enough alone? He could have just taken the freaking abuse. He would have been happy half of the time, Sirius would have just stayed in the dark, and Remus wouldn't have been involved.
He took note with no heed that he was in fact shaking. His voice broke when he spoke. "I want to go home." It was possibly the dimmest thing he had ever said in his life. Had he declined in age about seven years?
Even Remus seemed surprised by it. "Harry…" He sounded reprimanding.
"No! Please, I want to go home. God. I want this to be over. I hate you! I hate him! I hate myself." He practically mouthed the last statement.
His resolve was like a swaying brick wall. "Harry… go home."
There was a silence.
"I can't." He knew he couldn't. I wanted to with every fiber of his being, but he couldn't.
"I don't care. Just go home." Remus's tone didn't match his words. It almost sounded like compassion.
"Why? Do you think I have a death wish?" Harry asked bitterly. "You'll go and tell Sirius, and come back with a white van and a straightjacket."
"Look. I want to forget this ever happened just as much as you do. I really hope that you aren't going to make me regret this Harry." He sounded stern, but he looked more wasted then anything.
Harry could have hugged him, but that would have been too normal a response. Instead burst into hysterics.
It would have been a lot more acceptable response a few minutes previously, he realized. It was again another thing he had only heard about. One of those delayed responses. He realized just how close he had been to a nightmare. He calmed himself down the point where he wasn't in danger of hyperventilating, and Remus was again looking at him like skeptical, but now it was probably of his sanity.
He left, still shaking, and felt the humidity come over him. He smelt the makings of a storm, but knew he would make it back to his house before the rain came. He almost wished that it would start pouring, just because his mood was craving a reason to run back to his house.
He reached it, taking a good look at the outside. It was made of stone; the perfect house. He had always imagined growing up in one of these houses. It was big enough to accommodate quite a few people, and he had always seen two parents raising him, and maybe a little brother as well.
There wasn't that longing feeling that he got when he looked at it, though, like he had every time he saw one when he was going somewhere. It didn't make him feel yearning for a family. He had one, unhinged as it might be. But it was a family. And the only emotion that passed over him as he looked at the house was that realization.
He was home.