This chapter is angsty; it also contains scenes of self-harming.If this disturbs you, I have noted in the text where it begins, so you can stop reading, and I will place a brief plot-summary at the beginning of the next chapter (which returns to a lighter tone).
Author's quotation. Because Harry hasn't read this book. But I have.
"What is vertigo? Fear of falling? … No, vertigo is something other than the fear of falling. It is the voice of the emptiness below us which tempts and lures us, it is the desire to fall, against which, terrified, we defend ourselves." Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being.
It was odd, Harry thought dully, how emptiness could fill you and more than fill you, as if it were trying to burst through your skin and obliterate you with a void. A space, a purified vacuum, an annihilation.
Be not, he said to himself experimentally. Be not, be not. Almost he hoped that with the words and the desire and the wizardry, such a command might actually call down the fates and usher thought into reality.
But there was no magic he knew of that could perform such an act; could excise him neatly from the surface of the world and of history, as if he had never been.
He curled up and pressed his chin against his knees. The room was not cold, but he was shivering. He did not know how much time had passed.
So many times in recent weeks had he sat like this, poised on the edge of the long fall into darkness.
Resolutely, again, he turned his face away. Was he not the The Boy Who Lived? Dumbledore had told him he was the only one who could kill Voldemort. He had to live; and live; and live…. For all of the rest of them. But I will fail, a small voice inside him wailed. He stood under the judgement of the living and the dead, and found himself wanting.
He stifled the impulse to express his frustration through noise, for Snape would hear. Silently, he rocked. The tension inside him was causing him physical pain: jagged edges of misery impaled him from moment to moment.
He remembered a fragment of a poem he had read once inside a newspaper he had purloined from the Dursleys' bin. The words had stayed with him, for they expressed how he felt.
Darkness. The crushed earth
Gasps.
I am alone in this shattered place,
Blundering blind with the blinded stars
Through deathless night.
This shattered place, he thought. This shattered place, and he: in that place, broken, broken open, upon those broken stones. In deathless night.
He was so cold. He wondered how it was possible to feel so numb and so anguished at the same time.
There. That potion was bubbling along very nicely. It was, actually, rather intricate. Were I the sort of person given to self-congratulation, I would have to admit few other people could brew that particular potion with success.
Not being Gilderoy Lockhart, however, I had neglected to supply myself with a stack of signed photographs to that effect.
Now: to my most important experiment.
The prospect of being imprisoned in a school had appalled me. Worst of all, the prospect of my liberation appeared by all accounts to rest on the possibility of Potter managing to vanquish Voldemort.
Hmm.
Alternatively the Dark Lord, before that unlikely eventuality, would succeed in finding some way to remove the stain of my existence from his domains. The key to it was that blasted Mark on my arm. Somehow the Dark Lord had found a way to use it to put down taproots into my body, and bespell me from afar. But it could be blocked; it could be blocked. Here in Hogwarts castle, the Mark responded to the Dark Lord's call; it burned. But he was not able to feed his spells down through it.
I needed to find a way of blocking his attentions in a more portable format. One I could carry around with me, and thus resume some semblance of ordinary life.
As I was a Potions Master, naturally, it was in the realm of Potions that I experimented. I was rather hopeful of my latest line of enquiry. I stirred, and simmered, and measured out precise portions of obscure ingredients.
I was definitely irritated by the recurrent feeling: Something is wrong.
I clacked my tongue. Hard as I tried, I could not quite rid myself of the distracting sense that all was not well. Specifically, the source of my uneasiness seemed to relate to Potter.
Don't be ridiculous, I told myself. He was right there in the room next door. He would have called for me if he needed help, wouldn't he? He was seventeen years old, after all, I should not need to mollycoddle him like a toddler. He had wanted to hide away on his own.
Something is wrong, the feeling insisted. Obstinately, I refused to heed it. Potter took up far too much of my valuable time as it was. He needed to learn that idiotic actions had undesirable consequences.
So. Fine. Just how much golden seal did I think I would need…..
A/N The sections following include scenes of self-harm with quite graphic descriptions.
Harry dug a somewhat ragged fingernail into his flesh and ran it down his arm. He could feel the fiery trace of its passage.
Funnily enough, it seemed to help. It was as though a fraction of the pressure within him coalesced along that thin line of physical line of pain, and was released into the air.
Harry dug his nail in again. Harder. A vicious impulse darted snake-like within him. He gritted his teeth with a sudden urge to attack his own body. For existing. For daring to be.
His heart-rate sped up. He knew, now, what he wanted. What would fortify him in his battle against the vertigo, and help him to resist the urge to step into the void
Harry found he was panting slightly.
He looked feverishly around the room. He jumped to his feet and ran to the washbasin. He scrabbled around the various toiletries stored in the cupboard underneath. Razor. Was there a razor.
No.
But he was a wizard, wasn't he, and he was doing a NEWT in tranfiguration. His eyes roamed the room. His whole body was taut with anticipation. Yes. There. A metal comb. That would do nicely.
He breathed deeply and tried to calm himself sufficiently to undertake the spell. It really wasn't that difficult. The substance was similar. He held in his mind the sharp edges and flat, sleek sides of an old-fashioned razor blade. He muttered the incantation and performed the requisite wand movements.
And there it was. Silver, glinting. Sharp.
Harry's breath was coming very fast now. A thought struck him. He crossed to the door and carefully spelled it shut with the strongest wards he knew.
Then he sat on the edge of the bed and contemplated the razor. Now he had it, he felt safe. As if he sat in a pool of stillness. Where, he thought clinically. Where should he draw its first patterns into his flesh? His body thrummed expectantly.
Ah: that was it…the golden seal had acted on the Potion in just the way I wanted. I was making really excellent progress here. I was smug. Now see just who was worthy of the Order of Merlin...
I sat down to scribble some more notes and keep tabs on the thoughts flying through my head. Next I should try this, and this, and this…
Fleetingly I recalled how Potter had actually been useful to me when he stayed with me before. It was difficult to assimilate into my worldview, but I had to confess it was true. He had taken notes for me while I performed my experiments. It really had been rather helpful not to be always breaking off the flow of my thoughts.
Potter.
Perhaps I should just go and check on him.
No, I told myself. He had wanted to be on his own. Given his retreat in total embarrassment, I considered it highly unlikely he wanted to see me. I expected he was occupying himself by writing anguished letters to the Granger girl or his Weasley side-kick, or some other such activity.
The flameflower! I thought suddenly, my mind springing back to my researches. Yes, that was what I needed, I must order a consignment by owl at once!
The arm, Harry thought in a detached way. He would begin with his left arm.
He picked up the razor reverently, and turned it in his hands. He was careful to avoid the edges of the blade. Accidentally amputating a finger was not his goal.
He had transfigured it well.
He laid his arm within a folded towel. He did not want to leave any evidence of what he was doing through making a mess. Who would understand? A part of his brain babbled to him: mad, you've gone mad, is Voldemort getting at you through your scar or something?
He set the blade against his flesh. His first cut was tentative, shallow. His second slashed deeper. He watched his blood flow, fascinated. Somewhere within him, horrified anxiety at his actions stirred. Mad, the voice said shrilly. You've gone mad…
Release.
His body seemed to revolve around the throb and pulse of hot pain in his arm. Everything else disintegrated. Harry bit his lip, and sank into the pain. It had focus. Meaning. Limits. It was so much more manageable than the stark and chaotic landscapes of his mind.
The blood flowed, rich and metallic. His inner turmoil seemed to flow out with it. Harry's breathing slowed, regularized. His heart rate steadied.
That was better. He shuddered slightly: in triumph and in shame, in relief and in revulsion.
I threw my quill down.
It was no use. However much I tried to convince myself otherwise, I had to face it. The urge to go and see Potter was becoming overwhelming. I could no longer deny it.
A disease, possibly? Some infectious complaint that made you desire to seek out the one person most likely to drive you to insanity?
Whatever. I jumped to my feet with an urgency I did not quite understand and strode across to his room. (And just when, I wondered absently, did it become his room…?)
Again, for reasons I did not wholly comprehend, I did not knock or call his name. I simply tried the door.
It was locked! And more than locked! He had spelled it shut!
"Potter!" I called.
No response. Merlin's beard. What now?
"POTTER!"
Even while I shouted his name, I was waving my hand. He did not really suppose he could spell doors shut against me in my own chambers, did he?
The door burst open, and I leaped forward.
He was there, standing by the sink and staring at me in dismay. He was obviously in the midst of a hasty attempt to clear away some red bundle in his arms.
My eyes narrowed, then focused in, then dilated with the advent of horror. The red bundle was his arm.
"What have you done.." I whispered. "Gods. What have you done…."
His arm was bleeding copiously into a sodden towel. He looked both defiant and shamed. I closed my eyes. I felt anger. Guilt.
Sorrow.
I took him gently by the shoulders and steered him to sit on the bed. I sat next to him. My own heartbeat seemed very loud in my ears. This was not happening.
"I – it was an accident – " he started to say. "I – "
"Potter," I said wearily. "Harry. No. It was not an accident."
I had been Head of Slytherin House for many years. It was not the first time I had been involved in such situations. My speciality reaction was cool crisis intervention, followed by immediate referral of the individual to those more competent in the tender arts of caring. Which was almost any other staff member, really. Although: perhaps I did have the edge over Argus Filch.
"Let me look," I said now to Potter, neutrally. I had to strive to keep the judgement out of my voice. But it was not upon him. It was upon me.
Gently I took his arm. There were three cuts, progressively deeper, but he had not hit any arteries or tendons. The blood welled in a continuous fountain. I held my hand above the cuts and murmured. The blood-flow eased to a trickle. That would have to do until I could get him proper medical help. I wanted to talk to him. Now: while the shock of the moment was upon him and he could not deny what he had done.
"Have you done this before?" I asked him. Again, I kept my voice low and calm.
"No," he murmured. He flickered a look at me. "But… I've thought about it.."
I nodded slowly, and ran a hand through my hair. At least he had not yet got into the habit. It might be possible to stop him before it became an addiction.
There was another question I must ask.
"Where you trying to hurt yourself?" I inquired. "Or…to damage yourself on a more permanent basis?"
He shifted uncomfortably next to me. "I wasn't trying to kill myself, if that's what you mean," he muttered. "Even if I wanted to…I…can't, can I?"
I paused. That was a curious way of phrasing it. "Why not?"
He gave me a look as if I were stupid. "How can I kill myself when I'm supposed to be the one who kills Voldemort?" he demanded. "I expect that will finish me off for good, so I'll just have to wait until then, won't I?"
I swallowed. I was unexpectedly moved by this line of reasoning. Oh, you noble Gryffindor, I mocked: painfully.
"Harry," I said, somewhat huskily. "Would you like me to fetch Professor Dumbledore?"
"No!" he said immediately, sounding rather panicked by the notion.
"I just thought… you may prefer to talk to him about this rather than to me. But I think it is important that you speak to someone."
"No. Not Dumbledore." He glanced at me again. His voice went even softer. "Please."
Please.
I sighed again. I did not want to be here. I did not want to be dealing with this.
"All right," I said carefully. "Who would you like to talk to? I can have Remus Lupin fetched…Molly Weasley…"
"No! I don't want them to know! I couldn't – No!"
He was getting more agitated, which was the last thing I wanted.
"All right," I said again. "But we cannot leave it there, you know."
He didn't speak. He seemed to collapse in on himself somehow. He reminded me of a sparrow huddled on a branch in a storm. He looked lost. Alone.
Tentatively, I put my arm across his shoulders. I was not very adept at offering physical comfort, but I believed this was an appropriate move to make.
It seemed to be, for he sniffed, and smiled slightly. I sat there with him in silence for some moments, his wounded arm still cradled in bloodied towels and resting across his knee.
"What hurts so much, Harry?" I asked quietly.
He moved again, a wriggle of discomfort.
"Uh – well, you know."
I waited. I marvelled at my own patience.
"You know how much people care about you, don't you?" I said to him at last. "Lupin, Dumbledore, the Weasleys.. not to mention your schoolfriends."
"I know."
"Is it the Dursleys?"
"No – yes – I don't know." He seemed to sink further into himself. I pondered. I recalled all the things he had said to me when he thought I could not hear him.
Harry looked white and strained, as well he might. I remembered, with a pang, that the antidote potion I had given him would have made it even more difficult for him to control his feelings. I should have kept a closer eye on him… I had simply not grasped the depth of his depression.
Perhaps, anyway, that was enough for now. The topic was broached. I would not let it slip back under the rug. Truth be told, I was not sure I could cope with much more of this myself. My emotional equilibrium was undergoing violent assault from his pain and his need.
I wanted to shake him, hug him, yell at him: and protect him from all harm or hurt, in any form, ever.
"All right," I said briskly, clearing my throat. My voice was rather thicker than normal. "We need to get that arm healed."
"Not Madam Pomfrey," he said, looking nervous. "Couldn't you.."
"Nowhere near as competently," I told him.
"I don't care. I just.. Please."
There it was again. Please.
I found I could not deny him. I did have a healing kit in my chambers with fresh bandages. The cuts were surgically clean; there was no risk of infection or complications.
I really shouldn't be doing this. It was the rule of the school. Injured students were treated by the Medi-witch unless in an emergency (or unless you were a lunatic incompetent named Lockhart). But I did it. I patched him up. Even with the strongest healing magic I could lay on him, the arm would take some time to heal. Those cuts were deep.
Deeper yet went a change in me not visible to external eyes. Protest it as I might, deny it all I wished, I could not entirely quench the feeling seeping through me.
Grudgingly, I faced it. I cared about him.
Not just as an obligation, or a responsibility, or in a general 'we need to keep you whole and relatively sane so you can kill the Dark Lord for us' kind of way.
I cared about him, personally: Harry.
I wondered whether that would appal him, or amuse him.
Gloomily, I clung to the one constant bedrock factor. None of this made any difference to the fact established beyond doubt by his stunt with the Pollyanna potion.
The boy remained an idiot.
Thanks, thanks, thanks to reviewers.. it makes my day when the fanficbot review email plops into my inbox. You're all very kind. And FAQ: the Fireheart, the Siren spell and the Pollyanna potion are all my own. I'd prefer Severus. But…sighs…
Alynna Lis Eachann – lol, that' s even meaner than Snape!!!!
athenakitty – as you see, Snape is better on the nagging feeling than Harry actually being able to do anything well….
BeldaranCara – Thanks again for reviewing!
Catti – Thanks for review – will definitely keep on writing. After not so fun chapter, hope you still want me too!
Cdkobasiuk – I am flattered. Er, I hope this was sufficiently angsty?
Charlie-potter1 – ah, you always review. Thank you.
CloudMaxwellReincarnate – I hope you still like it!
Crookshanks87 – Thanks! As you see not quite poisoned;…suicidal Harry? not so far off the mark!
empathicsiren- thank you!
Jaws – Goodness! I couldn't bear to have your demise by starvation or failure to work on my conscience! See? I have updated! Eat! Work!
Lady Lynn – not funny any more, but thanks for your review, and hope you still like it.
Marauders-Lover- Thanks!
monica85- hmm. What Harry Did….thanks for always reviewing!
Moon Lace – Than you! You are most kind…..
Padawan Jan-AQ – hehe – see next chapter
Prophetess of Hearts – This chapter wasn't all that funny. But I hope you are still liking it.
Pure Black – Thanks for regular reviewing!
Read300300 – Thanks loads for your reviews…you always have nice and interesting things to say.
rosiegirl – thanks as ever for always revewing.
Shadowed Hand – TY for regular reviewing. I guess you know what the ominous warning was by now!!!
ShaeLynn – sadly, you are so right! No longer particularly funny at moment, but will be again (I hope)
Silverthreads – Thanks for reviewing! Hehehe Yep…Pollyanna Potion….and as you saw, he felt more than awful upon coming down…
Snarkyroxy – oh yes the inconvenience of having to work is very great!!!! If I were JKR I wouldn't have to. BUT…..
Tiger Lily – thank you for the review!! No slash…but angst..yes
Vyxagallnxchi (er- Alleya was easier to spell!!!!)- thanks again for your thoughtful reviews. I liked the idea of the kitty too…she will return. Hissing.
WhiteWolf CS – you haven't actually reviewed the last chapter yet, but I so appreciated your reviews for the two previous! Yes. Poor dumb Harry.