CHAPTER 4: IN A DOWNWARD SPIRAL
Remus growled in frustration as he abandoned yet another retrieval attempt. He had to go tell Sirius again that Muggles were smarter than they gave them credit for. And with two days to go before Christmas, Sirius was going to explode at him again. This was proving much more difficult than they had first thought.
Both Sirius and Molly had been sniping at each other ever since Arthur's attack at the Ministry a fortnight ago. Molly was frantic over both Arthur and Harry, and Sirius was more than frantic, he was in full-fledged panic over Harry. As a result, they were getting into territory disputes that got Sirius' hackles up and drove Molly to tears and which nobody seemed to be able to diffuse. Molly would fuss over Harry and Sirius would snap that Harry was not her son, he was his godson and Molly would snap back that he had done a bloody good job at it in Azkaban and Sirius would explode when she insinuated that it was his fault Harry was still out there somewhere and not back at headquarters or Hogwarts.
And with the Weasley children back for Christmas, along with Hermione, the entire house was teeming with short tempers that only got shorter as Christmas approached and Remus had to return Harry-less once more.
Not to mention Harry himself was starting to worry him. Every time he found him, Harry seemed to be losing hope. His casts and bandages were off, but his movements were still clumsy, his eyes were going dead, never a smile to be seen. He seemed to just be going through the motions of life. The only signs of life Remus had seen were when Harry got angry. He was getting into a lot of fights now, as if he thought lashing out was going to solve his hurting world.
Hermione and Ron had gone to him two days ago, panicking when they said that they'd finally gotten an owl from him and he sounded… resigned. As if he didn't expect anybody to come anymore. "Lupin, he sounds depressed!… You have to get him soon…"
But the Muggles had moved him again. He wasn't there.
Another month, another family. Dully, Harry tried to remember what number this one was. Ten? Fifteen? He couldn't recall anymore.
"Harry, please, please try to make this one work," Ms. Colton begged. "It's not good for you to be going around in circles like this."
"Hmm," Harry said in a non-committal tone. He wasn't going to bother even trying anything anymore. What was the point? The Muggles didn't care that he wasn't going to fit into their world. The wizarding world had ceased to care what happened to him. He was back where he had started: alone.
Naïve Harry didn't even bother voicing himself now. The only Harry he heard was Embittered Harry.
Whatever the names of his current fosters were (he wasn't even bothering to learn names now), they had long since gone to bed. The house was still and quiet. Sighing, Harry rummaged in his bag. He brought it, he knew he had. He made sure he brought it to each home, the only staying thing.
Sliding the penknife out of one pocket of his bag and flipping it open, Harry stared at the blade in the moonlight, watching the faint light bounce off the smooth, cool metal. He had taken it from one of his homes, probably a few months ago by now. It was the only thing that numbed the pain, even if only momentarily. It gave him something else to focus on, a pain he could solve. An arm that was throbbing and bleeding, he knew how to fix. A heart that was dead and broken, he had no clue how to fix.
This was the only time Harry let the tears escape, when he put the blade to his scarred forearm and drew it across. He methodically sliced, he had no idea for how long. He only knew that with each cut, his emotional pain dimmed just a little bit more, replaced by immediate, demanding physical pain.
Sirius' betrayal… Harry cut a particularly deep line. Sirius had failed him. Sirius hadn't come. Sirius had left him here, in this hell of a life.
Lupin's lies… Harry reopened an old scar. He kept promising to get him out, soon, Harry, soon… yeah, right. Try never.
Ron and Hermione… Harry stopped for a moment, dripping blade hovering above his arm. Then he brought it down again, pressing it in deep. They didn't care anymore. They probably only sent letters to appease their consciences now.
Eventually, Harry stopped the cutting. He cleaned off the blade and closed the penknife, dropping it back into his bag and pulling out his bag of bandages. He needed the large gauze tonight, there were a lot of deep cuts. He was running low on them, he'd need to buy some more.
Silently, dully as the emotional pain came screaming back along with the physical pain, Harry wrapped his arm in bandages, from wrist to elbow. He put the bag away again and climbed under his covers.
He escaped early on Christmas Day, before the fosters had even woken up. Last thing he wanted was to hear them and their family: they were grandparents, their children and grandchildren were coming over. Where exactly he was going, Harry didn't know. He took his bandages, his knife. That was all he needed.
He walked for what seemed like hours. It was well into the negative twenties for temperature, but still he walked, turning down random streets and alleys until he was completely and utterly lost. Good. Maybe nobody would find him and he could just die of frostbite in an abandoned alley somewhere. He doubted anybody would care by now.
Flopping down to the ground finally, in a doorway to an abandoned storefront, Harry took out his knife and uncovered his other arm, the one that hadn't been cut in a while. The arm that Wormtail had cut that horrid night, with its long, jagged scar…
He didn't want to do this anymore – this life, he thought as he idly cut little marks over his arm. This breathing, walking, existing. He just wanted it all to stop.
Before he'd really thought about it, Harry jammed the knife into his arm where Wormtail's scar started and pulled down, welcoming the white-hot pain that screamed through his body and the rush of blood that escaped, pouring over his arm in a sort of soothing waterfall as the world started to go black.
"I think he's coming to," a distant voice said worriedly. The foster woman… what was her name again? Isabelle, Isadora, Isa-something… wasn't it? Or was that the last one?
"Am I dead?" Harry managed to ask thickly.
"No, no, Harry, you're not dead, you're not going to die. You gave us quite a fright. We've been looking for you all day." A gentle hand brushed a lock of hair off of his head and Harry jerked his head away irritably. Who did she think she was, his mother? He didn't have a mother. Or a father. Merlin, he couldn't even have a godfather. He was never going to, thanks to Wormtail.
The hot hatred coursed through his veins again. It was him that had caused all of this. Him and Uncle Vernon and Dudley. He hated all of them. He wanted them to die. But after he did, because he couldn't take the hatred and the grief and the anger and depression and the feeling. He didn't want to feel anything anymore.
"Harry," Isa-whatever pleaded softly. "Harry, don't pull away. Dear, you're hurting and you're telling no one. We can't help you if we don't know what's wrong."
Harry focused his attention on a spot on the wall away from her. Merlin, they just couldn't leave him be, could they? They had to nose their way into everything, try to pretend like they cared about why he hated life.
"Remus, please me tell you found him," Sirius begged as Remus came in, face pink from the brutal wind and serious.
The Weasleys all looked up, waiting for Remus' answer.
Remus sighed, rubbing his hand over his face wearily. Then he nodded quietly. "I found him, but there's no way I'm getting him out."
"Why?" Molly asked sharply.
Remus bit his lip. "He's in one of the Muggle hospitals."
"What? Why?" the Weasley children and Hermione all exclaimed anxiously.
"I don't know," Remus sighed, dropping into a nearby chair. "From what I could see, it looks like he's gotten into another fight that escalated out of control. It was sort of weird, though."
"Weird, how?" Sirius asked.
"Weird, because the only injuries he had were on his arms. Cuts up and down his arms, it was so strange."
"Hermione, what is it?" Ginny asked immediately, shaking Hermione's arm. "Hermione!"
Hermione had blanched, whispering, "No, he wouldn't… he wouldn't…"
"Hermione?" Sirius asked in a smooth, carefully controlled tone. "Why isn't it strange to you?"
"Well…" Hermione faltered, still icy white. "Wizards must have the equivalent of it, I have a hard time believing they wouldn't…"
"Hermione, what is it?"
"Well…" Hermione stopped, struggling to find the words to explain the concept. "Well, if it's what I think it is, it certainly sounds like it, then…" she stopped again.
"Just spit it out, already, Hermione!" Ron snapped.
"I'm trying!" Hermione snapped back. "It's a very difficult concept to explain, Ronald!" She sighed and turned back to Remus and Sirius. "Well, the Muggles call it 'cutting'. If it is 'cutting', then Harry didn't get into a fight, Lupin, he attacked himself."
"Why?" Sirius demanded. "Why would anybody attack themselves?"
"Sirius, I think it's the Muggles' equivalent of injection, if I understand Hermione correctly," Remus said quietly. Suddenly understanding dawned in the eyes of everybody around the table. Apparently the wizards did have an equivalent.
"I don't claim to understand everything that drives somebody to cutting," Hermione said softly. "But from what I understand, it makes them feel better for a while."
"How does hurting yourself make you feel better?" Ginny asked. "I don't understand that."
"I suppose it's because they know what to do about physical pain. Your arm is bleeding, what do you do? You clean, you bandage, you stop the bleeding. But what do you do about emotional pain? You can't do anything about it. They forget about the emotional pain for a while because they have to focus on the physical. My cousin's a psychiatrist, she sees quite a few cutters," Hermione explained.
Now he had pills. Wonderful. Little white pick-me-up pills he had to take once a day. Like he was going to take those useless things. He flatly refused them. But if he made enough of a store-up of those little white pills, they could potentially do the trick…
Nope. Muggles were smarter than that, they didn't leave him with the pills. They delivered a single one with breakfast, stayed in the room while he ate and if he hadn't taken the pill, they took it with them.
But he wouldn't be in here forever. Eventually they were going to release him, and he would have to go to a new foster with a little bottle of pills. Would the whole bottle be enough, or would he need two? How strong were those pills?
"Sirius, how many times do we have to tell you? You can't go," Remus said in exasperation as he caught Sirius' arm. Sirius was trying to leave again, to go find Harry. He had known that Sirius wasn't going to stand for this much longer – he was going to do something stupid.
Now, Remus really wished that he had never mentioned the injuries at Christmas. Ever since Hermione's explanation, Sirius had been more desperate than ever to escape and get to Harry. He was scared that Harry was going to do something dangerous, something drastic. Everybody was, but Sirius was past even panic now.
"I'm telling you, Remus, I'm not sitting around here any longer!" Sirius snapped. "You obviously can't get him, so I will."
Remus kept his tongue. Sirius had always been rash. He had always said things he didn't mean when he was upset or angry or worried. He probably didn't quite realize how cutting his reply had been. "And what happens when somebody spots you, Sirius, and you get caught?"
"I won't be," Sirius replied stubbornly.
"Sirius, don't do this," Remus said again, a little more desperately.
"Let me go, Remus, before I curse you," Sirius growled, yanking his arm out of Remus' grasp. Grabbing his wand, he stuck it into his robes. "I'm going after him whether you aid and abet or not. But I'd appreciate your help," he added grudgingly, as if only just now realizing that Remus was the only one who actually knew where Harry was, or where he had been.
Remus sighed. "Be it on your own head, then."
