When hope is bad for us
Leaning his cheek against the table, Harry thinks that he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to live.
Life has its good sides, but at the same time, it can knock the air out of your chest and make the worst situation, that could happen, even worse.
Harry was at 12 Grimmauld Place. And it wasn’t bad. Vise versa, there’re all his friends and Sirius. It seemed fine as long as he had enough of their presence. But the days turned into nights, and there was no place for him in this house. He was always in the room with someone - didn’t matter who. Whether it’s Ron looking through Quidditch magazines in their room. Whether it’s Hermione sitting in the library for hours, muttering curses under her breath when she doesn’t understand what’s written in a book. Whether it’s Mr. Weasley sitting in the kitchen and drinking coffee while he’s reading the Prophet. The only time he found solitude was in the restroom, and that only for a short while, because Ginny "just right now" needed to get one of her make-up brush or some other little girly thing. It was as if everyone conspired and did everything to keep Harry from being alone. It was too much.
Lifting his head from the table, Harry looked around the room he is currently in. It was living room. Emmeline Vance sat near the window and written the letter. The quill dipped periodically into the inkwell, but not a single drop fell on the parchment. From time to time, she stopped and looked up, muttered something under her breath, but still continued to write. In fact, she almost always sits in her assigned room, but now Kreacher is cleaning it, so she's here.
The Weasley twins sat on the left sofa and tested their new invention on each other. Seems like something goes wrong, because Fred’s nose is violet and looks like an elephants trunk. George waved his wand and quietly cursed through his teeth so that Mrs. Weasley wouldn’t hear. Looks strange.
Harry rose to his feet, distracting George from his task for a second, but Fred's shrill trumpet call, immediately brought all attention back to his brother.
Climbing the stairs, the boy understood that he wants to scream and cry. He wants someone to notice that he is not well and help him cope with all the difficulties. He wants to be heard. He wants someone to stop him right now from what he was about to do.
Ron was sitting in their room as usual going over the moves he could use for the next game with Tonks. She has a bit of time after each Order meeting and surprisingly became friends with young Weasley over their love of magical chess.
— Oh, hi mate, do you get that bloody Fred and George argument too? I swear, if I could, I would have put “Silenticio” on them a long time ago. Well, whatever. Don't you want to play Gobstones? It must have been forever since I last played, — Ron invited him, wiggling his eyebrows.
— No, thanks. I’m gonna take a shower.
— Well, your choice, — he simply answered, shrugging.
Approaching his drawer, he took a change of clothes and a towel. The path to the bathroom was not so long - just one floor below.
Slamming the door shut, Harry walked over to the mirror, placed his things on the empty nightstand next to him and starting to undress.
Reflection in a mirror was disgusting: disheveled black hair, deep dark circles under the eyes, too thin a body… Harry trance a line from the beginning of the vein in his neck, ending at the lower abdomen. He was looked at all his scars. This, on a hand, he got, when he flipped the scrambled eggs incorrectly and the fire liked his forearm. Then it seemed to the boy that this pain was the worse in his life; how wrong he was. This scar on the left side of his stomach he received, when Dudley and his friends chased after him after school. He was so scared that he didn't notice the nail stick out of one side of the unfinished house. He realized that he was bleeding only when he suffocated and stopped running. The cousin then caught up with him and beat him, but there were no scars left.
The arm went down along the body.
There are still a few scars that no one knows about. And their history isn’t a pleasant one.
He turned around to face his clothes, he carefully pulled out a blade, hidden in a towel. Who knew hiding something in things was so convenient?
He took the blade out of the paper and put one foot on the tub. His lower leg is cut. There were so many of them that some of the new ones were on old scars. A red crust has already covered the scratches - he really didn't have much space and time to hurt himself regularly.
After thinking about it, Harry puts his foot down on the floor and turns on the tap. The water flows cold, then hot, and only after a minute of regulation, it finally reaches the right temperature - hot enough to make the skin red and painful, but not so hot as to boil you alive.
While waiting for the bath to fill, he sat down on the side. He twisted the blade in his hands and wondering if it is worth it? Should it end like this? Without even saying goodbye? No one could answer his question and Harry desperately wanted it.
He’s fucking egoist. So many people fought and died for his life, and he simply wastes their efforts, making their deaths - in vain.
The bath filled up quite quickly. After checking the water, Harry slowly lowered one leg. As soon as the cuts reached the water, he clenched his jaw tightly so as not to make a sound.
He sank into the bath completely. The head lye outside, and the whole body was covered with water. Harry held his breath as he lowered himself. Underwater was like half a year ago at the Triwizard Tournament, when he saved Ron and Fleur's sister from the grindlaw. Terribly. Quickly emerging, he runs his hand over his face and hair. The other hand still holds the blade.
He never wanted to hurt himself. If he could, he would get rid of it. It all started only after Cedric’s death. Harry couldn’t hold back his emotions anymore, but yelling at everyone while unleashing his anger wasn’t something he could do either, so he remembered something.
Aunt Petunia always scolded him, when he showed his “weirdness”, so once Harry bit his hand so hard, that his teeth were left on it, and eventually a large bruise appeared. But the point is different - he restrained himself. He controlled himself through his pain and his spontaneous emission didn’t happen.
This made him realize that, even though everything is going wrong, there is one thing he can control - his pain.
Clenching the blade, Harry threw one leg over the knee of the other. First, he needs to cause a familiar pain. In fact, he is very much afraid of death.
The first cut was small - just a scratch with the end of the blade. He needs to adapt to this, it’ll be better then.
Gradually, cut after cut, he increased the power. The pain was the same as always, and he truly liked it. It was always the same.
The drops of blood dripped in the water, colored it into red. Harry didn’t cry. It seemed that he didn’t even have emotions - he sat with a stony face - but this wasn’t true. They were muffled, as if someone had turned down the volume on the radio. Most likely, what Harry feels right now is apathy. Hermione once mentioned the word in conversation, and after her explanation, he realized that it best described his condition.
He was so tired.
Getting out of bed became the number one problem.
Why? Harry asked himself every morning. Why am I still alive?
It’d be much better, if I died in my sleep.
There wasn't much place left for his shin, so he lowered his foot into the water again. The already accustomed pain became many times more, as if it wasn’t water touching his cuts, but acid.
Harry thought that he can cut another leg, but stopped himself. He stretching time. He understands that.
The blade in his right hand was covered in blood. The left hand was absolutely clean, except of Cedric’s blood, which would forever remain on his hands.
Resting the blade on the very top of his hand, Harry took a deep breath and pulled down—
— Harry, sweetie, are you going to be into the bathroom much longer? Kreacher made a dinner, — came Sirius’ voice from behind the door.
The cut was deep, but not too long, it didn’t reach the vein. There was a smell of metal in his nose, he suddenly felt dizzy. He thinks he's going to get bored now.
— Yes, Siri, I’ll be in a minute! — the answer comes after a few seconds. That’s enough for Sirius to leave him.
Fucking shit, he can’t do it anymore.
Harry watches as the blood fills the wound and seeps out onto the skin, a thin trickle running down his forearm to his elbow and dripping into the water.
Sighing, he closed his eyes. Sirius. Maybe the only person Harry feels alive around, even for a little while. He can’t do that with his godfather, he can’t leave life without saying goodbye.
The blood flows for another 10 minutes, until it stops completely. During this time, he got out of the bath, dried himself and put on underwear with pants and shoes. Only the top remains. Carefully putting on the sleeve of the turtleneck, on which blood immediately fell, and a sweater on top of it. He sighed again and looked at himself in the mirror.
Dull green eyes didn’t reflect any happiness. Harry doesn’t know how he’s going to go downstairs and pretend nothing had happen, but he was going to use all his acting skills. As always.
Leaving the bathroom, the only thought that had been running through his head for several months was:
I’m so fucking tired.