Grimmauld place had always been rather depressing. Harry had had trouble coming back. Well, more than just trouble. He’d had a panic attack first thing setting foot in the bloody house. He’d had nightmares, still did, and attacks. Sirius’ mother’s screeching didn’t help one bit. But he’d lock the wards and no one would remember this place. A new Fidelius charm and he was free. No, not free. He wouldn’t be free until he joined the others. This was temporary anyway. He thought it might help him overcome a part of his trauma. Sometimes he thought he’d never get over it. He probably would die before he managed to accept everything that happened to him. Truly, he had thought coming here for a year or two might help. It hadn’t. Far from it. But once he was here, he just couldn’t leave. He couldn’t bring himself to leave. To face the others. To face them, to tell them would only make it seem more real. He remembered the day perfectly. Every little detail. The chamber of secret, he remembered, but not like this. The fight against the Basilic was all foggy, he barely remembered shoving the teeth in the diary. He knew, but he did not really remember that well. He supposed it was some sort of trauma response. But this he remembered perfectly. Everything.
It was a Wednesday. To top it all off, it could have been Halloween, but it was a week before. Fate maybe thought it was a tad too much to make every bad thing in his life happen on Halloween. Apart from the Battle of Hogwarts. That had been in May, 3 years prior.
It was mid-afternoon. It wasn’t really sunny, but the weather wasn’t all that bad. The weather was never that good in Grimmauld place anyway. It was cold. Not freezing, but Harry was shivering. Well, maybe it wasn’t because of the cold.
Harry had a particularly bad day. The nightmares had been awful. No, not awful. Terrifying. He woke up shaking, crying, screaming, and retched soon afterward. He’d thought for a moment he might actually die because of a nightmare. His screams of terror had woken Mrs.Black who was screeching insults in the hallway. He didn’t manage to shut her up. Alone, it was rather complicated. Alone. He was alone. And it was his fault. his fault. his. He had failed everyone. Hermione and Ron. He promised he’d come back to them. Ginny. He said he’d never leave. Sirius. He’d swore he’d never give up. Never give up, no matter what. He was giving up. With the blade on his wrist, he admitted he was giving up. He had given up.
Sorry, Sirius. Sorry, Hermione. Sorry, Ron. Sorry, Mom. Sorry, Dad. They had given their lives for his. He was taking it.
The blade felt weirdly cold on his wrist. Tears were streaming down his face, sobs wracking his body. He shook. With one swift motion, the blade cut through his skin, his veins, and blood flowed from the fresh, deep cut, and Harry couldn’t help but find it fascinating. It slid on in arms, dripping soundlessly on the floor. Or maybe Harry just couldn’t hear anything other than the mess of his thoughts. He cut the other wrist slowly, almost gently, lovingly. He watched as a worrying amount of blood escaped his wounds, creating a small puddle on the ground. I did this. His legs shook, and soon he sat on the blood-covered floor, still staring at his blood.
So fascinating.
His vision turned black and he felt himself go, falling face-first unto the kitchen’s floor. Both his wrist next to his face, leaving blood everywhere.
Sorry, Mum. Sorry, Dad. Sorry, Hermione. Sorry, Ron. Sorry, Sirius. Sorry, Ginny. Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
I’m Sorry.
He woke in King’s Cross. Like that first time, when he’d met Dumbledore. It was as sickly white as he remembered. But he still recognizes the train station easily. He looked around. The train wasn’t there. No one seemed to be here.
So he sat on one of the benches and he waited. For the train to pass, to pick him up. He waited and waited and waited for what felt like hours. When the train finally arrived, a small smile spread on Harry’s face. He’d finally meet his parents. He’d hug Sirius. But the train didn’t stop. It continued its way. Harry ran after it after the shock wore off. He ran, even jumped on the rails to chase after the train. But it never stopped. He tripped on one of the rails and fell face first. When he thought he’d just fall and keep chasing after the bloody train, the moment his head was going to impact he closed his eyes.
Only to open them a second after, panting, on the floor of his kitchen, dry tears on his face, mixed with blood. He jumped up, sitting, to look around. Looking down at his wrist, his wounds, his cuts, were healed. Only a deep, ugly scar remained. He did the only thing he could do.
He screamed from the top of his lungs. Just screamed as loud as he could. Screaming in anger, in sadness, in sorrow, in grief, in pain. He screamed so loud, his throat burned and blood flowed up in his mouth. He screamed so loud, he never realized the portrait was now silent. He screamed until his lungs couldn’t anymore until it hurt so damn much he couldn’t breathe anymore until he couldn’t think anymore. When he couldn’t scream anymore, he sobbed, he cried.
His forehead fell against the hard floor, his fist slamming against it, he cried.
“Why?!” He yelled. “Why?! Why! Why!Why!” Each word was followed by a fist slamming on the ground, getting faster and faster, until it became only a pained whisper. “why?” Until it became too much to scream, too much to get angry, too much to curse the fates. Until all he could do was ask, genuinely, why? Why him?
It wasn’t Wednesday anymore.
It wasn’t mid-afternoon.
The weather wasn’t as nice.
It was almost dark out.
It wasn’t a bad day.
It was a nightmare.