Chapter Text
The dust drifting through the cold air in this clear summer night glinted in the moonlight that shone through the window, tinting the room in a cold silver light. Bars in front of the window obstructed the view into the garden down below. The only sound that could be heard was the rustling of leaves in the trees outside, looming threateningly in front of the window and shifting in an invisible breeze like ghosts.
The days had bleed together into a hazy mess, he couldn’t be sure if his recollection of the time was correct anymore, but what did it matter anyway. It didn’t make a difference if he could recall how many days he had left here ‘at home’, the time would just keep on going by and nothing he did would make a difference. He looked around the room, his eyes taking in his surroundings as if he saw them for the first time. He knew, somewhere deep inside, that he would have to come back soon, but right now that seemed to much an effort. All he wanted was to stay in this soft haze inside his own mind where time and emotions alike didn’t exist.
The house was quiet tonight. He took a deep breath and looked back down onto his hands. The shard he clutched shimmered in the moonlight; icy cold, a weapon made to hurt. But not to him no, after all this nights spent with nothing for comfort, it was more like looking at his lifeline.
A laugh escaped him, strangled, suffocating him and he was sure if he wouldn’t act soon, it would overcome him again and he would break down sobbing. But he mustn’t, no noise, not from him, never. And especially not tonight; he shouldn’t, mustn’t, couldn’t? whatever. He didn’t know why exactly but he remembered as much, tonight he had to come back and be ready.
His eyes strayed again between the blade and his arm. A soft breeze that came in through the open window made him shiver and the hair on his arm stand up. Curious how these physical reactions where still working after all his body had gone through. Another strangled laugh, biting down on his hand to suppress the noise, squeezing his hands into fists, the shard inside it biting into his skin.
A sharp pain from the cut, slowly opening his palm, blood. The realisation: that’s it, yes. He took in the wound, only a small, almost invisible line but enough to rouse him out of his stupor. He sat upright again, watching the moonlight get caught in the class, reflected down onto his arm, his battlefield.
A big and ugly bruise, painting his arm red and blue, where Uncle Vernon had grabbed him and thrown him back inside his room. And underneath the bruising: lines – lines of different colour and stages of healing. The oldest ones a soft pink, almost white, the freshest ones scabbed. These where his, his alone.
And so, he set to work. The first cut was shallow, a scratch along so many. With the fourth one he drew blood. Silent tears streamed down his face as he slowly came back to himself, anchored in the pain. He watched the blood pool on his arm and then overflowing, down, down, down his arm into the old shirt he had laid out underneath to catch it.
Tears dripped down onto the wounds and mingled with the liquid there. What had he become? A soft whimper escaped him as he drew the shard over himself for a last time before it clattered down onto the floor from his cold fingers. Cold, icy silver shimmering in the moonlight a sharp contrast against the red liquid pooled on its edge.
“I’m sorry Sirius, I’m so sorry!” He muttered, over and over again; those three words his mantra. “I will be good, I promise. I will be better, better than ever and make it right again!” But that was a lie. He wouldn’t be good because he couldn’t make it right again, never again. What was was and he could not undo it. Time kept on running, the living kept on living and the dead.. yes, the dead, they stayed just that: dead.
He didn’t know how long he sat there, crying, hugging and rocking himself for some sort of comfort. The shame overbearing, crushing him from the inside and flushing out all the other thoughts that had been in his mind.
In the end, he knew, he had to get up. So, he took the bloodied shirt and cleaned up his arm. He also cleaned the shard and wrapped it into a strip of cloth before he pocketed it in his trousers again.
It didn’t take him long; he donned a clean hoodie over his makeshift bandage and slid into his bed. Exhaustion had him sleeping in no time.
~-~-~
The doorbell rang promptly at ten o’clock the next day followed by Uncle Vernon’s biting shout “Boy, that’s those freaks for you so don’t make me get up to get it.” The atmosphere had been all morning and Harry was really glad that it was finally time to leave.
He almost ran for the door and threw it open. He was greeted by Hermione who threw herself at him. “Harry! I’m so glad to see you!” She hugged him enthusiastically and he couldn’t help but laugh at her antics. Behind her stood Ron and Arthur Weasley who had opted to get him and take him to Kings Cross this year.
Ron looked uncomfortable, standing there. “Oi, Hermione, let him breath already.” He grinned at Harry when the witch finally let him go only to give him a hug that was even more suffocating. “Good to see you mate!”
“Yeah, good to see you, too. I almost thought you had forgotten about me.” He smiled sheepishly at his two best friends. He knew it was unfair, because as always he was staying with the Dursleys on Dumbledore’s orders. But he couldn’t help it, he felt left out. Left alone at Privet Drive while the others stayed ad Headquarters and wouldn’t tell him a single thing.
“Oh Harry, we’re so sorry! Professor Dumbledore wouldn’t let us write you anything of importance and after the attacks on Diagon Alley and Azkaban he thought it wasn’t safe for you to leave the wards and ... you know how it is. I’m sorry.” Count on Hermione to anticipate his complaints.
“Yeah, I know. Just let me get my stuff and be off.” With that said, he fetched his trunk and broom and walked out of Number 4, glad to finally leave his family’s home and go home again.
Arthur walked the three of them down the street to Ms. Figg’s house where they were greeted by more members of the Order. Moody, Tonks and “Remus!” Harry exclaimed as soon as he had spotted the man in the back of the room. The werewolf smiled up at him. He looked worn and Harry remembered that the full moon would have been only four days ago.
“Harry, I’m glad to see you. How are you, have a good summer?” The man made his way over to him and tried to hug him, but Harry took a step back out of his reach. He didn’t want to be touched, not by him, not by one of the persons who had left him alone again and again.
Remus tried to make small talk, asking Harry about his summer, his O.W.L.s and other inconsequential matters. He had spent one to many minutes this summer thinking about his friends, how he would talk to them, laugh with them or complain about his classes. But now that he finally had the chance to reconnect with Remus he just couldn’t. All sorts of emotions started to rise inside him and threatened to overwhelm him. But he had to push them down, had to stay strong. The last thing he needed was for anyone to come at him for his scars.
Somehow, he managed a few minutes of conversation with the werewolf, but he felt how it drained him to keep up appearances. Fortunately, they had to catch the train and so they had to leave after a few minutes.
The adults apparated the students directly onto the platform and ushered them on the train. The trio made their way to a compartment Ginny, Neville and Luna had already reserved for them. After short greetings Harry couldn’t help it but he asked the rest of them a little brusque to please fill him in already.
They spent the journey recapping everything that had happened over the summer, from the things Ron’s brothers had overheard or told him while they stayed over at the Burrow right to the stuff, they got told themselves as soon as they had moved over to Headquarters.
“My mum decided that we could just as well move into Headquarters again after she, Dad and my brothers had to go there almost daily for meetings. And this way she could also see her other children more frequently... A shame Fleur is a member of the order now, too. I had really hoped to escape her antics by moving, but she just came with us.” Ginny made a disgusted face at that, Harry laughed.
“I thought you liked her. If I remember correctly, she had you fainting a year ago,” Harry teased.
“Oi. That’s not true!” Ron’s red face and unintelligible spluttering had the whole group of friends laughing.
“I could really have done without the greasy git popping in every other day though. You would think he had no home for himself.”
“Ron! He’s still a professor!” Hermione scolded.
“Snape was there?” Harry asked.
“Yeah mate. Almost every other day. Never stayed for long, but with all the Death Eater activity this summer he had a lot to report I guess.”
Somehow thinking about the potions teacher made Harry uneasy. He had thought about him a lot at the start of summer, turning over the scene in Umbridge’s office over and over again in his head. Snape had lied to Umbridge, telling her he had no truth serum left, and afterwards he seemed to have alerted the Order.
Harry had tried to blame Sirius’ death on him in the beginning. Maybe if the man had acted sooner, if he had not left Harry there to fend for himself but acted against Umbridge. If he had given Harry some kind of hint that he would indeed help him and alert Dumbledore. But after days of brooding and thinking in circles it always came back to something different. The Potions Master had acted correctly, Dumbledore, Sirius, everybody had acted correctly that day.
No, it was just Harry, who was at fault. He had let Voldemort into his head, he had never made any real effort to learn Occlumency and close his mind. He had lured Sirius right into the trap laid out for him. He had failed to protect him. He himself was the one to blame in the end.
All those hours in the night, where he lay awake unable to calm his racing thoughts of what if… they had made him see for the first time. See himself, his own role in this mess and also see the other pieces on the great chessboard that was this war. All those pawns around him, ready to die only so that he could survive. And he had decided that it was enough. Enough people in danger, enough people plotting and dedicating their lives to him, enough people dead for him.
He had a body count. He had never before thought about it like this, but he had one already. His parents first, the first two people who were only dead because of him; Quirrell, Cedric, Sirius. On top came all the people Voldemort had killed since his resurrection. Harry couldn’t be sure, but he had tried to keep track. Whenever he had a vision he knew for certain how many lives to add to his list, and additional he would start to look up Death Eater attacks in the Prophet again just to be sure..
“Harry?” A hand on his shoulder stilled his thoughts. He had started to rub on his arms unconsciously, fidgeting with his sleeves.
“What?” He met Hermione’s eyes. “Sorry, I was lost in my thoughts there for a moment. What were you saying?”
“Are you alright Harry?” His friend’s brown eyes were warm and friendly as she looked at him. “I’m sorry if we were info dumping a little there. I just thought that you would want to get up to date as soon as possible.”
“Sorry, just got me thinking there. I’m a little tired, Dudley’s snore is incredibly loud, I tell you. Couldn’t sleep a minute last night.” He laughed, but it felt forced. He was sure the others noticed that, too.
He looked around the compartment. Everyone was watching him, even Luna whose blue gaze seemed to pierce right through him. She tilted her head a little, never breaking eye contact.
“I think the fights inside ourselves are in the end the bloodiest. Maybe the Muggles didn’t make their house Nargle-proof enough and you have been infected?” said Luna, her voice dreamy.
Ron snorted, but her comment had raised the rest of them out of their stupor. They latched into a discussion about the existence of Nargles and Harry leaned back listening. He didn’t mind Luna’s oddness. It was not the comment about the Nargles that had him thinking, but the first part - sometimes it was frightening how accurate her statements were.
Soon Ron and Hermione excused themselves to go to the Prefect meeting and the rest of the group got ready. Harry mostly stayed silent, only listening to the conversation around him. He could feel his thoughts spiralling and the longing for his shard getting stronger. He tried to calm down, anchoring himself by grabbing his arm and agitating the cuts on it, but he knew he would have to get some release before the feast if he wanted to make it through it.
~-~-~
The group of friends made their way slowly over to the carriages waiting to take them to the castle. Luna skipped ahead and petted the Thestral that waited patiently. Her love for all things, no matter how ugly on the outside was beautiful and made him wonder once again how she saw the world.
Next to Harry Ron stopped short as he caught sight of the majestic animal.
“Blimey, no wonder you were so confused last year when you saw them the first time. These things are huuuuge!” He walked over to Luna and extended a hand himself.
“And to think we rode on them,” Ron beamed at Harry.
“Yeah.” Was all he could say to that.
He observed the animal, looking deeply into these dark eyes. Sad, wasn’t it? Last year he had whished that he wasn’t the only one seeing them; the fact just another thing to set him apart from his peers. But now? Another thing to add to his guilt. He wished with all his heart he could have spared his friends. Nobody should witness death, especially not in their school time.
He petted the Thestral absentmindedly, not noticing the sad and knowing look on Luna’s and Hermione’s faces.
~-~-~
On their way to the great hall Harry excused himself. He rushed up the stairs into the nearest bathroom, shutting the door to the stall with force.
His hands were shaking, and he was taking labored, short breaths. The world around him was spinning and he tried frantically to anchor himself. He felt his knees give out under him and sank to the floor, his head resting on the tile of the wall in front of him. How should he survive a whole week, or worse, a whole school year if he wasn’t even able to make it through a day.
He tried to take deeper breaths and fumbled with his cloak, desperate to reach the saving shard. He couldn’t feel, his racing thoughts crushing him, carrying him away like a torrent, pulling him down into the emptiness.
A sting as he closed his hand around the shard. A deeper breath. Pulling up his sleeve. A millisecond of doubt as he saw the marred flesh. Then, finally, a cut. The sharp pain of his arm being torn open. Reaching him in the void like an escape rope being thrown into the torrent. Something to focus on. Another one, the escape rope becoming bigger, coming nearer. The red of his blood welling up. He traced it with the silver in his hand, almost lovingly. He watched in morbid fascination as the blood pooled on the surface and after a few seconds ran down, paving a way between the protruding skin of his scars.
Relief.
Panting he added a few more cuts before he took a few strips of cloth out of his pocket. He had torn a few of his old shirts into even strips back at the Dursley’s and rolled them up to makeshift bandages. With one of those he tended his wounds, bandaging them up enough to prevent the blood from staining his clothes.
Now that he had grounded himself enough to think more clearly, he was immediately aware that he could not waste too much time otherwise he would definitely late. The last thing he needed was for people to wonder where he had been.
He finished up and splashing water onto his face he left the bathroom.
He hurried into the Great Hall just before McGonagall called the name of the first new student to be sorted.
Hermione shot him an annoyed glare, clearly displeased with his tardiness.
“Sorry, ran into Peeves on my way back.” That only gained him an amused snort from Ron as well as an eyeroll from Hermione.
“You missed the song,” Ron grumbled. “It was even worse than the one last year. I mean how does it do that? The hat has all year to think about what it wants to sing but always ends up telling us about unity. Again. And look at the slimy snakes over there, house-unity my arse.”
“Ronald! Shush,” Hermione scolded.
The sorting was tedious. With Fred and George gone there was nobody trying to take impromptu bets on the outcome and aside from that there was nothing interesting in seeing frightened eleven-year-olds sorted by a old, worn hat.
“Did it always take so long? I’m starving!” Ron complained after a short while. And as if to emphasise the point his stomach grumbled loudly.
“Ronald! You had a ton of sweets on the train. I think you can wait a few more minutes.”
It was almost a tradition that Ron would complain about being hungry only for Hermione to scold him for it.
“Who’s the new Professor anyways? Doesn’t look too competent if you ask me.” Ron was eyeing up the head table with distain.
“You would think after the disastrous lessons last year they would try to at least find somebody competent for once. There’s a war going on right outside these walls and we don’t even learn to defend ourselves,” Hermione agreed.
The two boys looked at her as if she had grown a second head.
“What? It is true, isn’t it? It’s bad enough we had to resort to teaching ourselves for one year, better not make it two.” She kept looking back and forth between the two.
“Aye! Just what I was thinking,” Ron agreed enthusiastically, giving Harry an enthralled smile behind Hermione’s back.
Finally, Devin Wolpers was sorted into Hufflepuff, and the tables finally filled with food.
The aaahs end ohhs of the newly sorted first years were soon drowned out by the increasing noise of happy chatter and the clinking and clashing of the tableware. Harry tried his best to keep to himself and tune out the commotion around him. He had been looking forward to being able to eat a full meal again, but now that the table in front of him was laden with food he could not. He helped himself to a little bit but ended up pushing it around on his plate and picking it apart with his fork.
After the feast Dumbledore stood and made his way over to the podium. A hush came over the hall and every student looked up at the headmaster in interest.
Harry did not look at him, he was still angry with the man for everything that had happened at the end of last year. Keeping all the viable information from him, ignoring him for a whole year, only to dump something like the prophecy on him in the end.
He sat back, trying not to attract any attention and tried to block out the Headmaster’s voice as best he could. He busied himself with counting the crumps on the tablecloth before him, unconsciously he started picking the skin on the back of his hand. He only looked up as Ron elbowed him repeatedly.
“Look Mate, what’s happened to his hand? You see that?” Harry looked up at the man and saw what his friend meant. The man’s left hand was black, it looked like burnt coals and after a few seconds the Headmaster shrugged his sleeve over it to conceal it from sight.
“How should I know. But it doesn’t look healthy,” he whispered back. What could happen for the man who fought Voldemort and escaped without so much as a scratch to get this badly injured?
Harry was still pondering this when a murmur went through the hall. Neville let out an almost pained groan of “No!” and every other Gryffindor was equally horrified of the announcement Dumbledore had just made.
The new teacher was not their defence teacher after all, but Snape. Harry didn’t know how to feel about that, he had really hoped never to see the man again. Now he would not only have to see him twice a week, but he was dependent on him to be a good teacher or not only would the chance to win this war diminish rapidly but also Harry’s chance of survival.
The topic of this year’s DADA teacher was number one this night in the common room and speculation was running high.
“What did he do to finally get his way?” Harry and his friends were slouched on the sofas near the fireplace. “I don’t care, I can’t survive another year with him as a teacher.” Neville sat down next to them, looking ill.
“Maybe he was the one who cursed the Headmaster and he will only heal his hand when he gets the DADA post,” Ron speculated. Hermione only rolled her eyes at him.
“I don’t know, but maybe he will be a good teacher. I mean he was a Death Eater once, he has to know defence.” The doubtful expression on her face betrayed Ginny’s optimistic words. “And if he isn’t any good, we can still re-establish the DA. I mean, Harry will surely teach us again, won’t you Harry?”
Harry looked up from the book he had pretended to read. It made him less approachable and kept his hands occupied. “Aahm, I don’t know? I mean,” he looked to Hermione for help.
“Professor Snape will surely be a great teacher and we will learn a lot this year,” she supplied. “And we can easily establish study groups, not only for defence,” she replied to Ginny’s question before tuning to Harry. “But Harry, now that Professor Snape is no longer teaching Potions you can take the NEWT level classes. I mean you would need them to become an Auror, and Professor Slughorn doesn’t have a rule about only taking students who scored an O on their OWLS.”
Harry hadn’t even thought about that. Hermione was right of course; he would be able to take Potions after all. Only he had no books and also no idea whom to ask for a change in his schedule.
“Yeah, you’re probably right. I think I will go and ask McGonagall in the morning.” He stood. “I’m going to bed guys. Night.” And excused himself hastily.
Harry barely made it to his dorm and behind the closed curtains of his bed before the tears started to fall. He didn’t know what had triggered the outburst but something about the mundanity of the situation downstairs was too much for him.
How could all those wonderful people talk to him and look at him like nothing had changed. How could Hermione think of his chance to become an Auror as if she didn’t have enough on her plate as it was. Couldn’t they see that he was a murderer? Didn’t they fear that they would be next, that he would kill one of them, too?
He fumbled around in his pockets and spelled his curtains with locking and silencing charms before his wand fell from his trembling hands.
And then he just sat there, lost, alone, hurting, fingers clawing on his arms and fisting into his sleeves. Tears fell from his eyes and sobs wrecked his body. It took a long time for him to cry himself to sleep that night.