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Harry sits on the cool porcelain edge of the bathtub in the ensuite bathroom that leads off of Sirius’ old bedroom in grimmauld place. Hermione and Ron are still asleep in the drawing room, their hands loosely linked in their uneasy sleep. Harry, having felt restless and bothersome, had slinked off upstairs to find some solitude, and to possibly have a small breakdown away from the worried eyes that constantly follow him these days from Ron and Hermione.
Correction: to definitely have a small breakdown away from the worried eyes of Ron and Hermione. Harry had made his way up into Sirius’ room, unencumbered in his snooping– what privacy does a dead man have, anyway? All Harry wanted was to find some piece of himself, of his family that could have been within these four enclosed walls that Sirius had once called home. Harry thought about all the memories that this room may have held: Remus joining him in the summer, perhaps, or the fit that Walburga must have had when Sirius had used a permanent sticking charm on some muggle posters. He laughed lightly, somberly, and picked up the letter from his mother, written to Sirius in wartime. He read the words closely, absorbing everything he could have from this torn letter that may have told something about his mother, about his father. And then– and then came the image. The only baby picture of himself he had ever seen, and, what was more, he was happy. Riding on a child's broom that was evidently a gift of Sirius’, seeing the pride in his fathers face as he rode around, his chubby legs hanging off the charmed wood. His eyes had stung, looking at the tattered paper, obviously worn from how close it had been held when Sirius was unable to visit Godric’s Hollow, mourning the loss of this life that he hadn’t known he had had and never would have. The absence of his mother in the picture hurt more than it ought to have. She had obviously been ripped from the rest of the image– where had she gone? Harry figured it was a handsome metaphor; his family eluded him in life and in death, it seemed.
As his eyes stung, growing quickly with moisture, he tried blinking back the tears to no avail. Silent sobs racked his body, tears dripping down his cheek and off his chin, creating spots of wetness on his dirty jeans, unwashed from their haste to find shelter and unlikely to find anything better than a Scourgify anytime soon. His breaths drew shorter and shallower until he had worked himself into a state of panic. He thought about all he had lost and all that had been lost. His parents, Molly’s brothers, countless others he had never known that had died for him before he knew what dying meant; Cedric at the tournament with his one request of being brought back to his family posthumously, Sirius’ desperate look as he crossed the veil at the hands of his cousin, meeting eyes with Harry for a split second before the fighting intensified, eyes filled with regret that he couldn’t go on with him, that he couldn’t support him through the war– through life, that he couldn’t help Harry escape from the Dursleys that summer as he had hoped to do. Eyes that conveyed hope and pride in his charge, ones that lit a fire in Harry’s gut to fight as hard as possible– to redeem himself for all the heartbreak he had caused to those around him.
Harry was feeling hot and overwhelmed; in his addled state he thought a cold shower would help as he stumbled to the bathroom, barely making it before collapsing on the edge of the tub. Harry is crouched forward, head in his hands and crying. He casts a silencing charm on the door and lets the sobs rip from his body. He cries himself out to the point he can’t cry anymore. He takes shuddering breaths, trying and failing to gain any semblance of composure. He stands to turn on the sink with the intent to turn on the cold tap and run some cold water on his neck, but his appearance in the elaborate mirror above the sink stops him in his tracks. He stares at his reflection. His hair is unruly, his face almost a carbon copy of his fathers in the picture. But he looks defeated. Absolutely worn down. Where his father’s face was reflecting joy, Harry’s was filled with grief; his eyes were saddled with bags, his face swollen from the crying, bruises adorning his jaw from the run-in at tottenham road. Harry continues to stare– transfixed. The dichotomy of emotions between his father and him during wartime is stark. James had things to hope for– his family, Harry growing up. And Harry… Harry has, what? A horcrux hunt? Dying at the hands of Tom Riddle to look forward to? He doesn’t know if he’s going to live long enough to restart the small comfort he had with Ginny, nor if she would even want to after how broken he seems to be going through this mess. Harry lets out a wry laugh, if he’s this tattered now, how much worse is it going to get in the weeks, possibly months to come, on this demented treasure hunt they’re on?
Harry grips the edges of the sink, knuckled white. He meets his eyes in the mirror, and he doesn’t recognize himself. Distraught, anger gathers in Harry’s chest. His face twists with disgust at his situation, at the hand he’s been dealt, at himself. Harry lets out a strangled cry, and the mirror shatters with an outburst of magic that follows. Slowly, he sinks to the floor, hands still clenched to the sink as he supports his weight and to ground himself to keep from collapsing. The floor is littered with shards from the mirror, sharp and gleaming. Harry resituates his weight, releases his hands from the sink, and reaches for a shard. He doesn’t really know what he’s aiming for, at the moment, he just wants to be okay right now. His body acts before his mind catches up with him, and he drags the shard across his exposed forearm, bringing blood up with it. His mind is still lagging behind his body, but he knows that he feels relief. This shard is a channel for all his pain and grief– like his wand for his magic. He drags it across his arm a few more times, mesmerized by his blood, sardonically agreeing with Voldemort the appeal his blood has. The blood flows down his forearm and drips off his elbow, a small puddle gathering on the not-so-tasteful white tile that adorns the floor. It will probably stain. Harry doesn’t care. He watches his arm bleed, and watches the bleeding slow, hypnotized. Only when he hears commotion outside of the door does he come back to himself.
“Harry?” Hermione calls from the hallway, he guesses.
Harry doesn’t particularly care what happens. He’s resigned; he doesn’t care if Hermione finds him like this, he thinks he probably deserves her anger about what he has done. He hears footsteps draw closer as Hermione searches the house for him, growing quicker and more hasty with the clattering of doors opening and not being shut again.
The door to the bathroom flings open, and Hermione’s eyes are filled with relief at finding Harry– but only for a second. Her face twists with– something– Harry can’t identify it– as she takes in Harry’s state.
“Oh, Harry,” she says softly.
Hermione gently kneels beside him, removing the shard from his hand. Slowly. Like moving any faster would scare him off like a frightened animal. She shifts with intent to move closer to him, mouth opening to say something, as Ron’s voice booms from the hallway entrance to Sirius’ room.
“Have you found him yet, ‘mione?” Ron’s voice is slightly panicked as he, presumably, notices the ensuite bathroom door open and the lumos Hermione had cast on her wand in her search, and makes his way to the duo.
“Is he alright– oh my god,” Ron asks, voice whispering with his last words. “What happened? Was he attacked– Harry, who was it?”
Hermione cuts him off before he can say anymore, “no one attacked him, Ron,” she says quietly. She turns her head slightly in Ron’s direction to speak to him, but her eyes stay on Harry. “Please go retrieve my bag from the sitting room.”
Ron continues to stare at Harry’s arm and the bloody mess that accompanies it, “ Quickly, Ronald!” Hermione bites, panic edging her tone. Ron dashes from the room.
“Harry,” Hermione starts softly, placing a hand on Harry’s cheek, “did you do this to yourself?
Harry shrugs. She knows he did.
“Harry, you can’t–” Hermione chokes, “you can’t hurt yourself. It’s not good for you.”
Harry shrugs again.
“We need you, Harry. And not just for the prophecy or the horcrux hunt or whatever– whatever bullshit that’s ahead. We need you– Ron and I– we need you,” Hermione says, tears threatening to fall.
Harry shakes his head, irrational anger gathering in his throat, “that’s just it, isn’t it?” he starts cooly, his tone devoid of emotion. “Everyone needs me. They need me for fame or for comfort or for some fucking prophecy. I don’t even know who I am!” Harry’s last words come out with a shout, and Hermione pets his hair and soothes him with a shhh as Harry begins to cry again.
“What’s wrong, Harry?” Hermione asks.
Harry fumbles for his wand and summons the picture he had found of him and his father. He shows it to Hermione. “This is the only baby picture of me that I know of. The only one that’s personal,” Harry takes in a shuddering breath. “He looks so happy, my father. Even during this awful war. Will I ever have that? I feel like it’s been stolen from me. I never had a chance,” his voice breaks with his last word.
“Oh, Harry,” Hermione soothes, “of course you’ll be happy. Of course you have a chance. This war isn’t the end of it. You have many, many years to come after this.”
Harry shakes his head violently, “I shouldn't!” he shouts. “Why do I get to live when so many others have died?! I never knew my parents– and they died thinking their best friend betrayed them. Sirius suffered in Azkaban for years, only to get out and be killed by his cousin. Why? For me! To fulfill this stupid mission I have. And not only them– innocents, too– Cedric didn’t deserve to die! He was supposed to be Hogwarts champion, Tri-Wizard winner, a place of honor and I– I fucked it right up! If i weren’t here– if I weren’t alive – this never would have happened! I should have been the one to die in the first place!” Harry shouts, voice hoarse.
“Harry, No !” Hermione rebukes. “Your mother died for you , for you to live and for you to go on– she would not want you to be thinking like this! No one died for you– they died for the cause and you just happen to be a part of this. You shouldn’t be thinking like that– like this – ever!” Hermione’s voice is forceful but choked, she’s speaking through her tears as she holds Harry close.
“Is it worth it, Hermione?” Harry asks as he leans into her grasp, body going slack.
“Is what worth it?”
“Fighting. Living.”
“Of course it’s worth it, you dolt. Think about the future– once we destroy these horcruxes and Voldemort is defeated, there’s so much to look forward to. Wining and dining Ginny, us all pairing off eventually and getting married. Starting families alongside each other. Quidditch matches to attend– NEWTs to be completed.”
Harry snorts at her inclusion of NEWTs on the ‘things to look forward to after we’re not being hunted for sport by a dark megalomaniac in his quest for immortality.’ He wraps his arms around her in return, neither of them bothered by the blood on Harry’s arm getting in the way or making a mess of things.
Ron returns with Hermione’s bag, and crouches down next to the pair.
“‘Alright,” Ron says mutedly, “what do you need out of here?”
Hermione pushes Harry back from her grasp, “Dittany, for his wounds.”
“Hermione, no, ” Harry admonishes. “We are not using the dittany you’ve brought on this– my– this stupid stunt. What if something more serious happens?! Don’t you have any muggle bandages?!”
Hermione’s face twists in discomfort. “I mean, yes, but I’d feel much better if we used the dittany–”
“Hermione, we’re magic,” Ron interrupts, “Its not deadly, yeah?” he looks up at Hermione and Harry to confirm that Harry hasn’t put himself in mortal peril.
They shake their heads to affirm this.
“Great, his magic’ll heal it in a jiffy, a few days, max.”
Harry gives Hermione a significant look. “Oh, alright!” she relents, digging through her bag for the muggle bandages and gauze she had packed.
Once retrieved, she scoots to take and bandage Harry’s injured arm, but her hands are shaking too much. Ron places his hands over hers, and takes the bandages from her grasp. He clutches his own wand and casts a few charms on Harry’s arm to rid of the blood and clean the wound before he gently yet firmly wraps the bandages around Harry’s arm.
Hermione looks at Ron, “What were those charms? I haven’t learned them before.”
Ron snorts, “finally, something the great ‘mione hasn’t mastered.” Hermione jabs him in his ribs with her rather pointy elbow in retort, Ron rolls his eyes. “Lots of injuries at the burrow. With 7 kids, you pick things up from mum. Besides,” Ron sighs, “during second year, when Ginny was being possessed by voldemort and not– feeling herself, she–” Ron clears his throat, “she did this same thing. The cuts, I mean. She obviously didn’t tell me about the diary or Tom, but I found her one day with cuts on her arm. She had told me that she wasn’t feeling alright– I just put it down to being a first year away from home for the first time, but…” Ron trails off. “She wouldn’t help herself, and she wouldn’t let me tell the others, lest it get back to mum. You know how Percy is,” Ron concluded scornfully.
Hermione and Harry nodded as Ron finished up his work. With a tear of the bandage and a sticking charm, Ron patted Harry’s shoulder. “Right, mate. All finished.”
Ron and Hermione rose to their feet, and each held a hand out for Harry to grasp to be heaved up.
“Let's go lay down, yeah?” Ron asked.
Harry nodded. Hermione wrapped her arm protectively around Harry’s back, and Ron guided him down the stairs back to the drawing room where they had set up camp. Harry was feeling better– more himself, less foreign in his own body– but, merlin, he was drained. Hermione and Ron maneuvered him into his sleeping area, and the both of them settled on either side of him. Harry sighed heavily, contented, but still incredibly afraid of what was to come. But now he knew he had his friends, and the family he found to support him, and someone– Ginny – waiting for him that would understand his actions and his mind. He didn’t feel so alone or guilty anymore. He was afraid, yes, but he was determined to make it through this. Harry closed his eyes, and fell asleep with the warmth of his friends beside him.