Work Text:
Harry didn’t want to be alive. That was the fundamental truth. If he was more selfish he would hope Voldemort would win. If it wasn’t for the fact that Voldemort would hurt Hermione, Ron, the Weasleys, Sirius, Remus, Neville- everyone whom Harry held dear, Harry would have let Voldemort kill him.
The Dursleys believe Harry is selfish. Harry almost believed it, he did for many years. Selfish for using up space in their house, selfish for eating their food, selfish for existing.
The first time Harry tried to kill himself he was 9 years old. At that point he officially had nothing. His parents were dead, the Dursleys hated him, he had no friends, and school meant nothing to him. He tried to drown himself. He locked himself in the bathroom and ran the tap, he used boiling water so it burnt as well. All he deserved was pain. When the tub was full he slipped in, hissing as the hot water contacted his bruised body. He stayed there for hours, underwater, trying to force himself to stop breathing.
He had failed. He now realised his magic had saved him. After a while, Harry took himself out of the bath and dried off, draining the water and slipping back into his cupboard. He had burns all over his body the next day causing suspicious glances from Aunt Petunia, but no other hint of concern.
Six years later, he still wanted to die. It’s always been in the back of his mind the death wish, but it’s now pushed itself forward to the leading thought that motivated every action.
Sure, he had hope, Sirius was alive, he had a godfather, he had friends, and he had people who cared for him, but he still wanted it to all stop.
He felt a burning anger. His whole body was a firey mess of pure hatred. He hated everything and everyone and wanted everyone to hate him so he had a valid reason to feel this anger towards them, however, people cared about him and that almost hurt more.
His uniform was tight around him, it fit, but he felt his shirt stick to the unhealed cuts and bruises littering his back from the wounds left by his uncle's belt or cousin's fists.
One new thing is that Harry had new glasses. This was because Dudley had punched him in the eye while he wore the glasses. They smashed, cutting his hand and a shard flew into Harry’s eye. He still felt the soaring pain later, but he deserved this pain. He deserved all the pain. His one-eyed blindness was just a bonus of pain and humiliation.
The presence of Umbridge is not helping. Her little giggle as she insults Cedric’s memory by denying the return of Voldemort is offensive and dangerous. They aren’t even learning practical spells! If people die due to his return and her lack of competence at teaching, Harry would kill her with great enthusiasm.
Harry can’t eat anymore. He’s always had a bad relationship with food, from the Dursleys denying him food he has learnt to love starvation. The gaping hole inside of him is a bigger comfort than anything. It’s familiar, he knows why it’s there. Even at Hogwarts, he eats less than everyone else. In his younger years, he revelled in so much food being at his fingertips, but now? The thought of eating and filling his gaping hole made him want to vomit. He actually did vomit multiple times. Harry hates food. Harry hates eating. Harry hates.
He wants to kill. He knows it’s bad, but he just wants something, someone to feel pain. He would quite like to be the person to feel pain. His uncle's beatings and cousin's games felt like a relief to him, he knows how to handle physical pain. He no longer wants to deal with mental pain. At this point he is honestly enjoying the pain from Umbridge detention, it gives him something to focus on and somewhere to channel his anger. He clenched and unclenched his hand. I must not tell lies. Harry wanted to feel physical pain. That’s not a lie.
That’s why he’s sitting at the top of the astronomy tower, his invisibility cloak over him and a sharp quill in his hand. His arm was bleeding profusely from the aggressive attack from the quill. Harry stared in quiet wonder as the red liquid oozed out and pooled. He loved this type of pain, pain he could control.
He focused on the blood. He focused on the pain from the cuts. He wasn’t very good at focusing, he never could, and these days his mind often wonders to the lifeless look in Cedric’s eyes, the evil grin of Voldemort.
He could still feel Voldemort's finger on him. He could still feel the bony finger pressing against his scar. He knew it would never go away. He knew what it was like to have hands on you knowing they only want to cause pain and the weight never leaves.
After a particularly bad nightmare at the beginning of summer, he went to the bathroom and scrubbed his scar till it was red, blotchy and bleeding. His breathing was laboured as he stared into the mirror. He stood in silence for a while, looking at his own reflection. He pulled his quill out of his oversized pocket and positioned it to cut, only for Uncle Vernon to fly through the door. Harry couldn’t remember what he said, each instance of anger from the hands of his uncle blended into one, so all he remembered was screaming then his fingers gripping tightly to his upper arm before he was thrown into his bedroom with a sharp slap.
In the present moment, Harry once again positioned his quill over his arms. The scars left created a beautiful and intricate pattern that could not be replicated because it was Harry’s. Harry’s art, Harry’s scars, Harry’s pain. He was not used to owning anything so the feeling of owning anything still elated him.
He felt the slit as he dug the sharp end pierce his skin, he watched the bloodstream out and joined the dried blood that already littered his arm. Art. Pain. Beauty.
He had nothing to wipe the blood with, and he knew better than to wipe it with his clothes as someone, Hermione, would notice. He loved her, but sometimes he wished she wouldn’t see him as well as she did.
Time passed, and he was unsure how much, he’d been staring at his blood too long. No new blood had appeared in a while and the old blood had dried. Harry’s hand shook as he gripped the quill, leaning back and hitting his head against the metal poles surrounding the tower edge.
His eyes closed as he began to form lists in his mind. Harry liked lists, despite what could be said about him, he required organisation to some degree, even if it was just listing and cataloguing his problems.
1. Voldemort is back and he can’t fight. Molly had prevented him from fighting, Dumbledore won’t speak to him and he’s stuck in school learning fuck all that will help him.
2. Umbridge exists. That’s honestly a massive fucking problem. The pink toad-faced bitch with no perspective or care. She was torturing students for her sadistic enjoyment with her little giggle and frilly smile. She was aiding the ministry in the prevention of knowledge on Voldemort and people would die.
3. The ministry itself. Particularly the minister himself, how dare he casually and adamantly deny the truth! Why couldn’t he believe him? They say it’s to prevent panic but when Voldemort is revealed the panic that will arise then will be worse due to the refusal of time to plan.
4. Cedric. He’s never left Harry’s mind. The boy who had so much potential, he was smart, fucking gorgeous, kind, god he deserved the world, and all Harry did was kill him. He fucking killed him. “Kill the spare” haunted his every thought, the image of his usually bright eyes so sullen and empty.
(He had to wipe that image from his mind before it killed him- even if he deserved it).
5. Dumbledore. Was he ignoring Harry? Harry did as he was told, he was fine at the end of last year- what happened? The headmaster was ignoring Harry like he was a stray cat, and Harry needed him now more than ever. What had he done? How can he fix it?
6. Sirius. Harry has discovered that the magical legal system was more backwards, unjust and corrupt than the muggles and that’s fucking saying something! How the fuck was he not found innocent! He should be a free man! He’d done nothing, he should be free and Harry should live with him.
7. Harry needs out of the Dursleys. Harry needs to leave as fast as he can but at the same time, he can’t leave. Harry’s only constant has been the Dursleys. If that’s also included the pain the Dursleys bring then so be it. Harry would rather have consistent pain he knows how to handle than be thrown into the unknown. The Dursleys have spent their whole lives causing Harry pain, from crude insults, hits from the frying pan, Vernon’s belt or Dudley’s fists. Over the years he’s learnt to deal with it and as much as he wants out, he also doesn’t know how to live without it.
8. He has a growing number of friends and he hates it. It was enough having Ron and Hermione, but now? Ginny, Neville, Cho, the twins. There are so many people whom Harry needs to protect. How can he die when he needs to protect people? He’s needed, because he can’t let the people he cares about die. If any harm comes to them he will fight god himself. He cares too much, and he can’t stop himself and it’s fucking killing him. Hardly anyone else likes him and believes he’s a liar, but those who are his friends mean the world to him.
9. The nightmares. The visions. He didn’t allow himself to elaborate on that though, it sent tears to his eyes and a lump to his throat. He doesn't need it right now, not when he’s trying to clear his mind.
Nine. Nine prevalent thoughts. Less than on some nights but so big and consuming it’s hurting him. God he hurts. His head hurts. His stomach hurts. His legs hurt. Fucking hell his legs hurt, how long has he been sitting here? What time is it?
Harry looks up, neck sore from his hunched position, the stretch to look at the sky sending a sharp pain down his spine. The sun was beginning to rise. Despite his half vision, the bright sun teasing itself over the Scottish mountains created a light so unmissable Harry could tell dawn was fast approaching. Merlin fuck he had a potions exam first period, Snape will kill him if he falls asleep mid-exam.
God Snape, the old dungeon bat who needs a shower. Snape sends such loathing looks at Harry, Harry almost wishes he would kill him and get it over with, at least then he would not be looked at with such disgust for reasons unknown. Snape wrote everything on a chalkboard and Harry hid in the back, but due to his new blindness he knew he was never going to be able to see and that means he will fuck up his potion causing more distaste from the potions master and Harry is dreading it.
Harry doesn’t have the energy to think of all the intricacies that are Severus Snape. Harry needs to stand up and sneak back to the Gryffindor fifth-year boys dormitory before he’s reported missing and while half the student population hates his fucking guys and would probably celebrate, it’s more effort than it’s worth.
Harry stands precariously. His whole body hurts, his whole body is stiff. Fuck- fuck fuck fuckity fuck. He still grips his quill with a vise-like grip and his invisibility cloak hangs over him. He tried to take a step but he didn’t have complete control of his balance and instead, he stumbled backwards.
It turns out he’s dizzy, he is unstable and falling backwards. Wait, what? Falling backwards? He slips backwards between the gaps in the poles. His hand waved widely till they grabbed onto something, which turned out to be the ledge. His hands gripped as tightly as they could before he looked down.
It was a long drop. Would kill him instantly. Harry should let go. It would stop it all. In one quick moment, his pain would be over. He could die, he was too tired to try and live. He’s so fucking tired of surviving.
His hands were slipping. He couldn’t die, not yet. Voldemort was growing and without Harry to save them, everyone would die. His best friends were muggleborns and blood traitors, they are top of the list below Harry himself and Harry had to save them.
But he was tired. The ledge was slippery. His hand was slipping. Maybe, maybe this once he should live up to his reputation and be selfish. Would probably make his aunt and uncle proud that in the end, they were right.
Harry Potter was a selfish bastard and he let go. The crisp dawn breeze carried Harry quickly down and Harry looked up to the sky and smiled. For the first time in his life, he felt free. He knew his head would stop talking and he would stop feeling. He could feel the freedom getting closer as his drop grew heavier. Harry was skin stretched over bones but for the first time, he was heavy as he fell, breaking through the air as his body sought freedom from the impact. His hand opened, allowing the quill that had been his comfort since first year to fly away. He wouldn't need it if he was dead. He was more disappointed that his cloak had flown off, it would have been nice to die with apart of his father wrapped around him for comfort, but at least now his body would be found.
He was close now, he could feel it, freedom, death in arms reach-
“ARRESTO MOMENTUM!” A voice screamed out, breaking Harry’s fall as he was slowed down as he got closer to the ground. Harry tried to look around and find the owner of the voice that prevented his freedom. The voice that prevented his death
Before discovering his unwanted saviour, Harry landed on the floor, head smacking against the stone floor, unfortunately, it was not so hard to kill him instantly as he hoped. It was hard enough that he felt himself become lightheaded and eyes become heavy. He knew he’d pass out and that would have to do.
Harry’s eyes closed. He would open them again, even if he wished he never would have to. Harry Potter, the boy who lived- still lived.
What cruel fucking being is keeping him alive?
Harry Potter wanted to die. That was a fundamental truth. Harry Potter couldn’t die. Unfortunately, that was also a fundamental truth.