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The nightmare clawed its way out of Harry's chest in a choked, frantic sob. He thrashed against the tangled, sweat-soaked sheets, kicking wildly as the graveyard spun behind his eyelids.
Voldemort's cruel, mocking laugh echoed in his ears, twisting into the sickening thud of Cedric's body hitting the ground. His final breath rattled into the still air.
Hands seized him, dragging him back. Pettigrew's nails bit into his skin as a silver blade sliced through him, warm blood spilling from his veins. He couldn't move, couldn't fight, as he was forced to take part in a ritual he'd have given anything to prevent.
A voice—his mother's—desperate, pleading. "Not Harry. Please...have mercy...have mercy..."
A baby's cry, helpless and terrified. The dull, final sound of his mother's body hitting the floor.
Then the tip of a wand. Cruel, dark eyes boring into his own. The flash of green light, and a searing, blinding pain.
But the light did not fade. It held, and his parents stepped from it, their forms rising like mist taking shape from memory. First his mum. Then his dad.
"Run, Harry!"
The ground trembled beneath his feet. Gravity seemed to fail him as he tried to move, reaching blindly and desperately for Cedric's body. The portkey lay miles away, impossible to grasp.
"Dad," the word spilled from his mouth. "Help me."
A hand closed around his throat, thick and heavy fingers digging into his skin as Vernon's red face swam into view above him.
"Boy," he snarled, spit flying from his mouth.
Harry clawed at Vernon's hand, trying desperately to pry his fingers from his throat as he gasped desperately for a breath that never seemed to come. He couldn't think. He couldn't breathe. His vision blurred as his uncle's face faded from view.
Harry jerked awake with a strangled cry, his hands clawing at his throat as if Vernon's grip still held him.
But Vernon wasn't there.
Harry's hands fell away from his throat, eyes frantically darting around the unfamiliar room. Moonlight spilled through the grimy window, catching on peeling wallpaper and scuffed floorboards.
Across the room, Ron shifted beneath the blankets in the other bed, a familiar, deep snore rumbling from his chest.
For a moment, Harry didn't remember where he was. Then, all at once, memories came flooding back.
The Order coming to take him away. Flying through the air for the first time in months. His godfather's smiling face.
Grimmauld Place.
Harry lay back against the pillow, heart beating frantically against his ribs as he tried desperately to suck in air. But it seemed as if no matter how much air he inhaled, it was never enough. He squeezed his eyes shut, teeth clamping down on his bottom lip until he tasted the familiar tang of blood. He tried to imagine he was back at Hogwarts, wind blowing in his hair as he dove for the golden Snitch. He could almost feel the cool metal against his palm, the gentle flutter of its wings against his skin. But then he was falling, darkness swallowing him whole, the cheers of the Gryffindor team bleeding into his mother's final moments.
A sudden, stinging warmth pricked at the corner of his eyes. A single tear rolled down his cheek before he forced himself to blink.
"Boys don't cry!"
The words his uncle had drilled into him time and time again over the years echoed as a sharp, painful reminder. He could feel the sting of his uncle's belt as he shouted these words over and over again, forcing Harry to repeat them back to him until he was satisfied. The sharp crack of leather meeting skin echoed in his ears.
Harry dug at the scabs on his arms until they bled, desperate to feel something. Desperate for the release. But it wasn't enough. It never was.
He longed for the cold, familiar weight of the small silver blade in his hand, craving the sharp, clean bite of steel as it pressed against his skin. His eyes darted toward his trunk at the end of the bed, where the pocket knife Sirius had given him the previous Christmas was tucked away. Harry had promised himself when he came here that he was done cutting. He had told himself there would be no need. But deep down, Harry knew that was just another lie.
Harry reached out blindly, feeling around until his fingers grasped the rim of his glasses. He quickly slipped them on, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the change in vision. Then, taking a deep breath, he sat up, pressed his bare feet against the floor, and stood.
Quietly, so as not to disturb Ron, he crept closer to his trunk, pulling it open and reaching inside, his fingers feeling around until he found it.
For a moment, Harry just stood there, turning the knife over in his hands. Would anyone care if they knew? Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia wouldn't. Harry was almost certain they'd hand him the knife themselves and tell him to get it over with. If anything, Petunia would be more worried about the blood on the floor than about Harry himself.
But what about Ron? What about Hermione? And most importantly, what about Sirius?
Harry didn't know why Sirius's opinion mattered so much. He'd only known his godfather for a little over a year, but it mattered more than anyone's. Harry barely knew the man, and yet, he was desperate not to disappoint him. After all, if Mrs. Weasley was right, then Sirius didn't see Harry as anything more than a living, breathing version of his dad. And from the stories he'd heard, James Potter was a good man. Surely he wouldn't have resorted to cutting himself in the middle of the night.
What if I don't live up to Sirius's expectations? Harry couldn't help but wonder. Would he still want me?
Of course not. The voice in his head said. You're nothing but a disappointment. Too much of a burden for the Dursleys to waste their breath. Nothing but a Saviour to the Wizarding world. If it wasn't for the stupid scar on your head, Ron never would have even spared a second glance at you.
Harry's grip tightened, and before he knew it, he was pressing the tip of the blade to his wrist with more strength than necessary. Tears clouded his vision, and Harry didn't even realise he had cut too deep until the world suddenly tilted sideways. The pain didn't register right away, it never did. Just a sickening warmth spreading across his wrist, followed by an intense wave of nausea. Heat rose up his neck and into his face, but despite the warmth, he couldn't help but shiver.
Immediately, Harry tried to think of a way to fix his mistake before anyone else could see it. First he'd clean up the blood...no, that wasn't right. First he needed to stop the bleeding. Then he could worry about the mess. But Harry didn't have any bandages in his trunk, and he didn't know any healing spells. He couldn't help but think of Hermione, and how she'd probably have the perfect solution. But that would require her help, and if he asked for her help, she'd be bound to know he did this to himself.
Stumbling towards the door, Harry managed to make his way into the dark, narrow hallway, swaying slightly as he forced one foot in front of the other. One hand reached blindly for the wall, the other still clutched firmly around the knife, not quite ready to let it go.
For a moment, Harry considered making his way to the top floor, where he knew Sirius's room was. Maybe Sirius would understand. Maybe he would know what to do. Harry longed for the comfort of an adult. Someone to hold him and tell him everything would be okay. Someone to take the impossible weight off his shoulders.
Harry barely made it to the foot of the stairs before stopping. He thought back to the last time he had sought comfort from an adult. He had been little then, just tall enough to reach the door handle. He had woken from a nightmare with his trousers damp and sticky. The cupboard had been dark, and outside the wind howled. The journey from the cupboard to his aunt and uncle's room seemed to take forever, and by the time he pushed the door open, tears were streaming down his face.
He had crept across the floor, quiet as a mouse, toward the bed. For a moment he had only stood there, listening to Vernon's rumbling snores and watching the gentle rise and fall of Petunia's chest. Then his small hand had reached out and curled around the sleeve of his aunt's silk nightgown.
Everything after that was a blur of pain. Even now, Harry could hear the sickening crack of bone as his uncle twisted his arm, dragging him roughly down the hall. His aunt's horrified scream echoed through the memory.
"Careful, Vernon! We don't need any questions."
Harry had not understood what she meant then, but he learned the next morning on the way to the hospital. Uncle Vernon had spent most of the drive drilling him on what to say when the doctors asked what had happened—coaching him, for the first time, on how to lie.
"I fell," Harry had mumbled from the back seat, again and again, until his aunt and uncle seemed satisfied. "I fell down the stairs. I'm clumsy."
Harry had not known what clumsy meant, but it had seemed to please Petunia.
A floorboard groaned somewhere above him. Harry flinched so hard his shoulder struck the wall. For one awful second, he was small again, waiting for Vernon's footsteps to thunder down the hall.
But no footsteps followed. No furious voice called his name. There was only the low murmur of old pipes and the warm blood slipping between his fingers. Grimmauld Place. Not Privet Drive. Sirius was upstairs
Harry looked toward the staircase.
He could go to Sirius. He could wake him. Sirius might take one look at him and know something was wrong. He might pull Harry close, might say it was all right, might make everything better.
But Harry remembered Petunia's face as she watched Vernon drag him away—not afraid for Harry, only afraid of what someone else might see. Then he remembered the hospital. The lie. their relieved faces when he had repeated the right words.
I fell. I'm clumsy.
Harry looked down, watching in horror as his blood stained the floor. He was making a mess. He knew what Vernon and Petunia would do if they were here.
At Privet Drive, Harry had known the rules. Stay quiet. Stay out of the way. Do not ask for anything. Do not make a mess. Do not give Uncle Vernon a reason to shout or grab. Do not give Aunt Petunia a reason to look at him like he was something rotten beneath her shoe.
It had been awful, but it had been familiar. Harry knew what to expect there. He knew how to make himself small enough to survive it.
Sirius was different. He seemed to care about Harry—something Harry still did not quite know what to do with. He had escaped Azkaban because Harry was in danger. He had survived on rats while hunted by the entire wizarding world, all so he could protect him. Even after that, Sirius had found ways to stay in contact, despite the danger it put him in, and had welcomed Harry into his home as though he had always belonged.
Harry did not truly believe Sirius would hurt him.
But he barely knew Sirius. A year was not long enough to know what someone would do when they were angry or disappointed. Adults were unpredictable. They could be kind one moment and cruel the next.
What if Sirius saw the blood and his face changed? What if he looked at Harry the way Petunia did when he made a mess? What if Harry had finally done something that made Sirius regret opening his home.
His throat tightened. He could not bear to find out.
Harry curled his injured wrist closer to his chest and turned away from the stairs, his vision blurring as he forced himself to move. He could not go to Sirius. Not like this.
Instead, he made his way downstairs. His feet moved unsteadily beneath him as he descended to the entrance hall, keeping one hand pressed to the wall for balance, the knife dangling from his fingers.
The hall tilted.
Harry caught sight of the blood smeared along the wallpaper beneath his palm and tried to pull his hand away. His knees gave out before he could. He hit the floor hard, his shoulder striking the worn boards, and the last of his strength seemed to drain out of him.
For a moment, all he could do was lie there in his own blood, listening to the frantic thud of his heart.
Then a shriek tore through the entrance hall.
"FILTH! DISGUSTING, PATHETIC FILTH!"
The curtains over Mrs Black's portrait flew open. Her pale, furious face loomed from the wall, mouth stretched wide as she screamed.
"HALF-BLOOD FILTH! BLEEDING ALL OVER MY FLOORBOARDS! KREACHER! COME REMOVE THIS FILTH—"
Harry tried to push himself upright. His arms shook violently beneath him.
"No," he whispered, though he was not sure whether he meant the portrait, Kreacher, or the footsteps that were already beginning to thunder overhead. "No, please,"
"Harry!"
Someone dropped to the floor beside him, hands reaching for him, grabbing at him. Harry flinched.
"S'rry," he tried to say, but his mouth was too dry and his tongue would not cooperate. "S'rry, Unca Vernon. I'll clean it up."
He tried to stand, but firm, ready hands held him down.
"Don't move, Harry."
The voice was low—not angry, but urgent. Harry's breath caught anyway. His fingers tightened around the knife.
"Harry," the voice said again, closer this time. "I need you to let go of that for me."
Harry shook his head. The hallway swayed around him. Walburga continued to shout. "No," Harry mumbled. "Need it."
The hands around him tightened—not enough to hurt, but enough that Harry could not pull away.
"I know you think you need it," the man said, his voice low. "But you don't. Come on, Harry. Give me the knife."
Harry shook his head, panic rising in his throat. The grip on his arm tightened, and suddenly he was small again—Vernon's fingers biting into his skin, Vernon's voice thundering above him.
"No," Harry gasped, twisting violently. "No, no—Unca Vernon, p-please. I'll be good. I'll clean i' up, I promise."
"Harry." The voice cut through the panic, urgent but not loud. "Harry, look at me."
Harry squeezed his eyes shut.
"It's Remus," the man said. "You are safe. You are at Grimmauld Place. I'm not going to hurt you."
"P'fessor?" he whispered, loosening his hold just a little.
"Yes," Remus said. "That's right. It's me. Just let go of the knife, Harry."
Footsteps pounded down the stairs. A moment later, Mrs Black's screaming was cut off mid-shriek as someone yanked the curtains over her portrait shut. Then another figure dropped to their knees beside Harry.
"Harry—Merlin, Harry—"
Another pair of hands reached for him. Harry recoiled, fingers tightening around the knife once more. He could not see through the blur of tears and darkness; he only knew that there were too many hands, too many voices, and nowhere to escape.
"Sirius, stop." The command in Remus's voice cut cleanly through the noise.
"He's bleeding," Sirius said, his voice strained and wild. "Remus, he's—look at him—"
"I can see him." Remus did not look away from Harry. "Stay back. You're frightening him."
Sirius went still. Harry could hear his uneven breathing somewhere close by.
"Harry," Remus said quietly, "it's only me. No one else is going to touch you. Look at me."
Harry's gaze dragged back to Remus's face. His hand was still clenched around the knife.
"That's it," Remus murmured. "You know me. You're at Grimmauld Place. You're safe."
"S'rius?" Harry's voice was barely more than a whisper in the wind.
There was a sharp inhale from beside him.
"I'm here," Sirius said, softer now. "I'm here, Harry. I'm not going anywhere."
"M'srry," he reached out blindly, the knife slipping from his fingers and clattering to the floor. Strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him close.
"I've got you, Harry."
"S'rius?"
The arms tightened, not painfully, but protectively. Something warm dampened Harry's hair near his temple. Before he could understand what it was, the rough brush of Sirius's beard grazed his forehead and a soft kiss followed. "I'm right here, love. I've got you."
Harry's eyes slipped shut. For the first time he could remember, he was warm. Held. Wanted. Sirius's heartbeat thudded steadily beneath his ear, and Harry let himself sink into the safety of it. Maybe, just for a little while, he did not have to be afraid.
"Harry."
Remus's voice came from somewhere close by, calm but firm. "Harry, keep your eyes open for me."
Harry tried, but his eyelids felt impossibly heavy.
"That's it," Remus said. "Stay with us. I'm going to stop the bleeding now, but I need to stay awake."
"'Wake?" Harry mumbled, fighting sleep as it tried to pull him under. "'M t'red."
"That's normal," Remus said, calm but firm, "but it's important that you don't close your eyes. Sirius is going to talk to you, all right? Just listen to his voice."
Gentle fingers brushed the damp hair from Harry's eyes as Sirius shifted closer. His warm breath tickled Harry's ear as he spoke.
"Remember the night you first met me? Not for the first time, of course. You couldn't possibly remember that. But the night in the Shrieking Shack?"
Harry tried to answer, but all that came out was a pathetic moan. Sirius seemed to take that as a yes.
"You said you were going to kill me, remember?" Another teardrop landed on Harry's nose. "One look at you, and I had no doubt you'd try and do just that. You stood your ground, eyes blazing, and you didn't once back down. Even when you thought your life was in danger."
Sirius shifted slightly, pulling Harry more securely against his chest.
"You're so brave, Harry. Braver than you ever should have had to be."
"Not," Harry mumbled, shivering. "Not b-brave."
Sirius's hold tightened around him. "You are."
Harry gave the smallest shake of his head, his cheek pressed against Sirius's chest. "'M scared."
"I know," Sirius whispered. "Being scared doesn't mean you aren't brave. Just like being brave doesn't mean keeping fear at bay. Being brave is carrying on, even when every part of you wants to run. It's asking for help when you need it. And most importantly," he paused to wipe a teardrop from Harry's cheek. "It's letting those who love you stand beside you when you can't manage it alone. That, son, is bravery."
Another warm tear slipped onto Harry's face. Sirius wiped it away quickly with his thumb.
"You've been on your own for far too long, Harry. And for that, I am so incredibly sorry. But you're not alone anymore."
"Not?"
"No," Sirius whispered. "Not anymore. You have me. You have Remus. You have Ron and Hermione, not to mention the entire Weasley family. You're not alone, Harry. You're wanted here."
Harry's brow furrowed faintly. "Want me?"
Sirius's expression broke. He bent and pressed another kiss to Harry's forehead.
"More than you know," he said. "You are wanted, Harry. You are loved. You belong here."
Harry tried to hold on to the words, but they drifted through his mind like smoke. Wanted. Loved. Belonged. Foreign words he only could have dreamed of.
"Stay," he whispered.
"I'm staying." Sirius held him closer. "I promise."
Sirius continued to hold him as Remus sealed the wound. Minutes passed in silence, then a small vial was pressed carefully to his lip.
"Drink," Remus said. "I'm afraid it isn't chocolate, but it will help just the same." Harry opened his eyes just in time to see a faint smile cross his old professor's face.
"What issit?"
"A blood replenisher," Remus replied. "You've lost quite a bit of blood. You need it."
Harry didn't argue as Remus tipped the vial into his mouth. He swallowed what he could, the rest dribbling down his cheek. Sirius wiped it away with the corner of his nightgown, his eyes, which were full of warmth, never left Harry.
"You can sleep now," Sirius said, pressing another kiss to his forehead. "Just close your eyes."
Harry felt himself being lifted into strong arms. He wanted to argue that he was perfectly capable of walking on his own, but his legs felt like jelly and he couldn't form the words. Instead, he closed his eyes, the promise of sleep pulling him under. When he opened his eyes again, he was in an unfamiliar room, posters of bikini-clad Muggles on the walls.
"Where are we?" Harry asked, finding words much easier now that the bleeding had stopped.
"We're in my room." Sirius replied. "I figured you could use a night away from Ron's snoring," Sirius grinned. "And besides, I don't think I'm quite ready to let you out of my sight."
Sirius lowered Harry into the bed and pulled the covers up to his chin. Harry opened his mouth, but all that came out was a yawn.
"Sleep now," Sirius said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "There will be time to talk in the morning."
Harry stared up at him, fighting the pull of sleep. "You'll still be here?"
Sirius's expression softened. He reached down and brushed his thumb gently over Harry's hair.
"When you wake up," he said. "And all night until then. I promise."
Harry searched his face for a moment, as if he could find the truth there. Then Sirius took his hand, careful of the bandaged wrist, and held it between both of his. The movement shifted the loose cuff of Sirius's nightshirt.
Harry's gaze caught on the pale, uneven lines along Sirius's wrist. A small gasp escaped his lips.
For a second, Sirius went utterly still.
Harry expected him to pull his sleeve down. He expected embarrassment, anger, perhaps that flustered look adults got when Harry saw something he was not meant to see. Instead, Sirius looked down at their joined hands. His thumb moved slowly across Harry's knuckles.
"They're old," Sirius said quietly.
Harry's throat tightened. He did not know why he could not look away.
"When I was younger," Sirius continued, "there were times when I used a knife to dull the pain. I thought inflicting pain on myself would somehow help drown out the pain I was feeling inside.
Harry's fingers curled weakly around Sirius's hand. "Did it?"
Sirius's eyes lifted to meet his, and Harry was startled to see tears. "No," he shook his head. "It didn't."
Harry swallowed hard. "Do you still do it?" The question slipped out before he could stop it, and only then did Harry consider the rudeness of it. But Sirius didn't appear offended at all.
"I stopped when I went to live with your dad and grandparents." He said. "I never harmed myself after that. Not until Azkaban, at least."
"And now?"
Sirius shook his head. "I've thought about it," his gaze drifted downward, as if the admission of it stung. "But I never let it get any further than that."
He busied himself with tucking the blankets around Harry, patting them until they were wrinkle free.
"I got help," Sirius went on. "Not all at once. Not perfectly. But I let people help me when I could. And little by little, I learned that pain does not have to be something you carry by yourself."
Harry looked down at his wrist, his fingers absentmindedly picking at the bandage. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
"No." Sirius gently pried Harry's fingers from the bandage. "No, love. You do not apologise for being hurt."
"But I—"
"You were hurting," Sirius said gently. "That does bot make you bad. It does not make you broken. And it most certainly does not make you a burden."
Harry blinked quickly, but a tear escaped anyway. Sirius brushed it away with his thumb.
"You do not have to promise me that you will never feel like this again," Sirius continued. "You do not have to solve any of it tonight. Tomorrow, we will talk. Remus and I will make sure you have help, and that you are not left alone with it. All you need to do right now is rest."
Harry tried to absorb the words. They settled somewhere deep inside him, fragile and unfamiliar.
"You're not angry?" he asked.
Sirius's face crumpled so quickly that Harry wished he had not asked.
"Angry?" Sirius echoed. "At you? Never."
His grip tightened around Harry's hand—not painful, just steady. "I am angry at myself for leaving you alone. I am angry at the world for hurting by you. I am angry at every single person who ever made you feel less than you are. But I will never be angry at you, Harry. Not for surviving the best way you knew how."
Sirius carefully pulled his cuff back into place. He did not let go of Harry's hand. "Can I stay?" he asked softly.
Harry blinked. "You're asking me if you can stay in your own room?
"I know." Sirius gave him a small, watery smile. "But I don't want to crowd you. I will stay on the chair in the corner, the floor, the bed," he paused a moment, his gaze wandering to the door. "Or if you prefer some privacy, I can sit in the hall. The choice is yours. And no matter what choice you choose, you won't be alone."
The question felt strange. Adults did not usually ask Harry what he wanted.
"Here," Harry said, his voice hardly more than breath. "Please."
"Here it is."
Sirius settled himself against the headboard beside him, arranging the pillows so he would not disturb Harry. He kept one hand wrapped gently around Harry's uninjured one, warm and solid and real.
The room was unfamiliar. The old house still groaned around them, and somewhere far below, a pipe rattled in the walls. But Sirius was beside him. Sirius's hand was warm around his, steady and real.
"Go to sleep, Harry," Sirius murmured. "I'll be here when you wake."
Harry let his eyes close.
For the first time in a very long while, sleep did not feel like something he had to survive.