Blood trickled from the hole left behind. Then the trickle became more of a flow, a thin crimson rivulet coursing across his arm.
Shaking, Harry swore as he hurriedly pulled his pyjama sleeve down and used it to stanch the flow. By the time he got the bleeding to slow, his sleeve was a mess.
No doubt his arm didn't look so great, either. Harry didn't look. He didn't want to see.
I've got to find a way around the healing problem or my training will be over before it's really even got underway, he thought frantically. Especially since I'd better keep on with the big needle. Am I always going to bleed like this? What if I get an infection? Maybe I could nick some healing salve from somewhere.
Where, though? Severus probably had some in his classroom office, for accidents and such. For that matter, he had some at home, too. It would all be warded, but Harry could probably break through the protective spells. But no, there were monitoring spells too, and he didn't know how to disable them. His father would know what he'd done.
Damn, Pomfrey probably kept her stores well-guarded, too. Harry blew out a breath in frustration, as he looked down at his messy sleeve. He'd just have to hope for the best.
At least his cleaning spells were up to par, he thought. I'll just use Lavare to get the blood out of the fabric. Can't let the elves know what I've been doing. Oh, good, there's no blood on the rug or the sofa. The others can't know. Nobody can know . . .
All this secrecy . . . hiding things from his closest friends, it just wasn't like him at all, Harry abruptly realised. He didn't like it, but it had to be done, right? Hermione certainly wouldn't understand. She barely tolerated Harry getting knocked about in defence training--even after she'd started coming to Devon to see that nobody was abusing him.
But why was he keeping this from everyone else? His dad knew the importance of Harry's training, after all. His throat started feeling tight as he thought about it. Harry tried to swallow and couldn't quite manage it. Because Draco had been right after all, hadn't he? I have been avoiding them. Why would I do that? Was it because of what that portrait said? Did I really believe that rubbish about my new family corrupting me?
That last thought had Harry flinching again, the reflex even fiercer than when he'd tried to stab himself. All at once, it seemed like he'd been dreaming for the longest time, and he was only just now waking. Why had he listened to what that painting had to say, when he knew the wizard it represented had been nothing but a sadistic liar out to hurt Harry in any way he could?
But then he remembered all the evidence he'd thought about when he'd fled upstairs to Sirius' room. Evidence that something must be wrong inside himself. The black energy Snape had sensed back in Surrey. The violent wild magic he and he alone could do. And worst of all, being so happy to have killed someone! It all fit together, it did!
But if I'm really dark inside, how do I know that doing this is making it better and not worse? Hiding, lying, sneaking around. Thinking about stealing--from my father who loves me! How can any of that help me find my way into the light?
Sighing, Harry thought his way through the last couple of weeks.
What he realised was just awful. All this practice with the needle . . . was it really practice at all? Or was it more like an addiction? It seemed incredible now that he'd lain awake for hours, waiting for a chance to sneak off so he could be alone. He'd thought he needed privacy, but now it seemed more like secrecy. Dishonesty.
He'd been dishonest a lot, lately. Pretending, acting like there was nothing on his mind while he'd played chess with Ron and Hermione, when all the time, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about needles. Actually, he spent most of each class, most of each meal, thinking about them. And now he was thinking about stealing supplies!
Technically, I suppose I've already stolen from Hermione, he realised, looking down at the yarn needle in his hand.
If what he was doing with the needles was all right, why was he acting like he was so ashamed of it? There were probably safer ways to confront his fears. He could always use a boggart instead.
But when he'd confronted a boggart, ultimately it hadn't become Lucius with the needles, had it?
A dull sort of horror washed over Harry, then. Needles weren't his greatest fear after all, were they? So why was he getting so obsessed by them?
His bloody sleeve answered that for him. That, and the pain he could still feel.
Because the needles are what I deserve, aren't they, for being a killer and not even regretting it. They're a way to hurt.
Harry gulped, a new kind of pain coursing through him. Raw pain. Because he didn't understand how things had spiralled so far out of control! All he'd wanted was to conquer his fears. To be strong instead of weak, like his father had said.
But now, he was standing in the middle of the common room, all alone at almost two in the morning, his arm still slowly bleeding, and a gigantic needle in his hand! And the worst part of all was that he wanted the needle again. As much as it had hurt, as much as he'd hated it, he felt like he needed to stab himself again.
In that instant, fear coursed through Harry, leaving him shaking on his feet. He was out of control, so much so that he didn't trust himself, didn't know what he might do next. His fist clenched around the needle, the sharp tip of it piercing him.
An accident, this time. But it both hurt and felt good, and that frightened Harry more than anything that had passed before.
His thoughts fled frantically ahead of him. What was he going to do? He couldn't keep on like this, could he? What if he wanted a thicker needle next? What if he got an urge to stab himself someplace where it would really hurt? Someplace where he might do himself real harm?
He needed help! He needed Severus.
But his father wasn't going to understand this, was he? It was sick. It was twisted, what he'd been doing. Those marks on his arms weren't battle scars at all. They were proof of one thing only: that Harry was all messed up. On the inside, too.
Shivering, Harry looked down, his gaze slipping past his bloody sleeve to the table so near. His books were laid out there, proof of how far into deceit he'd fallen.
But Harry wasn't really thinking about that any longer. He'd noticed the corner of a vellum envelope poking out from between the pages of his transfiguration journal. The envelope . . . the Floo powder. Remus had known that Harry might need to talk to someone. Remus had given him a way to get to help.
Quickly, before he could lose his nerve, Harry snatched the envelope and broke the seal.
More words echoed inside his head as he stepped into the cold grate in the common room, the open envelope clutched in blood-stained fingers. Things Severus had said, but this time, not things about strength and weakness.
If you have a serious problem, I want you to come and talk to me. How else can I be your father?
And then, one thing more.
You either trust me enough as your father to come to me when needed, or you don't.
Harry tossed the powder and watched the flames flare green.
Struggling to speak around the lump in his throat, he admitted, "I need . . . I need to go home."
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Coming Soon in A Year Like None Other:
Chapter Ninety-Five: Offence in Defence