Cuts and Lilies

Chapter 1

Harry's laboured breathing echoed ominously through the empty bathroom. The sound reverberated off the tall stone walls, but Harry remained oblivious to the acoustics around him. His gaze was unfocused, his eyes unblinking, as he tried to inspect the damage wrought by that night's events.

Trembling, Harry clutched his left forearm with his other hand, trying to steady himself. He leaned against the cold wooden door, barring anyone from entering the facilities. His knees were pulled up to his chest, and every muscle in his body was tensed, trying to stop the shaking. It helped, but only a little.

Finally managing to focus his foggy eyesight, Harry squinted at the smeared red colour bathing his left wrist. It could have been worse, he thought. The stinging pain from three shallow cuts was hard to ignore, but the overall injury wasn't so bad. There wasn't even that much blood; it just coated a large portion of his skin.

Once Harry felt calm enough and in control, he slowly stood up and stumbled to the nearest sink to wash himself. Cold water soothed the sore slashes, and after cleaning up, his injury hardly looked intimidating. Just three skewed cuts near each other.

Given how furiously Harry inflicted them himself, he did a good job holding back. His mind was all but clear when he grasped the sharp fragment of mirror his godfather had given him and pushed it against his skin.

He was frustrated, so fucking frustrated, and didn't know any other way to cope.

Voldemort wriggling inside his mind like an ugly worm halted all of a sudden after the first slash, and that was everything Harry needed as encouragement. He didn't even feel the pain back then, but it must have been working, since not long after, all traces of the Dark Lord were gone. Harry could finally breathe.

It was the first time Harry managed to chase that monster out of his mind on his own, not by Occlumency, which he miserably failed to learn.

So what if he needed to feel a little pain in return? It was worth it. It was the first time he felt as if he could stand a chance against him, weapon firmly in hand. Harry didn't feel pangs of panic in his chest as he laid down to sleep the following evening.

***

It worked.

Sometimes better, sometimes worse, but it worked.

Harry wanted to sing from all the joy that bloomed inside him. To hell with Occlumency, to hell with his lectures, and most importantly, to hell with Snape! Harry was no longer a vulnerable little boy having his mind read every time he closed his eyes.

The rapidly growing number of injuries on both his forearms was a small price to pay for this victory. Harry wasn't scared, nor was he incapable of tolerating physical pain. Voldemort, on the other hand, seemed not to handle it so well. It only showed how much of a coward that creature was.

Harry felt a flicker of hope that he could defeat him one day for good.

***

Chasing Voldemort out of his mind had been a terrible ordeal, but it was not the end of Harry's struggles. A more weighting matter Harry adamantly ignored thus far was making itself known again.

Sirius.

Fighting the guilt eating him up inside was a losing battle. The memories of Sirius's death haunted him day and night, lurking behind his eyelids every time Harry blinked. It was maddening. Harry would rather have Voldemort shred his mind into pieces than continue living with the regret that crushed his soul.

He couldn't even say goodbye. He couldn't even hear Sirius' last words. They didn't have a chance to talk. One moment he was there and the other he was gone and Harry couldn't do anything to stop it.