The Five Steps

He doesn't see red. The world is white hot. Much hotter than the July weather. It burns away the edges of his vision and his eyes are raw and dry. Each blink is grit filled and uncomfortable.

Harry Potter is sixteen today. Mrs. Weasley sends him a package - likely a cake. Harry doesn't even take the brown paper off the box. He clutches his fists and sits on his bed in his vest and skivvies. What good will getting dressed do? What is the point in doing anything? Hedwig nips him hard and he glares at her. He doesn't thank her for delivering the package and he hasn't filled her water dish. It is dry and covered with a layer of dust. She snaps her beak at him and he wants to hurl the package at her. He is full of fierce blistering venom and it has pooled like a lake of liquid fire behind his eyes.

He hates every ragged and uneven breath he takes. His mind is so sharp it hurts to be aware. He can see Sirius falling again and again. It is all his own fault Sirius was at the Ministry, all his fault Sirius is dead.

Remus is in Harry's room and his mouth is moving but the white heat has burned out Harry's hearing. He hands Harry a knife and pushes the package from Mrs. Weasley toward him. The knife is cool in Harry's palm and he looks dumbly at the brass and wood handle. It is like the knife that Sirius had given Harry, the one which was destroyed in the Department of Mysteries, but this one has no silver in it. Harry opens the blade and considers plunging it into his own eye. But he knows the ire will not flow out and leave him cool and empty. Already the knife is warming to his boiling blood, which pulses in his fingertips and radiates heat into the metal and even darkens the wood where Harry touches it.

* * *

The anger has burned away. Remus has gone and Harry can't remember anything Remus said to him. The conflagration is dead and cold. Harry puts on a wool jumper despite the scorching July sun.

The sunlight feels thin and doesn't warm him. Harry shivers and creeps downstairs to make a cup of tea. Petunia is in the kitchen wearing a light summer frock. She glares at Harry in his heavy jumper when he puts the kettle on. Petunia crosses his path and jumps away from him shivering. The air around him is crackling with blue frost. She doesn't say anything to him and leaves the room sweating again.

Back in his bedroom Harry eats the sticky melting chocolate cake Mrs. Weasely sent and sips his hot tea. The tea doesn't warm him. The cake is large enough to serve twenty-five people. Each bite is like air it has no weight, texture, or flavor. Harry eats all of it and he still feels echoingly vast and empty inside.

* * *

Harry does not go to the Weasley's during the summer before his sixth year. He is worried his flat, grey, self-hatred is visible and worse -- is infectious. He would rather be alone anyway. It is too hard to be around people. It takes too much energy.

The August days grind slowly down. His Hogwarts letter arrives. Harry doesn't even open it. Perhaps he won't go back to school.

Remus and Tonks take Harry to Diagon Alley for his school things. It is easier to go with them than to argue. Books are purchased, new robes fitted, money bag replenished. Harry drifts behind Remus and Tonks and into the Leaky Cauldron. Remus says something and Harry nods. The grey fog fills his ears like water and muddles sounds.

A door opens and Harry is ushered into a private sitting room full of people. They shake his hand, and he only hears burbling noises, phrases and meaning reduced to musical cadence and gesture.

Suddenly in the center of the mist that is Harry's mind there is a dark spot that wasn't there before. A blackness that is growing and pressing on him. His mind explodes and the grey is blotted out by an inky dark. Pain stabs at his eyes and fingers. He presses his palms to his eyes until the pain recedes and then opens his eyes. The world is bright and loud and hot. Harry replaces his glasses and blinks. Snape is glaring at him.

Dumbledore says, "Thank you Severus. I think that will be enough for know. Do have one of these delicious fruit tarts." He turns to Harry.

"I am an old man, Harry - but hopefully not so foolish that I do not learn from my mistakes. It is still vitally important that you learn Occlumency. If you refuse to learn it - I am afraid I cannot allow you to return to Hogwarts this year. Professor Snape is the best person to teach you - but I think I can help too." The twinkle and force is still clear in Dumbledore's eyes. But he seems smaller. Shrunken. Older. "Now, would you like to try some of this chocolate gateau?"

Words tumble out. Harry is not sure they are right. He will learn. He must learn or more people will die - and it will be all his fault again. If he had learned Occlumency last year - Sirius would still be alive.

The tea is finished and Harry is shown a room on the third floor where he will spend the night. The new term will start tomorrow. Dumbledore has given him a large book on Occlumency and Harry reads all night.

The seed of a new dangerous idea is planted in his mind. Perhaps Sirius is not beyond all reach or recall.

* * *

Sirius fell behind the curtain. But no one saw his body give out, or stop breathing. Harry reasons this out. He lies awake in his dorm wondering what the world is like were Sirius is now. He may still be alive and well - just unreachable.

Harry has repaired the two way mirror Sirius gave him. He keeps it with him at all times. He is careful to not to let Hermione or Ron see it. He doesn't want to lie to them about it. But he would.

* * *

Occlumency lessons are on Tuesday evenings in Dumbledore's office. Snape and Harry work for half and hour and then Dumbledore questions Harry on theory. The system works remarkably well. Snape is still barely civil to Harry, even in the Headmaster's presence. But Harry progresses.

He has had not had visions, feels none of Voldemort's perverse glee or bitter ire. He stays awake for hours every night combing through books. What Dumbledore and Snape do not know is that Harry has been teaching himself Legilimency.

More and more his thoughts are bent on defeating Voldemort. Harry hasn't dreamed about Sirius for weeks. When his thoughts do snag on a sharp splinter of guilt or anguish he is able to extricate himself quickly. The feelings pass.

Classes are tough, Quidditch season is in full swing and Harry doesn't carry the mirror with him anymore. He isn't quick to laugh and his temper is short fused. The emptiness is not filled in - but at least Harry can walk past it without a fear of falling in.