Crimson Screams

Crimson Screams

*Chapter One*

Privet Drive. Seeing the name of that street brought feelings of loathing and despair to Harry Potter's mind. To most the street was a place where one could find utter normalcy. Harry was the blemish on that facade of perfection and was told so on a regular basis by the Dursleys. He hated having to come back here every summer, even if it was only for a short while; until Ron or Hermione could invite him over.

After coming to a stop in the driveway of number four, Uncle Vernon shouted at Harry to 'get his bloody pigeon out of the car'. Hedwig, who never liked the journey back from King's Cross, had been hooting mercilessly inside her cage the entire time. Harry struggled to drag his things through the front door and pulled them, with much thumping, up the stairs to Dudley's old second bedroom.

Once inside, he closed the door, deposited his trunk in an unused corner, and put Hedwig in her favorite spot near the window. He crossed the small room to his bed and flopped down on it.

He felt weak. Everything that had happened in the last term had been weighing heavily on his mind. He was angry, sad, lonely, and happy; all the emotions welled up into a knot of depression and anxiety in his chest.

A vision of Sirius, singing during Christmas time, floated across Harry's mind; followed by yet another wave of sadness and shame. If only he had practiced his Occlumency correctly, Sirius wouldn't be dead. It had been all his, Harry's, fault. He hated himself for forgetting that he could have gotten in touch with Sirius with the two-way mirror, if only he hadn't been so hasty in his actions...There were so many 'if onlys' and 'what ifs'. What if Harry's parents had never been killed? What if Voldemort had marked Neville instead? If only Harry knew what to do about the prophecy...He wished he could talk to Sirius about it. This was the time he would have needed a fatherly figure to talk to most, and his godfather was gone.

Harry's eyes began to sting as tears came to his eyes. He rolled over on his bed and let the tears and exhaustion drift him to sleep.

***

Harry awoke with a start and looked around the moonlit room. He didn't know how long he had slept, but remembered that it had been light before. The house was quiet and Harry's stomach rumbled. The Dursleys must not have called him down for dinner; not that they cared whether he missed it or not.

He found his watch on the nightstand and looked at the softly glowing numbers. 12:30 am. He decided he would risk going down to the kitchen for a midnight snack. He crept quietly into the hallway and to the top of the stairs, where he stopped to listen for any sound of disturbed sleeping coming from the other bedrooms. Satisfied, he started slowly down the stairs, skipping the squeaky step.

Once in the kitchen he looked around in the cabinets for anything he could take back to his bedroom. Unsuccessful, he settled on a piece of leftover lamb chop and took a knife and fork with him. He figured he'd just have to sneak back down later and destroy the evidence of his late night meal.

After creeping quietly back to his room, Harry sat down at his desk and placed the plate and utensils near the lamp. For a few minutes he stared, seemingly at nothing, and then picked up the piece of parchment that he had left on the desktop. He stared at the blank sheet and wondered whether he should write to Lupin and the others; telling them he had made it back safely.

He decided against it, he didn't feel like writing to them. He knew he'd have to write eventually; they wanted him to send Hedwig every three days, and to be honest, it would be a lie to tell them he had arrived safely. Harry was never truly safe, and never would be. Instead, he picked up his quill, dipped it in ink, and wrote 'Dear Sirius'. He didn't know why he'd done it, but kept writing nevertheless.

Dear Sirius,

I wish you were here right now. I'd ask you for advice; and most importantly, I'd apologize. I was so stupid to not practice my Occlumency and then believe every word of those damn dreams! I hate myself for putting everyone in danger. Not just at the Department of Mysteries, but every year that I've known the magical world to be my home. I keep thinking; 'What if I'd died one of those times? I'd be saving everyone a lot of trouble...' And then there's that; I've been told I'm obsessed with saving people. It's true; you wouldn't have died if it wasn't. I guess the main problem is; I'm scared. I have no idea what to think about the prophecy. I'm going to have to kill Voldemort eventually, or be killed. In the end, who'll be around to save me?

Harry put down his quill and stared at the writing on the parchment. He read it over and felt hot, angry tears rolling down his cheeks for the second time that day. He held his head in his hands and leaned on the desk; wishing he could just disappear, die, anything other than sit here wishing for someone with all the answers to come to his rescue.

He lifted his head up and saw the plate of forgotten lamb chop. He picked the knife up and brought it in front of him, watching it glint in the lamplight. He looked from the steel blade down to his arm, which was resting on the desk next to the parchment.

Later, he vaguely remembered thinking; 'What am I doing? This is so stupid!'

Without another thought he brought the cold blade down on his wrist and pushed down while dragging it across his skin angrily. He placed the knife back on the desk and looked at his arm, feeling somewhat disappointed. He had failed to produce anything more than a welt. Obviously the knife wasn't sharp enough. After trying a few more unsuccessful times, he threw the knife at the plate of lamb and climbed into bed.