Before I begin, I'd like to apologise for the long wait between any updates. I've had a lot going on recently, and I doubt I'll have any time to update any of the others any time soon. Like I say, I apologise, and all I can do is hope you accept my apology.
The other thing you need to know is that this isn't pleasant. I'm not in the best state of mind right now, and this fiction is the product of that.
There's character death and torture, as well as a dark Harry and the faint mention of a sexual relationship between Ron and Hermione. I must apologise also for the somewhat abrupt ending. There will be no sequel, unless I have an extreme change of heart, which is unlikely to happen.
Saying I hope you enjoy this would most likely be the wrong sentiment, but whatever. Make of it what you will. Just don't get angry at me if you don't like it.
Am I that unimportant… am I so insignificant… isn't something missing… isn't someone missing me?
Harry walked slowly down the long, seemingly never-ending corridor, a bloodstained length of rope hanging limp from one hand, the other hand tightly gripping a knife that still had the crimson liquids dripping from it. He stared at the ground as he walked, moving as though in a dream, seeming almost to glide over the floor with his feet barely touching the smooth, marble surface.
There was a certain beauty about the male, even as he staggered down the hallway. He was the living definition of an oxymoron, graceful in his movements even as his robes hung torn round him, his eyes sharp and focused despite the dullness of the colour, an odd, demonic purity exuding from him.
Even though I'm the sacrifice, you won't try for me, not now…
He was well and truly alone now, he thought, and that thought caused him to throw his head back and laugh aloud, a cold, chilling sound that echoed down the corridor. Harry didn't know what else to do, he dropped to his knees and cast aside his weapons, propping himself up with his hands, his body shaking with anger and mirth.
Oh, the irony of it, the delicious irony…
How long had he been the Saviour of the Wizarding world? It had been a title that had been thrust upon him, he'd never wanted it, never done anything to deserve it. He'd only ever been 'just Harry,' he'd always had help… Well. He was finally able to show them, show them all, that he was capable of doing things alone. With another outburst of laughter, he rolled over onto his back, gazing dreamily up at the ceiling, where blood was beginning to drip from the cracks and the connections between the ceiling and the wall.
"I showed them all, didn't I?" He whispered, his voice hoarse from his laughter and his laughter from hours previously, when he'd tortured his two best friends the good old Muggle way… Hermione, screaming in agony as he cut off the circulation in her body bit by bit with the rope, tearing each limb off one by one, helpless in the corner whilst Ron, oh, darling Ronald, had been tied to a chair, struggling with all his might, but no match for Harry's magic, never any match for Harry's magic…
Of course, when Hermione had finally stopped struggling and her filthy, Mudblood body was going blue, Harry wrenched her head off and threw it at Ron… "That's your girlfriend! That's her! Don't you want to kiss her? Don't you want to kiss her one last time?" Harry had roared, bent over double as he laughed, Ron yelling in terror, disgust, and grief at the torture and loss of his lover.
"You'll be with her soon, Ron… you'll see her again soon…" Harry suddenly stopped laughing and began to move towards the redhead, alarming Ron possibly more than when he'd been shouting and laughing. "P-Please, mate… please… don't do this… I-if you must, please k-kill me quickly…"
But Harry was not Lord Voldemort. He was not a merciful lord, and he relished in Ron's cries and high-pitched screams as he skinned the wizard slowly with the knife, hissing soft words of encouragement and comfort in Parseltongue. "It's alright, Ron, you'll see her again soon…" He whispered repeatedly, and all too soon for Harry, the pure-blooded male slumped dead in his chair, twitching repeatedly but most definitely deceased.
Bored of his games, and aware that it held no more interest for him now that his two best friends and the majority of the rest of the Order of the Phoenix – Lupin, Tonks, Fred, George, Mr and Mrs Weasley… - were no longer able to respond, dismembered and torn apart on the floor, Harry began to leave.
He came back to the present with a pleasant, dreamy bump, and got to his feet once more, quietly scooping up his toys once more and heading up the stairs to the top of the Astronomy Tower. These stairs, too, were strewn with bodies, for his magic had expanded and surrounded the castle, sparing those that he wished to play with personally, and obliterating all others. At the top of the tower, he settled down and began to carve delicately at his chest and arms with the knife, shivering at the pleasurable sensation of the knife ripping at his flesh.
Giving a low moan, he thrust the knife viciously into his stomach and twisted it, slowly, crying out in pleasure and pain at the sensations and arching his head back, swallowing briefly a moment later. "I wonder…" He thought, a moment later, standing and hovering precariously on the very edge of the tower. "I believe I can fly…" He whispered, and at the words of the Muggle song he snorted, then flung himself off the edge of the tower.
He wasn't a bird, or a plane, or indeed Superman, and as he plummeted the hundreds of feet to the ground, he realised this probably hadn't been such a good idea. Harry landed heavily at the ground, and had a few seconds to note the lack of pain and be irritated by it, before his eyes glazed over and he lay still for the final time.