AN: Sorry, I've been in a dark mood lately.

It had started in his fifth year. The cutting. It was simply an accident that caused his addiction. On one unimportant Thursday, Harry had been buttering his roll, and the knife slipped. There was no blood, but was just a little cut. A little, tiny cut, no one had even really noticed it save Hermione asking if he was okay. He vaguely remembers nodding, but what he remembered best was that, that cut had felt so good. After that, Harry would cut himself. Not major cutting, but just before he went to bed, he would grazed the knife over his skin, tracing, and then adding the slightest amount of pressure he would penetrate the first layer of skin, almost never allowing it to bleed.

He continued this pattern, finding it to be his own form of therapy. Focusing on the cut, instead of the rest of the world and the responsibilities that had been forced upon his small shoulders. Every so often, he would slip and the knife would cut deeper than he intended. He didn't mind too much, but he didn't want the blood staining his sheets. Not to mention that he would always cry out in surprise, the blood catching him every time. And each time, he would quickly open a book, and slam it shut, mutter about "damn paper-cuts" and proceed to say a quick healing spell, Madame Pomphrey taught him. The entire show for Ron's benefit, after all, he was cautious, not wanting to be labeled as suicidal.

"Now that," Harry pondered over the memories nearly over two years later, "was ironic."

After Sirius had died in his stupid mission to the Department of Mysteries, He had felt suicidal, but only for a while, after all, a suicidal savior, does not bode well for the ones who want saving. Yet, he still felt that he had to atone for his stupid, rash decisions that had caused the end to his Godfather's life and the end of Remus Lupin's connection to the Marauders and a time of innocence. It was at that moment that he decided that cutting could become that atonement. After all, if he cut deeper, that would cause more pain, and if it wasn't enough, he could put salt or something else on it to make it hurt worse. And so he did.

Every night, he would take his knife, a gift from Sirius, and cut his wrists, horizontally so as not to spill too much blood. After all, this wasn't suicide; this was atonement. With every cut he made he repeated an apology. The first would be to Sirius, for killing him. The second apology, was to Remus, for killing the last friend he had. Next, it was to his parents, for not being a better son and for killing the man they had chosen to take care of him. Then, it was his friends, for taking them to the Department of Mysteries and putting them at risk in which they all could have died. Then, it was Professor Dumbledore, then, Professor Snape, then Professor McGonnagal and the list went on and on, getting longer each night. He would stop after about twenty cuts, then the real fun started. He would sneak into the bathroom and spray some of Aunt Petunia's hairspray on to the cuts. It was a game for him to see how long it took for him to stop biting his lower lip in pain. Afterwards, he would, wandlessly, heal each cut, only to repeat the process the next night. It became a ritual. And when he was at school, for his sixth year at Hogwarts, he would pour salt on them from a pouch that he had Dobby get him at the beginning of the year. After all, he had a lot to atone for.

It was just before the Yule when Harry's need to cut started changing once more. He had stopped making his cuts hurt more with salt, and started cutting to watch the blood flow. He liked how it took a moment for the blood to leak out of his skin just after he cut. He liked tracing each vein and imagining the ruby color that was to come out of his skin in just moments, but most of all, he enjoyed the fact that he was in control. Harry was, for the first time in a long time, in control of when something happened to him. He controlled the knife, he controlled the timing of the cut, the positioning of the knife, the pressure on the knife, the time he allowed the cut to bleed before healing it. It was something that he could finally control, even when the rest of his life was being controlled.

Finally, it was the end of the year, when Dumbledore was killed and Snape ran off to join Voldemort, did Harry realized that he was going to have to go after the horocruxes alone. He couldn't risk anyone, but his friends had chosen to stick by him. He was grateful, for a while, but he knew he would have to leave them soon. He was the one that was going to defeat Voldemort, no one else. And so, Harry now cut to relieve the stress that was bottled up from this huge destiny that could only be completed by himself. He was alone on this road now, and sometimes he needed the familiarity of the blade releasing the blood as well as the stress.

It was at the end of what was suppose to be his seventh year in which he had finally defeated the Dark Lord Voldemort. The Wizarding World was free from the evil tyrant, thanks to Harry, the Boy-Who-Lived. But now, what was Harry to do? His whole life had centered around getting rid of Voldemort, but now that he was gone, what was Harry to do? It was then that Harry cut for the sense of familiarity. The one constant that kept him going through all of the funerals, Ron and Hermione's wedding, and especially through the lonely times he spent in Grimauld Place.

"And now," seventeen year-old Harry thought as he reached for a piece of parchment and a quill, both located just across Sirius's old desk, "there really isn't much else left for me."

Harry knew what had to be done, and wrote out why he had to follow this path to whomever found him the next day. He was hunched over, scratching his thoughts out on parchment. Once he was finished, he folded the parchment and stuffed it into an envelope. Harry, then, got up from the desk, showered and dressed in his best robes, placed the letter on the side table, next to his bed.

Harry got his razor out and rolled up his sleeves, past his elbow. With his fingertips he traced the blue veins on his arm, and with a whispered word, unlocked the Glamour that hid his scars.

Tonight was the night that Harry, for the first time, would cut vertically, opening his veins to the warm night's air. It was that thought, that put the soft smile to his face.

"This," Harry spoke to the quiet room, "is how I choose to end my life."

With that, Harry pushed the knife as far as he could into the blue vein in his left elbow, until he could no longer see the vein. Then, he picked the knife up and went to his wrist, following the veins that he could see. He switched the blade to his right hand and repeated the process, using the veins like road maps, cutting deeply and swiftly. His arms were numb. His knife fell silently on the rug next to his bed. He laid down in bed looking up at the ceiling, keeping the cuts that he made pointed upwards. His vision had become blurry around the edges and continued to obstruct his vision until Harry could no longer keep his eyes open and closed the lids. His breathing was shallow, and continued to become fainter and fainter with each breath he took, until finally, there was no breath for him to take.

The next day, it was not until early afternoon that he was discovered. Hermione was the one who discovered him, while going to tell Harry about the grand news her and Ron, her husband, had just received. At first she thought the was asleep, the small smile still left on his face, but it was less than a second that she saw the sun glimmering off the pool of blood that had been soaked up by the dark colored bed. The sheets had once been a forest green, but now, she wasn't sure what shade they were. She saw his arms, split open, blood caked on them, dried a long while ago.

It was only a few seconds, but for Hermione, it seemed to last a year, before she was able to move. She walked to her friend's bed, kneeled, and reached out to hold Harry's hand. As her hands and arms were soaked in the blood that had yet to dry, due to the sheer volume of blood spilt, she began to cry. She cried for the unfairness of it all, she cried for her husband, she cried for the unborn child who would never get to know it's Uncle Harry. Most of all, however, she cried because she knew it was coming. No matter how much she wished that the signs weren't there, she knew every time she looked into Harry's eyes that there was a great pain and a great sadness that he kept locked away. She was heartbroken to lose her best-friend, but she knew that she could only hope that he had finally found the peace that he had been looking for all his life.

After a few moments with her dead best friend, she noticed the white envelope on the nightstand. It wasn't addressed, so she picked it up and opened it, the back was unsealed.

To Whomever Found Me,

I'm sorry if I scared you, or if it was a ghastly sight, but it needed to be done. My life no longer has a purpose. I was a weapon, and I have been used, and now it is time for me to be tossed aside. Decommissioned, if you will.

I wanted to end my life. I wanted the control. I found it. I am going to rest now; no tears are needed. Do with my body as you will, my only request is that you do not hold a funeral for the public. No monuments, no statues, no public day of observation. The only thing that should ever be remembered from my life, is all the people who died, sacrificing themselves, to help me fulfill my destiny. Now that I have completed what I was meant to do, I am no longer necessary.

Good-bye,

Harry James Potter

And that was the end of Harry James Potter. There is no more to tell.