Harry shuddered, twitching desperately in his sleep. Gasping, he woke, fighting the tears that were pooling in his eyes. Sirius…Dead. Remus… Dead. Dumbledore… Dead.

Gritting his teeth, he blocked out the images still crowding his mind.

'I can't.' he thought. He'd been too obvious last time, he'd almost got caught in the quidditch showers… But maybe one more couldn't hurt… After all, what was one more scar hidden against so many others? One more pale line against his all-too-pale skin? One more delicious cut, one more line of sweet blood running down his arm…

Frustrated, he paced around his room, fighting the call of the little silver potions knife hidden in his trunk. He couldn't, he knew that… He'd cut too deeply the last time, Hermione had almost seen the blood dripping from his sleeve. At the thought, he stopped. 'Such a waste of delicious blood…' he reminisced, unconsciously licking his lips. Without realizing it, he had walked over to the foot of his bed.

'One more couldn't hurt…' the voice in his head whispered, Temptations given a mental embodiment. So tempting to feel the cool blade bite into his flesh, feel the hot blood rush out of his body. It was so tempting to feel the release of bottled emotions through the physical pain of slashing his own flesh.

'Besides..' the voice whispered, sounding so close, yet so far, 'You know plenty of glamour charms… You could use one in the morning… Just use the blade, Harry.'

He knew it was no use. It was only right, after all, that he should feel the pain of loved ones lost, families torn apart because he failed as a toddler… Children losing their parents because he couldn't do his job properly. It was less than he deserved to see his flesh being torn apart by his own volition to repay those whose lives he had destroyed…

The will to resist left him and he dropped soundlessly to his knees, reaching under his bed to wrench out his trunk, hidden under his bed. He opened it to reveal his most precious possessions… His invisibility cloak, his scrapbook of his parents, and his little knife… The very knife which had given him a blessed mixture of pleasure and pain so many times before.

Taking it out of the little hollow, he lovingly stroked the blade, testing the sharpness of the edge against the pad of his forefinger. He smirked as he watched the knife slide through his flesh effortlessly, enough for him to feel it but lightly so that it wouldn't bleed. Perfect.

He pulled up his sleeves to reveal the scarred flesh there, enjoying the site of so many past punishments before holding the cool blade against his wrist and dragging it against his skin, slicing lightly through each layer of skin so that he could feel the nerve endings in his arm sting as the blade violated their domain before taking the blade away and starting again, tracing a pattern along the length of his arm and applying more pressure as he went along.

Grinning insanely as he felt the blade separate his flesh, his eyes rolled back in pleasure as the blood began to seep slowly at first, making a barely noticeable line of red then progressing deeper until it was fairly dripping onto his lap. Raising the deepest end of the cut to his lips, he tilted his head back and let the blood run over his tongue, savoring the metallic tang of it as it flowed into his throat.

After a few moments of enjoyment, Harry reached over to his bed side drawer and pulled out a shaker of salt, stolen from Hogwarts on the last day of school last year, which he always kept near him. Handling the precious container cautiously so as not to spill it, he took off the lid and retrieved a small bit of the salt. Moving the salt shaker aside, he proceeded to sprinkle the pinch of salt in his hand over the still seeping wounds in his arms, letting a few grains slip into the heated flesh every few centimeters. Elated, he let his head roll onto his shoulders, enjoying the intense sting the salt lent to the bright red wounds.

Flexing his fingers to check that he had not cut too deeply, he switched the knife to his left hand, enjoying the pulling sensation the muscles never failed to give, even after so many cuts. He wanted more pain, he wanted to feel his flesh being ripped open jaggedly… He wanted the pleasure of an instant blood flow. Securing his grip on the bright red blade, he slashed his arm without any hesitation, pushing the blade deeper and deeper, watching the tide of blood flow and ebb with the pattern of his heartbeat. Withdrawing the now heated blade from his arm, Harry set it against his covered thigh, panting quietly. The pain was beginning to set in fully, making it difficult to think.

'End it,' the voice spoke up again, quiet and seductive. 'End your pain, your suffering. End the murders, the torture of innocent people. End the mutilation of families.'

Mechanically, Harry picked up the knife and set it against his clothed thigh. Pressing down roughly until the blade bit bone, he dragged it through his flesh until he severed the arteries in his upper thigh before repeating the process on his other leg. Then, with the very last of his strength, Harry raised his bloody, mangled arms enough to slip the knife between his ribs, straight into his heart. Breathing his last sigh of relief, he let go of consciousness and let the deliciously warm darkness overtake him.

He never heard the horrified shouts of his dorm mates when they woke in the morning to find his blood covered body next to his bed, his hand still on the knife thrust into his chest and a manic smile still on his lips, a trail of cold blood running down the side of his mouth. He never heard the shrill screams of Hermione as she came up to check what the shouting was about. Harry Potter never witnessed the hearty Professor McGonagall pale dramatically at the sight of his gaping, self-inflicted wounds, or the defeat of Albus Dumbledore when he realized exactly how much pain the young man had gone through.

Harry Potter was dead, enjoying his final rest with no more expectations of him.