Too Late
AN: Yes, it's very angsty, but I felt like it, and yes, totally not original. Get over it. At least I'm posting again.
Harry looked out the window of his small room and out over the roofs of Private Drive.
Drip, drip.
The fifteen-year old looked at the knife in his hands that reflected the moon in the night sky, and at his right wrist.
Drip, drip.
Red lines, the bright colour leaking out and onto his tanned skin, dripping off and onto the floor.
Drip, drip.
Two for his parents, one for Cedric, and one for his Godfather.
Drip, drip.
All dead, all his fault. Other lines covered his left wrist and lower arm, the one holding the stained kitchen knife.
Drip, drip.
Dozens, almost hundreds of cuts, all still bleeding. His friends getting hurt because of him.
Drip, drip.
Switching hands, Harry cut more into that arm.
Drip, drip.
No longer caring about the puddle of blood at his feet that was steadily growing larger.
Drip, drip.
All he wanted was the pain, the release from the torment in his heart.
Drip, drip.
Everything was his fault. If he had used his head, so much pain would have been avoided.
Drip, drip.
The raven haired teen gave a small smile as his vision started to go black.
Drip, drip, thump.
Harry slumped sideways off his chair, landing in the pool of crimson liquid that covered much of his floor.
That morning, when his Aunt Petunia opened his door, she screamed loud enough to wake anyone, though it wasn't enough to wake the so-called Boy-Who-Lived. It was too late, just like how it was too late for Sirius Black, Cedric Diggory, and James and Lily Potter, so to was it too late for Harry Potter.