A/N: Please be warned the following story is upsetting and may be triggering. I felt that we needed to see just how trapped Mooney felt as a teenage werewolf. I'm certain he would have tried this at least once. While he is a very strong character, no one is always strong.
He knew what he was doing was wrong. Despite that he felt he was doing the right thing. James and Sirius and Peter, they would manage without him. They didn't really need him. No one did. No one needed a werewolf. He had thought about this night so many times; the night when all his pain would come to an end. He had thought he would be crying, but his eyes remained dry. He had thought he would be nervous, but he was calm. He left no letters. He hadn't been able to put his thoughts to paper.
With his bare hand he picked up his instrument of death. A silver dagger he conjured not half an hour ago. His hand was already feeling the effects of the silver...his own personal poison. Still, he held his hand steady and with a swift, sure motion he dragged the dagger across the flesh of his wrist. Transferring the dagger to his other hand, noting the blistering of his left hand he brought the dagger down again, promptly opening the skin on his left wrist. He dropped the dagger and fell back onto his bed in Gryffindor tower. His head was aching and he had no doubt the silver on the dagger would do its job fast. Just as he was losing consciousness he heard his name being called and saw a blurred face above his.
A/N: I know this is an extremely short story but It has been quite a while since I have written anything and I thought this would ease me back into it. Please review. Thanks.