He lay on the floor.A cupboard under the stairs. No-one knew of the lines of black and blue that ran underneath his shirt. No-one knew of the cuts and the scars. Scars that were not just physical but also mental. He had learnt not to scream. He had learnt not to cry. No-one knew of the abuse except the Dursleys and himself, Harry Potter. "You're a good for nothing piece of shit" he repeated over and over to himself. "You're nothing". Slowly he picked up the razor took one last breath and slit his wrists. That night he bled to death in the cupboard under the stairs.