Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. I've just borrowed some characters and places from J.K. Rowling to fulfill my needs.

Okay, I never thought I'd write a cutting- or suicidal-Harry (purely because I don't think Harry's character is capable of doing that to himself), but I've been inspired to write this by my friend who has tried to kill herself twice already. I think it's incredibly horrible that her life has gotten to the point where she thinks she has nothing left and no one to go to, and I'm trying desperately to convince her otherwise before it's too late.

Harry stared into the common room fire, mesmerized by the dancing flames. He watched as the blazing colors rolled over each other and licked the popping logs. The dark, soothing grasp of unconsciousness began to cloud his vision. His head became heavy and lolled forward onto his chest; the sounds of his friends' voices faded away as he entered the silent realm of sleep.

He was kneeling on the cold, hard earth. Tendrils of mist swirled around him, the peaceful movement a massive contrast to the unbearable pain building in his throbbing forehead. A high-pitched, eerie voice spoke, sending horrible chills up his spine, "Kill the spare!" He opened his eyes to blazing green light. He watched as the light and life disappeared from Cedric's eyes. Fear rose in his throat; Voldemort stalked toward him, raising his murderous wand high in the air. Harry twisted away, bracing himself for the attack…but it didn't come. He turned back and found himself looking into Cedric's pale, dead face. "You killed me, Harry, it's your fault. You could've stopped him, it's all your fault!" Cedric fell to the ground, screaming in pain – Harry's screams joined Cedric's, echoing all around the graveyard….

Harry woke with a start. His breathing was shallow and uneven. Ron and Ginny looked up from the floor, temporarily halting their intense game of chess.

"You all right, mate?" Ron asked, looking questioningly up into his best friend's face. Hermione, who was curled up in the large armchair next to Harry's, slowly put down her copy of The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 5). She searched Harry's face, carefully scrutinizing his slightly panicked features.

"Yeah." Harry answered, mentally shaking himself and forcing his breathing under control. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Ron glanced disbelievingly at Harry's trembling hands but went back to the chessboard nevertheless. Hermione continued to stare intently, drawing Harry's gaze. "I'm fine." He repeated exasperatedly. "Really."

Hermione, unconvinced, didn't shift in the slightest. Harry pretended not to notice. He yawned widely and stretched his arms over his head, rising to his feet, "I think I'm going to head up to bed. 'Night."

"'Night," Ron and Ginny muttered absently, their eyes never leaving the tiny battlefield in front of them.

"Goodnight, Harry." Hermione said softly as she watched him retreat up the spiral staircase.

As soon as they heard the door close, Ron looked up at Hermione. "D'you want me to check on him?" This had turned into an almost nightly routine; Harry would go to bed early and then Ron would go up after him, trying as inconspicuously as possible to see what he was really up to before reporting back to the worried girls in the common room. Harry always pretended to be asleep, but years of sharing a dormitory with him told Ron that he was faking. Nobody wanted to push Harry to explain, though; it was only natural that he would occasionally want to be alone after everything that had happened surrounding Voldemort's resurrection.

"No," Hermione said slowly, "Wait a bit; I'm sure he's caught on to what you're doing by now." Ron nodded and rolled over onto his back to stare at the ceiling, abandoning the chess game.

"What do you think he's doing?" Ginny asked in an uncharacteristically timid voice. She sounded scared.

"I don't know." Hermione said, "I'd like to think he's not doing anything stupid, but there's not much hope in that."

Ginny smiled sadly. 'Isn't that the truth?', she thought as she began to put the chess pieces back into their box, the knights protesting loudly.

Harry closed the door behind him and stood stock still, listening for the footsteps he knew would come. He waited…and waited…nobody was coming. 'Odd,' he thought. Slightly suspicious but grateful that no one had followed, Harry moved away from the door and went straight across the room to his nightstand, drawing out the knife. He examined its flawless blade, admiring the way the steel gleamed in the dim candlelight. He sighed; it felt good to hold it again, to know his only comfort was back in his hands.

He listened closely once more for signs of Ron's usual trek up to the dorms. Nothing. Harry smiled to himself and climbed onto his bed, pulling the scarlet curtains closed around him. Sitting against the headboard, Harry rolled up his sleeve. He set the knife down on his lap and turned his gaze to his pale left forearm. The underside was littered with red and pink scars, most not even half healed. He lightly traced his finger over the scar nearest to the crook of his arm, the one that was nothing more than a faint white line now. His first. It had been deep. He hadn't been trying to kill himself, though…no, suicide hadn't really been on his mind that night.

Harry woke up, drenched in sweat, gagging. He leaned over the side of his bed and retched, emptying the meager contents of his stomach. He wiped his mouth with a trembling hand and sat up, shivering uncontrollably. It was all his fault…Cedric had even told him so in his dream. 'And it was my blood that brought Voldemort back,' Harry thought, 'my blood….' He bent forward and gripped his hair; he was disgusted with himself, with what was inside him. Rage and revulsion pulsed through his veins along with the tainted blood. Harry looked around frantically, not even sure what exactly it was that he was searching for.

With sudden inspiration, he leaned over the side of the bed again and reached into the space below the floorboard, bringing out the knife Sirius had given him last Christmas. Without really registering what he was actually doing, he placed the blade against his ashen skin and drew it back sharply, slicing deeply into his own flesh. He watched with mingled horror, relief, and exhilaration as the dark red liquid gushed out of the self-inflicted wound and ran freely down his arm, soaking his clothes. He smiled slightly at the thought of getting rid of the polluted substance, if only just a little. We watched until he began to feel light-headed. Starting to get a little nervous, he wrapped a sheet around his arm to stop the blood flow and lay back down to give himself a sense of stability…all that blood. He didn't have anything to worry about, though – he wasn't concerned that his aunt of uncle would find out; they didn't come into his room. 'Besides,' he thought, 'they wouldn't care anyway.' And with that, he fell into a heavy sleep, still clutching his bloody arm.

It was a month into the school year and Harry had done it almost every night since then. He ran his fingers over the other cuts. The first time had been a vain attempt to rid himself of the strange bond between himself and Voldemort. Now he knew such a thing wasn't possible, not by any simple means, that is. No, he continued to do it because, he had discovered, it made him feel good. Cutting was the only thing that could accomplish that nowadays. He loved his friends dearly, but he knew they didn't understand, that they couldn't understand. Nobody had lived a life like his before. No one could relate. Except the knife. He felt it understood his need to have something, anything, that he could control.

Not that he actually the thought the knife had a mind of its own or anything; he wasn't nutters…yet. He felt it was more the fact that it was a constant, that the steel seemed to have a simple personality of its own. It was something he could come back to every night and know it was still there, waiting for him. It was his release from everything he couldn't handle – Hermione's constant gaze, people whispering about him as he passed in the hall, Cedric's death weighing heavily down on his shoulders.

Harry picked up the glinting knife and positioned it above his arm so that the cool blade was just barely touching his arm. A tiny thrill of anticipation traveled the length of his spine. He took a deep breath and dug into his flesh. He drew back slowly, savoring the congenial pain. He sighed with relief, temporarily separating himself from the awful nightmare he called his life.

Harry looked down at the wound and frowned; that amazing, carefree feeling had faded after only a few seconds. He needed more, he needed to cut deeper. He brought the knife across his skin again and marveled at the wonderful, horrible sensation. The blood was flowing faster now…but it wasn't enough. He moved the knife a couple inches toward his palm and dragged it across again, making this cut several inches longer than the last two.

Harry's arm was shaking now and was becoming paler by the second. His new cuts throbbed and bled; he was caught up in stinging euphoria…in this moment, he was happy. But it felt like something was missing, something was off. Cutting hadn't been quite enough this time…what was wrong?

'Just do it,' said a voice in the back of Harry's head, 'What do you have to live for?'

'My friends…'

'You're friends don't need you. Besides, you only put them in danger.'

'Well, Sirius, then – '

'Sirius would get over it; he only likes you because you look like your dad, anyway…'

'No…I shouldn't do this…it's not right.'

'You want to.'

'I know.'

'Do it.'

'I'm not sure.'

'Everything will be alright again – you'll see your parents.'

'That would be nice…'

'You have nothing to live for – just do it.'

'Okay.'

Harry lifted his right arm and, without hesitation, cut straight through the bright blue vein in his wrist. Blood gushed. Harry dropped the knife. He was already becoming weak and was losing energy fast. He fell back onto the pillows; his shirt and sheets were a deep red now. His vision was fading. His ears were ringing.

'This isn't so bad.'

Black was closing in on him…he heard a voice, a shout, "Hermione!"

'I know that name.'

There was pounding, footsteps, a scream, yelling. He couldn't make sense of it. The knife was pulled from his hand…the world was spinning around him.

He closed his eyes and let the sweet, calm darkness pull him under.

Author's Note: THIS IS NOT THE END OF THE STORY. I have still have one or two chapters left to go, so stay tuned. I plan to update VERY soon.